Revenge of the Furries

[Simo]

Revenge of the Furries


I

2167:

My name is Wesley Evers II (after my step-father) I'm 33 years old, I am what's called a "smart" Vulpine Furrie. Basically "smart" means that you are now reading this because I wrote it. As for "Vulpine", that's self-explanatory -- I resemble a red fox in my physical characteristics (exception: my sky-blue eyes -- a left-over human trait). As for what a Furrie is...

Unlike most of history, my story has a definite starting point in time. This would be in the 180th year of the Second Republic: 1956. Now I know what you're thinking, and you'd be correct: there were no Furries so long ago. Allow me to explain, so stay with me here.

This was the year in which one M. King Hubbert published his now infamous "Hubbert Curve". Hubbert was what was once called a "petro-geologist". His area of expertise was the productivity of oil fields. Hubbert was trying to find out just how many oil wells per field would be the optimum. Too few, and too much oil would stay underground. Too many, and each well would steal oil from its neighbors. He found that each well, each field, followed a definite pattern. Phase I would be the beginning of tapping a new field. Few wells meant limited production. As more wells were drilled, production would rise to a peak in Phase II. During Phase III, production declined. Sometimes swiftly, sometimes slowly, until the field became a net energy loser. This would be followed by its becoming economically nonviable and abandoned. The Hubbert Curve followed a Gaussian distribution. He extrapolated his findings over many fields, and ultimately, all of the world. He demonstrated that the world was not only running out of oil, but also how fast. He predicted that the Third Republic would hit peak oil in around 1970. He was right. Just three years later, the Second Republic had its first "oil crisis". Did the stupid humans heed this warning? No they did not! They told themselves that there would be new discoveries of oil when it was needed, that it was just "doomsday nonsense", that new energy sources would be discovered as if by magic, that the "good times" would roll on forever. They could have averted the disaster had they begun making preparations right then.

They did not do this. Instead, their irresponsible leaders told them that nothing was wrong. The one human who tried to tell the truth about oil was vilified and humiliated. No one bothered to try again. Then came the first of the oil wars at the turn of the 21st century. Even this failed to warn these humans. Precious resources that should have been devoted to developing alternatives to oil, which would soon be gone, were used instead to fight over control of the vanishing resource. The leaders promised Moon trips and Mars landings, their version of "Bread and Circuses" to divert the attention of the humans from the looming disaster that they could have prevented. The Second Republic collapsed in its 234th year. Its last foolish leader, and the mad-men that called his policies, failed to consider that one can not build an empire on credit. The revitalized European Union called in its debts, and so did China, and caused a financial collapse of unprecedented proportions.

Here is where spectacularly evil minds went to work. It was obvious that there were simply too many humans. It was decided that two out of every three had to die. The Great Eastern War, involving India, China, Pakistan, Korea, and Japan certainly did its part. You say you never heard of such places? I am not surprised, not after the atomic wars. The Third Republic's leaders had plans to evacuate the cities, which would soon become unlivable anyway once the lights went out for the last, and final, time the trucks stopped rolling, and civic society broke down completely. Or use the pretense of a "terrorist" attack to infect millions of humans with diseases while calling it "vaccination". This never happened since an easier way was found: infect all the dogs, and let "man's best friend" spread the infection to their owners and others. Legally required "rabies" vaccination was the means. Of course, all the dogs, foxes, wolves, etc. died off as well. But it worked, the "excess" humans were eliminated, so as not to put a strain on what resources remained. Now the surviving "beautiful people", who engineered the disaster, could live in their luxurious redoubts, supported by a remnant population of economic slaves. What little oil was left could keep them going for another couple of centuries. Of course, they felt that what they'd done was a good thing: they saved "Mother Earth", the rain forests and North American woods needn't be burned to support the surplus population. The air was cleaner, the water purer. There was just one thing missing: companion animals. That's where we Furries come in.

We were created out of their own DNA to serve this purpose. So we were genetically engineered to look like the "cute" critters they had destroyed: foxes, wolves, otters, skunks. The first Furries emerged from the labs in 2092. However humans, being the fuck-ups they are, couldn't get this right. Sure, most Furries have nothing more than mere animal intelligence. However, some Furries had a level of intelligence matching that of their creators. Somewhere, somehow, there remained enough genetic code to cause "run away" growth of cerebral neurons. At first, this was thought to be cute: a baby Furrie whose animal sounds grew more and more like human talk. Kind of like a parrot, or so they thought. Then came the debates: was it really mindless mimicry, or did we really know what we were talking about? Many tried to deny this possibility, however, the truth became all too obvious. Then there was another, nastier, debate: what to do about this. Since we were their creation, it was decided, that they could "morally" use, abuse, and discard us however they pleased. Man is created in the image of the human god, and Furries were created in the image of man, therefore, it was perfectly acceptable. There's just one little detail overlooked: we were never consulted about this. The leaders of the Third Republic passed its Public Order 11011, making it a crime to educate a Furrie. In this manner, they hoped to use us as a more compliant slave. The "beautiful people" were satisfied, now that the burden of the less favored could be lightened, the hoi polloi were happy to have that burden lightened. However, it didn't work out that way. Even a slave, in the course of his work, learns a trick or two.

II

Do not get the idea that I hate all humans, just 999 out of every thousand. Take a couple of exceptions: my step-parents, for example: Wesley and Ariana Evers. Do you think it strange for a Furrie to speak in such terms? Allow me to explain. Wesley's father, David, knew what was coming. Having made a fortune in software in the good times, he bought this land in the farthest reaches of the Second Republic, in a place called "Nevada". Far from the cities, highways, and the notice of the law. Our farm house here in the bad lands is pretty self-sufficient. We raise some chickens and pigs, and have our own bio-gas plant to fuel the generator. There is also solar power, and our own steam-driven farm vehicles. Wes inherited the place, and brought his young bride Ariana to live here. However, they went childless. Perhaps it had something to do with the radiation from the Eastern War? The bio-weapons unleashed on the Continent? Who knows? So they made the trip to what's left of what was once known as Carson City and bought a Furrie kit for companionship. They were in their 50s by this time, and the hope of children was gone forever. It was supposed to be not possible to buy a "smart" Furrie, and so I spent the first days of my life with them as a common pet. I slept in the cellar, so they tell me, until I started saying words when I was about six months old or so. (This, I do not remember at all. My first conscious memory is lying in a kiddie bed, looking up at this mobile with these plastic birds. To this day, I can still see the plastered over hole where it hung. I don't know whatever happened to that: probably ruined it by trying to catch those birds -- fox instincts, you know.) When they realized what they had, I was given the room and all the furniture they had intended for a child. I became the child they never had. Ariana read to me every night, and at first the words made no sense. Then I began to understand. Regardless, I looked forward to "story time". They taught me how to read (a serious crime at the time, as it still is, but they didn't care.) I ate with them, right at the table. Even if it wasn't always the same food, still, I learned manners, to use the silverware, even how to say "Grace" to the human god. They taught me what I know of history, science, mathematics, literature. I am well ahead of most humans in these things.

Still, life with a Furrie has its own peculiarities. For example, when I caught and brought home my first jackrabbit. I rang the doorbell, and mother opens the door, and there I am: wagging my tail proudly, with my catch in my mouth. Needless to say, I wasn't expecting her reaction. Such "boyhood antics", as father called them, aren't something parents of human children get to experience. Still, I got to dine on fresh rabbit that evening. (I don't care what they say, trust me on this: "Furrie Chow" isn't that good.) Nor is it always easy for the Furrie. Do you realize just how bad the stench is within human homes? They positively stink, but they don't seem to realize that. Wes and Ariana wondered why I was always opening all the windows to air the place out. They didn't notice the odors due to their scent blindness. Also, I have always had a problem with squeaky door hinges. I was always oiling them even though they insisted that they couldn't hear anything. Well, I could, the "Ultrasonics" (to them) make my teeth itch.

They used to dress me in these kiddie clothes. I still have a pic of myself -- I'd guess no more than two or three -- sitting on this little tricycle, wearing this silly blue and white sailor outfit. (I mean really: we're in the middle of a desert.) This is "the cuteness", probably from the Old Times. Anyway, I had my first "identity crisis" when I was ten or so. It was dawning on me that I didn't look the same, and that I was not going to "out grow" my looks. I'd assumed that all human children started out being furry. I'd look at my parents' round eyes, so unlike my fox-eyes, with their narrow, vertical slits for pupils. I was too different to be one of them. For awhile, I stopped referring to my parents as "Mom" and "Dad". Of course, they were wondering what was up with the moodiness, the sudden emotional distance. Finally I let it out: "You're not my father! I'm not one of you!" Father set me down to explain:

"No you're not 'one of us'. You are a Furrie (first time I heard that term). So what? That's just on the outside. It's what's inside that counts. If you don't start a fight, but you always finish one; if you stand up for the weaker, and don't take any shit from the stronger; if you can do what you say, you ain't braggin'; if your word is your bond, your pawshake good as a contract; you admit your mistakes and take responsibility for them, take and give credit when it's due, you will earn something no one will ever take from you: your self-respect, and my pride in calling you my son.

"And don't you doubt that your mother and I couldn't love you more even if you were our biological child." He was one of the good ones. I still miss him.

Thereafter, I decided to explore my furriness. I looked up information on my "kind" in the family library, reading up on the red fox. Even though I soon discovered the real truth of my origins, I still consider myself to be more Vulpes vulpes than Homo sapiens. OK, I suppose I can compromise: Vulpes sapiens. I made a decision that I would live more like a real fox, that I would not wear human clothing, after all, it's hot enough already, I don't need clothes since my "clothing" is "built-in": my long reddish/orange fur. At least the genetic engineers who created we "Vulpos" got the look right. Nor do I need footwear: my digitigrade feet already come complete with pads. All that remained was to toughen 'em up by going barefoot all the time. Nor was "decency" a consideration as my "equipment" is quite concealed, unless I stick my dick out, just like that of a real fox. This is especially true if I stay on all fours, which I prefer to do most of the time. I also gave in to my residual fox-instincts more than I had. Mother and father allowed me this, and I soon forgot about whatever problems I may have had as for being an adoptee.

This is also the year that they outlawed smart Furries. As I said, we did not make good, compliant slaves. We weren't worth the bother. Nor could they tolerate our existence. Or recognize that that which they'd created was now their equal. Not only was my education a crime, I, my very existence, was a crime. I had to learn the ways of the dumb Furrie, so that I could fake it. The dreaded Department of Animal Regulation and Control was organized to hunt down all smart Furries. Anyone having one was required to turn it in.

One night, there was a disturbance outside, and father killed the generator, grabbed his shotgun and went out to investigate, as we sometimes had trouble with raiders. Instead, he found a frightened Otter Class Furrie trying to hide under the front porch. "Don't shoot me" he pleaded, "Please: I want to live!". He explained that Animal Control was hot on his trial. Father quickly hid him away in the storm shelter (hard enough to see by daylight; virtually impossible on a dark, moonless desert night.). There was no question whatsoever that we would not turn him in. Father managed, with my help, to convince the Animal Control people that the only Furrie around here was me, as I did my "animal act" for them. It was convincing enough that they believed that their prey had gotten away. Even though he was safe, he wouldn't come out until I went down there and called to him with my unmistakable Furrie accent. I held the spotlight I carried over my head so that he could see what I was.

We learned that "Jimmy", as we called him (he never had a real name), was "scheduled for termination". It took awhile for him to trust us despite saving his life. Indeed, it took lots of convincing just to allow me to simply bathe him. Even then, he was not convinced that I would not drown him in the bath tub. I seemed to get along too well with the humans. I had to order him to get in the tub: "I don't want your damn fleas". Yes, he was filthy and full of fleas and lice. Afterwards, we got a hot meal into him. We still had problems: he had never experienced the slightest kindness from humans before. Even though he slept in my room, he could not believe that a Furrie could have a room, or anything else, he could call his own. Nor could he believe that he would not be worked as a slave on the farm, or that I was not a slave, or that he would be welcome to eat at our table. The next night at "story time" (This is how we'd often entertain ourselves, taking turns reading out loud for each other.) No sooner had I picked up the book we were reading, than Jimmy ripped it from my paws, a look of pure terror on his face. Father had to remind him of The Rule: "Furries and humans are equal here". He found it hard to believe that the only requirement was his sessions with Ariana to be taught how to read. (At first, he'd cooperate since it was easier than farm work.) Sometimes, it took quite a lot of convincing to keep him from running away, so great was the cognitive dissonance resulting from a simple show of routine kindness.

When Jimmy came, I thought that I would finally have a play-mate. Someone to run and play games with, someone to go rabbit hunting, another pair of paws to help out around the farm. How naive I was! I did not count on hearing his chilling tales of the life of the Furrie slave, the terror of the Sunday "Furrie hunts", where packs of robotic dogs chased Furries for miles, wearing them down, before tearing them apart. Yeah, that's how humans from the Old Times treated my ancestors in an event called a "Fox Hunt" or simply a "Hunt". Humans can be such disgusting creatures. Made no difference: dumb Furrie or smart Furrie: actually, they seemed to prefer the latter.

Or about the park farther to the west, with the guarded perimeters, miles of chain-link fence topped with razor wire, and armed security guards: all to keep the less favored miles from the place, where the "beautiful people" engage in every imaginable debauchery, including taking young girls and boys from the less favored, who never know what happened to their children, in order to yiff them whether they liked it or not. As for what happens to these children, use your imagination. They have this large idol shaped like an owl. They build a fire in its base and stoke it until the flames shoot from the idol's mouth and eyes. They then burn alive a baby Furrie they name: "Care". They sacrifice "Care" before the "festivities" begin in an obscene imitation of a primitive, pagan religious ceremony. (Does their depravity know no bounds? Usually, several humans die there from overdoses.) They got the idea from a group called "Canaanites", I read about them once.

Anyway, I lost a lot of illusions, thanks to Jimmy. I suppose it was to be expected, after all, didn't my grandfather build this place for the express purpose to shut out the rest of the world? At one time, I had hopes that I could make this a farm that would be productive enough (I have reason to believe that there's a sizable enough underground reservoir to allow for irrigation) to grow the types of crops humans favor, and to raise the rabbits that Furries would like. That way, I could sell to both. Yeah, that's how I saw my future: Wesley: Gentle-furry farmer. Sounds awfully naive, doesn't it? Well, why the HELL should it! What is so wrong with this goddamn world that I can't be allowed to make a good life for myself by making life better for others? Where is the harm in that, I ask you?

Eventually, we were hiding away as many as 35 Furries. Father built an underground dormitory for all of us. This was truly clever on his part: he had one of the largest underground water tanks he could find. This stood in front of the place, a perfectly normal thing to have out in the middle of the desert. All the while, construction of the hiding place went on in plain sight. Once the concrete was ready to pour, the tank was ditched. Anyone would assume that it had been installed. They had no idea, as everything looked perfectly normal.

Late one night, an old, beat-up truck with a couple we'd never seen before pulled up the trail leading to the house. To be sure, we were mighty suspicious. Especially when they explained that they knew all about the secret dorm, and that they were here to deliver a load of "Furrie Chow". Of course, this is a problem we wondered about: why would anyone need all that "Furrie Chow" when they supposedly had just the one Furrie? It was explained that every week, they would come by to make their deliveries. They also impressed upon us that we were to ask no questions, that there would be no idle chit-chat. We got the message that these could be dangerous people. However, we were certainly thankful for the help.

Of course, Ariana conducted classes in reading for our Furries. It seemed that she wanted to be a school teacher at one time. She'd've been good at it.

I had an ear infection when I was 12. I needed to see a healer called a "vetinarian" who specialized in treating animals and Furries. So I put on my collar, lead, and warmed up my animal act. Ariana drove me to the suburbs of "Carson City" in our "special" family van. What we had, was our own design: an external combustion boiler ran a hydraulic pump to some 100psi. This, in turn, increased the pressure of a hydraulic reservoir to some 3000psi, and that drove four independent hydraulic motors for each wheel. Beats hell out of those little, noisy, "hydro-cars" that run on compressed hydrogen and have very limited range. Of course, it does take time for the pressure to come up once you light the boiler.

While I was waiting to see the vet, this Animal Control officer, a man, woman, and a young Skunk Furrie arrived. Ariana quickly and quietly ordered me to get under the bench and cover my eyes. I did as she told, except for the last part. The young Skunk Furrie looked to be about two, maybe three, years old, and was bouncing around all excited-like. Obviously it was an adventure for him. He jumped at the receptionist's desk: "Please, can I have some... Can I have some..." he asked about the candy jar. The receptionist gave him his choice: "I like lemon balls", he said as he popped one into his mouth. The Animal Control guy lead him to the vet's examining table. I saw it all. The vet lifted him up onto the stainless steel table: "Know what a rabies vaccination is, young fella?"

"So's I don't get sick?"

"Right you are. Be a brave lad?"

The Skunk Furrie stuck out his thin right arm, the vet tightly tied a rubber tourniquet around it, and stuck a needle in a vein. After injecting the liquid, he untied the tourniquet and the Skunk Furrie yipped, put his left paw to his chest and collapsed. The look on his face was one of surprise. I never saw a Furrie die before, and I always thought you'd close your eyes. However his were wide open, grotesque and unseeing. The body was put into a plastic container and taken out back. The man was holding the sobbing woman while the Animal Control guy dispassionately filled out some sort of report. It was all over just that fast.

I was called back next, and let me tell you, I was utterly creeped out. Just like nothing had happened, that same vet with me on that same table, with those same murderous hands, casually lifted my tail, stuck a thermometer up my ass, and examined my ear. After saying I had a slight temperature, he wrote a prescription, and dismissed us. Just like that, the Furrie he'd just killed meant nothing to him: just another unwanted animal to put down.

On the way home, mother asked: "You didn't look, like I asked you not to, did you?"

"No, mother" I lied.

In the dorms, I told all about it. I was furious: I screamed. I cried. I broke things. But what could I do?

Finally, Savin, a Wolf Furrie, grabbed me by the forepaws, gave me a good shake, and quite calmly said: "Yeah... that was a terrible thing." Then with that sly, wolfish way of his when he knew something that you didn't: "Wanna pay that f'kin vet back?" (To this day, I strongly suspect that Savin was no refugee. He was a "plant" in our midst, just looking for an opportunity like this one. He would never admit it, of course.)

"Huh...?"

"You want in or what?"

"Sure", says I, not knowing what I was about to get myself into.

Thus began my introduction to the Underground. Three nights later, Savin and I left the dorms, walked through the desert, to an old trail-road. Right on schedule, the lights of a hydro-car flashed three times, and Savin held up a wooden match and struck it with a flick of a claw. The hydro-car pulled up quickly, Savin shoved me into the rear seat, someone put a black hood over my head: "What the...!"

"Shutup and listen. You will be asked one question: 'Do you know why you are here?' You will answer: 'No'. Then you will say nothing until you are spoken to. Understand?"

"I guess so."

"Don't guess. Do it"

We must have driven into the city center. I was led into a room lit only by a couple of candles on a long table, at which sat four other Furries, their features completely concealed in shadow.

"Wesley: do you know why you are here?"

"No."

"It has been brought to our attention that you are of high intelligence, integrity, and, rare enough, education and erudition? Is this so?"

I said nothing, I was rather frightened by the ordeal.

"You may answer"

"Yes. It is so. My parents have..."

"Enough. If you join us, we will be your new family. We will demand of you your complete loyalty to the Underground. You will speak of this to no one. In exchange, you will have our undivided loyalty. You will not know of us, but we will be there for you in times of need. In this day, we Furries can do nothing else. It's a harsh code, but if we are to survive, it must be so. You will be asked certain favors, you must never deny. Are you up to these duties to Furdom?"

"I am."

"Step forward, extend your right paw."

I stepped up to the lectern, and did as I was asked. Whoever it was doing the talking, took a piece of paper and crumpled it into a loose ball. He placed it in my paw, saying: "This is your life and soul Wesley." As he lit it he said: "Repeat after me: 'If I ever betray the Underground may my soul burn in Hell for all eternity like this paper'". I said the affirmation until the fire in my paw went out, singing my fur and pads. I was congratulated all around. A generator started up; electric lights flickered on, trays of home-cooked food and bottles of home-made wine were brought out. By the time I left, the sky was beginning to lighten. I was now a soldier of the Underground.

Three days later, I did the Underground its first favor. Now this is highly irregular. New recruits are "put through their paces", so to speak, in order to assess their loyalty, competence, and ability to keep a secret and follow orders. Sometimes the first "favor" is not asked for years. One of the things they wanted me for was my skills behind the wheel. Father taught me how to drive (not only useful around the farm, but, according to father, a "rite of passage" for humans during the Old Times) it was a skill few Furries possessed. I also knew how to keep any motor up and running. That afternoon, Savin and I headed out to the ritzy suburbs, arriving at evening time. There was a large party going on at a fancy mansion: the "beautiful people" living it up. We slipped around the back, unnoticed. Don't be fooled: we may be smart, but we have a wealth of good ol' animal instinct. I picked out a fancy petro-car with a fancy grille with an "RR" emblem on it. It was unlocked, and I can hot-wire anything. Within a minute, we were off and running. The tinted glass hid the fact that a Furrie was driving. Just another guest going home early. The valet even waved at us, suspecting nothing, as I waved back. We picked up a couple of other Undergrounders: "Holy shit, Wes! Think you can get a little more ostentatious?". Yeah, that "RR" car was slick: nice leather interior, smooth, powerful petro engine, quiet. Not at all like those little hydro-cars. Anyway, we arrived at the vet's just in time. "Slick" went over by the garbage cans, acting cute with his "innocent" begging routine. When the vet came out, he couldn't resist giving a skritch. As he bent down to do so, Savin cold-cocked him with a leather sheathed lead sap. "Slick" immediately grabbed him to keep him from falling, they signaled and I pulled up in our stolen vehicle. The two of them shoved the unconscious vet in the rear seat, and I headed out for the highway to city center, as the rotten, decaying, lawless, downtown of what was left of Carson City was then known. At what was once a warehouse, "Tommy the Rat" (Skunk Furrie, actually) had a nice, hot fire going. We tied the vet down good and tight, Savin popped an ammonia ampule under his nose, and brought him around. No one said a word, however I knew exactly what was expected of me.

Here's how Furries pay back humans: I heated a length of 1.5cm diameter rebar until it glowed orange, almost white. I held it right in front of the bastard's eyes. All the while he's begging, asking what he did, why this was happening, yada, yada, yada. I blinded him; he wouldn't be putting down any more Furries. Think of it as the Underground "trademark". I can't say I got any pleasure from it, but I wasn't feeling guilty either. We then threw him from the car right in the middle of the shittiest neighborhood we could find. Let him "see" if he can survive that! We ditched the fancy "RR" car on the street, and made our way back to the farm house. Worried about the Security Forces? I doubt that that fancy car survived an hour on those streets. I am not afraid of the city center, after all, it's just another type of forest to me: full of predators, prey, and hiding places. Over the next several months, I learned how to defend myself, and how to kill: with knife, rope, the garrote...

When I was 15, I killed my first human. Let me explain: Furries have other means to deal with humans, so killing is largely off limits. We'd rather take from them that which they value most: their sight. However, when it comes to Animal Control, that's a whole 'nother story. They are most certainly not off-limits so far as lethal retaliation is concerned. There had been a big Animal Control sweep through the out-lands: lots of Furries captured and scheduled for termination. We needed to know where they were being held. Unlike most operations, this one would require the help of more Fur-Syms than is usually the case, and more than I ever felt comfortable working with at any one time. For this operation, I had to relocate.

Allow me to explicate: there is a certain class of human called a "Fur-sym" -- a Furrie Sympathiser or friend to Furries. They come in all shapes and sizes: some are dedicated on principle, others are lead to it by a personal relationship with a Furrie, some are in it for what they can get out of it, some see the hand writing on the wall, and want to be on the "winning side", some want to get even with the power elite for their utterly shitty lives. Anyway, our Animal Control guy, whom I knew only as "Toothy" was an interesting case. A couple of Furries found him one night in an alley behind a liquor store, having already polished-off half a bottle of cheap bourbon. Still wearing his Animal Control outfit, they almost killed him right then and there. Indeed, he actually begged them to do just that. (Which is probably why they didn't.) Instead, they listened and tried to make sense of his drunken blather. It seemed that he was having regrets over what he'd done to the Furries. So they took him along, gave him a place to sleep it off, and a bit of the "hair of the dog" next morning to cut the hangover. Was he still serious? He said he was. There had been much talk of his resigning, would he stay with Animal Control as an insider? He was ecstatic at the prospect. Turned out to be one of our most reliable insiders: he felt he had much to amend.

There was the ultimate question: would he actually betray one of his own? I arrived early on the day for my part in the operation at a bar/strip joint/crack house/shooting gallery/house of prostitution/gambling joint called the "Cat's Ass". (At first, I was rather offended by the sign with the animated dancing cat-girls. It seemed a bad, insulting, misrepresentation of Furries. However, I would learn that it had long been a common motif among human-kind. Long obsessed with the idea of Furries, and yet so unable to deal with the reality of Furries. How do you explain that?) It's in North Las Vegas, even in the Old Times, somewhat of a shithole. These days, it's an absolute shithole. It's where the Beautiful People chuck the hoi polloi whom they don't want defiling their playground: Las Vegas. Deep in center of the city, it was off-limits to the Committee of Public Safety agents, who were only too happy to look the other way so long as the pay-offs kept arriving, and largely too afraid of the denizens of this place: folks of decided criminal inclination with nothing to lose, and no stake in the future. Despite this, there was an unwritten agreement that the Cat's Ass was off-limits. Its services were too highly valued to allow the place to be robbed, or, if they could safely arrive, its patrons to be assaulted, robbed, or rolled. Rival gangs used the club as "neutral ground" where violence was never tolerated. Drugs, stolen goods, and money -- oftentimes lots of it -- changed hands; the independent contractors of both sexes and all persuasions worked the club's main floor and its several bars freely, fearing no vengeful pimps. A regular den of thieves, hustlers, under-cover agents, informers, incognito low-level politicians, hypocritical preachers in government hire to keep the hoi polloi reminded of their place, and the "eternal rewards" for Earthly compliance, and bureaucrats: all pursuing pleasure, all kept in line by an unwritten code of honour while naked men and women danced, men yiffed men, women, sometimes Furries -- in all possible permutations of sex and species -- on the expansive stage, gave lap-dances and blow-jobs to the big spenders. Fortunately, the main supervisor at Animal Control who organized the Furry sweep had a weakness for all the vices the Cat's Ass specialized in, and then some. The Cat's Ass was also owned and operated by an entire family of dedicated Fur-Syms.

Slipping in unseen by way of an old service entrance, the proprietor personally led me to his private office as far away from the main floor as possible, behind the private upstairs salon reserved for both the big-spending elite and the truly influential politicians and criminals (but then, I repeat myself). Already gathered there, were the proprietor's eldest son, a brother, a cousin, and finally, looking completely out of place in more ways than one, the proprietor's youngest: a ten year old daughter. (I heard of a concept called "childhood innocence" from the Old Times, however, I see damn little evidence of it these days. Human children grow up fast and hard, or not at all. A child of her age would never be seen anywhere near a place like this in saner times. Neither would she be working with the Fur-Syms and Underground.) The girl was about my height at some 160cm and I'd guess 40Kg. She was wearing leather sandals, a white skirt with a bright, bright pink (I'm sure I'm right about this, as that's what I clearly saw. We foxes don't see color so well, so it must've been a bright pink) floral pattern which came not quite half-way to her knees, and was somewhat poofy that it looked even shorter as it didn't hang completely straight, and a pull-over of a pink matching the pattern on the skirt, with white trim at the sleeves, pocket, and bottom, with a white collar. Her brown hair with gold streaks was pulled into a pony-tail that hung slightly below the collar. (How is it that these young females are the only humans to dress in a manner that is both sensible: cool and allowing freedom of movement, and colorful?) I was none too pleased with this, after all, a ten year old human is not as mature as a ten year old Furrie. However, her role in this operation could, if she could pull it off, make our job a lot easier and less dangerous. Right off, she committed her first faux pas. Stepping right up, all bright-eyed, and smiling, she put out her paw, announcing:

"Hi. I'm Cynthia. What's your name?"

My rejection of her show of friendliness brought a quizzical expression to her face. I motioned towards a card table against the far wall, and told her to sit down. Sitting across from her I explained with both gentleness and deadly seriousness:

"For future reference, when you work with Fur-Syms and the Underground, you never ask names, or give yours, or reveal any sort of personal information. Doing so is quite dangerous as you might get taken for an Animal Control or Security agent or informer. This will most likely get you killed. You want other Fur-Syms to know as little about you as possible, and you want to know as little about them. It's for your protection, and theirs. You can't blab to interrogators what you don't know. Secondly, you avoid any personal contact that's not completely necessary. Stray hairs or other fibers can be detected and used to connect you to folks you'd rather not be connected with. Make no mistake about this. It isn't some youthful lark or an adventure. As soon as you were approached for this, by whomever is organizing this operation, you became a full member of the Underground. And became a part of everything that implies. That's how the Underground sees you now; that's how the secret police will see you. The fact that you are a child, and a girl, will not protect you. From now on, you are in extreme danger."

She says right off: "What makes you think that 'Cynthia' is my real name?"

A good sign: she can improvise, and thinks quick. This seems to be a pretty intelligent girl. Nevertheless, aliases are still dangerous. No idea exists in a vacuum, and so I explained: "Bet your favorite group is 'Midnight Commander'. Or your real name is 'Cindy' or 'Samantha'? So which is it?"

"Midnight Commander... How..."

"The group's lead calls herself 'Cynthia'. This is a common thing that people do when giving a false identity. They still give themselves away by choosing some name that somehow means something to them. Now if I were an Animal Control or Security infiltrator, they'd be running a check on all stores selling CDs, and cross-referencing all young female purchasers of Midnight Commander CDs already. You probably bought your own, right? It wouldn't take long to narrow down a list of possibles. You have no idea what you are dealing with here. This is why it is so important that you say nothing to anyone about what you have heard here, who you see here, or even that you know what the inside of the Cat's Ass looks like. And that includes everyone here today. Once this business is done, you don't say a word of it to even your father, brother, or cousin. Do you understand what I'm telling you now?"

"Yes", she says. For her sake, I hope that was true.

Now it was time to get down to business.

"Think carefully about what I'm about to ask." ...

"Have you ever been here before?"…

"Did anyone see you arrive?"…

"Or see you at anytime since?"…

"Can you account for why you aren't where you'd normally be expected?"...

"No. Father and the others were quite careful about everything."

"Do you know what the Cat's Ass is? What they do here?"

"It's father's place of business. He never much talked about it, but from what I've heard, it's some sort of cat-house?"

"True enough, that's pretty much it. Do you know why you, all of you, are here?"

"Only that it has something to do with helping you guys, you know, Furries... other than that, I don't know."

"We need your help for this operation. It's nothing too demanding. Basically you will stand around looking cute. You won't have to say much, nor will you be expected to. It's simple enough, but it won't be easy by any means. Basically, you will be playing the part of a child call-girl. You know what that is?"

"A child or a call-girl?" (Chuckles all around. Humour: another good sign: quick improvisation, good timing, and not excessively nervous.)

"Well?"

"A call-girl's like a 'ho, but works the clubs instead of the streets".

"That's what you will be doing: playing a child prostitute/call-girl working the Cat's Ass. Our mark has a reputation for yiffing young girls such as yourself. This isn't a game we're playing. There is a very real chance that you just might be assaulted. If that happens, understand this: NO ONE will be able to help you. And if you want a chance at staying alive, you'd better make sure that he believes you enjoyed it. Hopefully, that won't happen, but I'd be misleading you if I didn't tell you that there are no guarantees. I'm going to kill that man tonight, and you are going to be the bait. You will have to be convincing, because if you aren't, a lot of other folks could get hurt. I'd like to avoid any recourse to firearms or other 'rough stuff'. If everything goes as planned, none of the other patrons or guests will be any the wiser. With everyone literally knowing nothing, there will be no leads to follow. If you have any problems with that, I want to hear about it right now. I won't hold it against you if you back out. And I'd rather hear about it sooner than later. So I need an answer right now. Can you do exactly what I ask of you, no questions asked?"

"Look... Mr. Fox... I hate those fuckers as much as you do. I'm only too glad to be included." (I had every reason to believe this. Her mother had died two years prior simply because the powers that be decided that saving her would not be cost-effective, as she wasn't one of the "beautiful people" of the power elite.)

"I know you do, however, hate and revenge are dangerous emotions. We're professionals doing a job -- nothing more." I personally didn't like the youthful enthusiasm all that much. I remembered all too clearly just how I got myself involved in this whole business in the first place. No way could this Cynthia -- or anyone -- at any age -- really appreciate what involvement with the Underground would mean.

"OK, let's get started: stand up. Now remove all your jewelry and anything else you brought with you and place it on the table."

She did as asked: a ring, two silver loop ear rings, the band that held her hair into a pony tail.

"That's everything? Nothing missing that you had earlier that you could possibly have lost here in the club?"

"Nothing's missing. I'm certain of that".

I dropped all these items in an envelope, sealed it, and set it aside. These would go back with the proprietor just in case anything might look suspicious if it disappeared.

"Very good". Now came the real test, as I casually leaned back in the chair I said matter-of-factly: "Now what I want you to do is get undressed"

"Huuuuhhhh...?!", eyes widening, this wasn't what she was expecting. Reflexively, she glanced back towards the others.

"What do you mean 'Huh'? Didn't you agree not two minutes ago to do exactly what I asked without question? I want you naked as a jay bird, so shut the mouth and remove the clothes."

I observed the order in which she removed her clothes, and the level of nervousness vary in direct proportion to the number of items on the pile. First she removed the sandals. She reached underneath her skirt, pulled white silk panties off her hips and slipped them down to step out. She pulled her pink shirt over her head, and slipped her arms from the sleeves. Lastly, she unfastened her skirt. She just stood there, holding the skirt in place for several seconds or so, then let it drop to the floor. After laying it on top of her other clothes, Cynthia stood there like a statue as I went through her clothes, looking for any stray items. Satisfied that there were none, I picked up the skirt and cut it apart with my utility knife into one piece of cloth which I laid out on the table-top, and cut off a strip.

"Why'd you ruin my skirt?!" she exclaims. "Now what will I wear?!".

As I rolled the sandals and underwear into the shirt, and rolled that bundle up in the skirt cloth to tie everything into one neat package, I explained: "For the better part of the next 24 hours, you will wear nothing more than a smile. You're a prostitute in a whore house. You yiff men you don't even know for money. Being seen naked in a whore house, where you conduct the business of renting out your pussy, should be the least of your concerns. I watched how you undressed: you took off all the easy items first to keep your pussy concealed up until that final moment you dropped your skirt. What I'm seeing right now is a very uncomfortable young girl. Any one would see that right off. You can't pretend to be a prostitute until you start thinking like one. The mark will know something's quite wrong if the 'prostitute' he's being offered is too embarrassed to be looked at. So you are going to learn to set aside your modesty. Now that you don't have anything to wear, you don't have much choice, do you?

Furthermore, I don't want any evidence that you, of all people, were ever here. There is sure to be an investigation of the Cat's Ass and those involved with it. Any professional investigator would consider you to be the weak link if he had any reason to believe that you were here, that you just might know something. These guys are quite good at extracting information. So I don't want them giving you any attention. When your father and the others say that you have never seen this place, that they have kept the details of what they do for a living from you, there won't be any evidence to contradict that. As far as I'm concerned, you've been leaving too many traces of fibers all over the place already." I handed off the bundle I'd made and told the cousin to ditch it far from the Cat's Ass: ten clicks, at least, and the farther, the better, right now, before this little detail had the chance of being over-looked.

"Cynthia, I want you to step out into the center of the room so we can all get a good look at you." She turned, head down, and with slow tentative steps, did as I asked.

I joined the others over at the proprietor's desk, and asked them to take a good, long look at the naked girl now on display. I'd never seen what a human, male or female, looks like underneath all the clothing. This one was certainly remarkably fur-free. It's no wonder that they wear so much covering. Granted, she was no vixen, still, she seemed quite fit. Her stomach was flat, no trace of the puffiness that's all too common with human cubs, the so-called "baby fat", either around her middle or her face. Her hips widened somewhat below the waist; she had the visible beginnings of those udders that the humans call: "breasts", or "tits" and except for the lack of fully developed "tits", her shape was that of a mature human female. I didn't know if this was a plus or a minus. Does one that likes yiffing kids want one that looks more like a kid? "How do you rate her appearance?", I asked. The consensus was that Cynthia was quite yiffy for her age.

Still, something wasn't quite right: "Cynthia, what are you doing with your paws?" She was holding both in front of her genital region. "Get your paws down; let's see your pussy." She sighed, rolled her eyes, and put both paws at her side (she knew this was coming). I was expecting at least some fur -- even the youngest kits have at least some -- but... nothing! "Try to look less stiff, will you? Relax, stand with your foot-paws wider, and try to look more natural." We all stared at her for I'd guess a good half-hour or more. I occasionally cracked wise about mounting her and giving her 15cm of hard vulpine cock, and other such comments about her new "career" in the sex-biz, all to break down the embarrassment. Finally, she showed the faintest trace of a smile, so I knew we were making progress.

"How long do I have to stand here?", finally, she asks. Boredom: a good sign.

"Let's try something else. Everyone: out in the hall". We all stood in the hall, outside the office. "Now I want you to walk up and down the hall." So off she goes, up and back.

"Cynthia, that's not walking, that's plodding. Know what you were doing?" I did my best imitation of what I'd seen: head down, the slow, stiff, unnatural steps. "Keep your head up, and walk like you normally do every day. Now try it again." Better. "Pick up the pace a bit, and try to loosen up, and show some confidence. You're a very pretty girl, take pride in showing off what you got. And try smiling." A dozen trips later, off she goes, striding in a natural manner. I had her try it a few more times, just to be sure. She was overcoming her modesty at last. Time for the next lesson.

Next: running through the entire act. We started in the "yiff room" where she would be waiting for the signal buzzer that alerted the working girls that a client was waiting out in the bar. Thus alerted, she would take with her all the essentials: the mirror, a silver vial of the supervisor's favorite white powder, a gold snuffer, all carried on a low, small stand. In the bar, she would place the stand at the far end of the table, facing the mark as she measured out the powder, then come around to the opposite side as she bent over to prepare lines. Place the mirror and gold snuffer in front of him, then subtly back out of reach as he was distracted, yet positioning herself so as to keep her genital region in his line of sight at all times while running a finger tip up and down her genital slit. Then leading him to the private "yiff room" where he would be expecting his "special treat". This involved her walking fast enough to keep him behind her, yet neither so fast as to give the impression of running away, nor too slowly as to suggest reluctance. Either could lead to his yiffing her in the hallway, and ruin my chance at a clean kill. She had to suggest eagerness to keep him following her. Of course, she would have to improvise as there was no way to guarantee exactly what his actions would be, but I had confidence that she could do that just fine. As for his choosing the wrong room, we made certain that only the door to hers was unlocked.

Indeed, Cynthia was a quick study, and learned the whole routine ahead of schedule, so we spent the spare time playing video games (damn, she beat me every time) until we heard the main sound system come on with a feedback squeal. The evening's festivities were about to begin, so our mark would be arriving soon. I left Cynthia and the others in the salon bar, telling them that the hardest part of any operation was now at hand: the sitting and the waiting. I headed on up to the cat-walk overlooking the main floor. Patrons were beginning to drift in by ones and twos, the band started playing, the naked dancers took the stage to begin their performances, the MC announcing each act. Larger crowds started arriving, and, finally, I spotted Toothy and his fat, ugly, supervisor, and a few of Toothy's co-workers. I got down off the cat-walk.

"They're here. So it won't be too much longer. Let's go Cynthia" As I escorted her to her "yiff room", I explained: "He's every bit as bad as our friend described, so be extra careful not to show any sign of revulsion. Regardless of what you see, or the impression it makes, keep smiling. And one last bit of advice: stay close, but out of reach unless you want him groping you." We entered the "yiff room"; as I took my place behind the curtains, I noticed that Cynthia was pacing all around the room. Anticipation is a terrible thing, so I offered one last suggestion: "You might want to paw off. It'll help cut the tension of waiting, and get you into a yiffy mood". Behind the curtains, I gave my equipment a final check. Cynthia stepped over to the lounge, perched on the edge, spread her legs wide, and began caressing her labs. She did this right in my line of sight, was that deliberate? No time to wonder about it then, but I would find out later...

Toothy had suggested bringing the supervisor here to celebrate the great "victory" over the out-land Furries. The staff had received instructions to treat him extra-special nice, although not for the reasons they were told. Other contingents of Fur-Syms (unknown to each other) had been strategically placed at the near-by tables for their part in the operation, although they had no need to know any of the particulars, only that they were to treat the mark with the deference a "true hero" deserved.

That's how the Animal Control super was treated: like the conquering hero. Drinks and lap-dances: on the house. Rapt attention as he spun his tales of derring-do. Subtle little questions to further puff up his ego, draw more information out of him, and ultimately seal his fate. It didn't take nearly as long, nor was this nearly as difficult, as anticipated. The guy was singing like a canary, spilling lots of useful information concerning investigative techniques, names of informers, and finally, what we were really after: the location where the 300 or so Furries were being held, pending termination, and when that was scheduled -- all with no concern for whomever might overhear the conversation. That's when the Fur-Syms began drifting away, unnoticed, to report their findings to their handlers. Our proprietor finally paid a visit to their table, introducing himself, offering his personal congratulations, the observation that the Cat's Ass wasn't often graced by such an august personage, and would he like to come on up to the exclusive private VIP salon for some truly unique and kinky action? Of course he would!

So the son poured him a drink; he, the cousin and the proprietor spent time glad-handing him; casually mentioned that they just happened to have something quite special available for his special occasion: a brand-new, prepubescent call-girl working the club lately. By all means, send for her! That's when we heard the buzzer sound in Cynthia's room. I watch as she picked up the little stand with the mirror, the silver vial, this time filled with the special powder -- guaranteed pure -- and not the practice powdered sugar, the little gold snuffer, and razor blade. So far, just as we'd rehearsed it so many times that afternoon.

Obviously, Cynthia had done everything right, as I heard the door not ten minutes later. He followed her just like a puppy and she lay down on the smooth, satin sheet covering the lounge, and seductively spread her legs wide, and gave him just the right "come-hither" look. First, he pulled off the wide utility belt, snapped it with a loud crack, and ordered the girl to get up and bend over. So that's the bastard's idea of yiffage: beating the hell out of a young, defenseless call-girl. (How many times had he done this before? What other atrocities was he capable of?) This had me worried: what would she do? Interestingly enough, and with no trace of a reaction, she did just that. She got up off the lounge, walked past the mark, and standing facing the wall opposite my hiding place, she leaned into the wall, footpaws spread slightly, head down. In order to whip her, he was out of any possible line of sight. He ran a paw up and down her ass, all the while he's telling her how he's going to give her a whippin' for being such a "bad girl". It was a disgusting performance, and I could really feel the hate rising. As he raised the belt to beat her ass raw, I swiftly, silently made my move. He brought the belt down hard, a sharp crack of heavy leather that left a reddish-pink blotch across the middle of her ass. She let out a sharp yelp from the swat, as the thin stainless steel wire went around his neck. Simultaneously, I put all my strength into it and ordered: "Cynthia! Get out of here!". She ran out the door. I had him like a fish on a line. Even though he was a good deal bigger, the fight went out of him quickly. His face turned purple as the wire dug into his fat neck until it literally disappeared. If you do it right, it doesn't take too long. The idea being that you not only cut off his air, but also the flow of blood to the brain. As he was dying, he messed himself, and I had to take care not to slip in it as I went down to the floor with him. Through the taut wire, I felt the life go right out of him. In about three minutes or so, it was all over. I rolled him over onto his back, unbuttoned the shirt of his uniform, took his badge and ID card, keys, and a semi-automatic pistol. I checked the magazine -- it was loaded -- and racked the bolt to chamber a round. I safed the weapon. I then put on his shirt, even though it was way too big, but that wouldn't matter. As for the mess I'd made, well, cleaning that up wasn't my problem. I had another job to do that was more urgent.

As I left, Cynthia was waiting in the hall, rubbing a welted butt-cheek, and I had to stop her from going back to see.

"You saw what he did to me?(!) So I want to see..."

"No, you don't. I think you've seen quite enough already Young Lady. A smack on the ass is NBD. Don't make this personal; we're just professionals doing our respective jobs. Any other attitude will get you dead in a hurry. Your job now is to come along with me." OK, I admit it: I broke the rules, letting her take my paw in hers. We needed to go out by way of that old service entrance, unseen. Not necessarily a sure thing, now that the club was filled with patrons.

The Animal Control petro-van had been parked behind the club, in an area far from any lights. After making sure that no one was looking, we moved swiftly to the van, I taking the driver's seat, and Cynthia climbing in the passenger side. I took the super's hat off the dash-board, stuffed my ears beneath it and pulled the visor low over my eyes. Cynthia was sitting in the passenger seat, so I told her to get down on the floor-boards. Not so comfortable, but necessary. I unsafed the pistol and placed it within easy reach on the passenger seat.

This was some tricky business: driving the van far from the Cat's Ass to ditch it. Hopefully, there wouldn't be any radio dispatches to this unit -- if there were, I couldn't answer it, not with my accent. Neither could Cynthia, even if she didn't sound like a Furrie, she sure didn't sound like that supervisor either. There was always the possibility that some jackass would involve the van in an accident. I might just drive off, but accidents attract unwanted attention. Or that some other Animal Control or Security officer would want to get sociable, and pull the van over. Be real damn difficult explaining how a Furrie and a naked girl happened to be driving such a vehicle. That's what the pistol was for. In case of a pull-over here was the routine: Cynthia would quickly take the driver's seat, as I slipped out the back. The distraction of seeing what he'd never expect in his wildest imaginings as he opened the driver's door would give me an excellent opportunity to come around the back of the van and get off a clean shot. As for being recognized, that was the least of my concerns. By now, it was quite dark, I sat higher than the other vehicles, and no one would be expecting to see a Furrie driving an Animal Control petro-van. Luckily, none of the things that could go wrong did go wrong. When seeing how unrecognizable we were, I allowed Cynthia to get off the floor and return to the passenger seat, even if I shouldn't have. She sat there, sort of sideways, right foot-paw tucked under the left knee, elbow propped on against the door and window, just staring off into the distance, lost in thought. Finally, she changed positions, sitting up straight in the seat. Whatever it was, she'd evidently made her decision.

"What are we doing now?"

"First of all, we're going to ditch this van, so that hopefully, it won't be connected to the Cat's Ass. We have Toothy and the other Fur-Syms who'll say that they saw the van leave the Cat's Ass. Hopefully, this will look like a crime of opportunity. Secondly, we have to get you cleaned up so thoroughly that no trace of where you've been remains on your person, and get you back home. There are other Fur-Syms expecting us, but it's not going to be all that easy."

"I suppose we've been through quite a lot?" she asks, raising her right leg slightly. "I mean, I do like you and if you wanted... you know... for real... I wouldn't mind." She says, drawing a finger along the inside of her thigh, back and forth, close to her genital region. This was an open (pardon the terminology) invitation, for sure.

"Cynthia, I appreciate the thought, really I do. I quite understand the feelings of being comrades-in-arms, the soldierly brotherhood, the sense of 'mission accomplished'. I can even appreciate that you are at that age where you are experiencing your first yiffy feelings. However, I can't do that, much as I'd like to. And for quite a few reasons, but, first and foremost, is the immediacy of the situation. I'm not the type to take advantage of an emotionally charged situation for my own selfish gratification. That's the attitude that got the world into this mess in the first place. Nor am I willing to use you to pleasure myself. Hell, in a couple of days, you'll probably be asking yourself: 'How could I have come on to that fur-ball?'"

"I mean, if they catch us, I'll never... And I'd really like it if you were my first..."

"Get that thought out of your head right now. We've taken more precautions than you -- or even I -- know, and the Underground has resources that you can't imagine. Even though we're Furries, we take care of our own regardless of species. And you are one of our own now.

“If we were living in saner times, it would be different. If Furries lived free, if selfish elites didn't keep the humans enslaved, it would be different. I'm not even suppose to be alive, you know that don't you? Personally, I like you a lot. You're pretty, you're bright, you think well beyond your years, you handled yourself with extraordinary common sense back there, you overcame some great difficulties and did so faster than I ever thought you would. You did us all a great service, and a lot of Furries will get another shot at life, due to your contribution. How can I not possibly have definite feelings for you?" I gently placed a paw on her thigh. "Even though you are not a vixen, I would like nothing better than to mount you for some hot vulpine lovin' under a clear desert sky. And I do mean loving, not just yiffing. But there is not thing one that you, me, or anyone else can do about that. This whole fucked-up mess of a world just doesn't seem to have any place left for love, or honest friendship, or any other sort of goodness. Once I've completed my mission, I will never see you again, I will never have any further dealings with your family, I will never be allowed anywhere near the Cat's Ass. This is the way it must work. So do yourself a big favor and shutup and start working on forgetting all about me."

"You really think I'm pretty? You aren't just saying that?"

"I've said a helluvalot more than I should have already, but, no, I'm not just saying that. I figure you deserve at least that much, considering what I've put you through."

About twenty miles out (the instrument panel was calibrated in that old-time system) I found the old, abandoned rest plaza that served travelers in the times before the oil ran out, and cars freely zipped from one end of the continent to the other. The gate had been taken down some unknown time prior, by some unknown Fur-Syms, for reasons they were never told. I told Cynthia to not get out, so as not to cut her foot-paws and leave behind DNA evidence. I took the items I got from the super: the badge, ID card, keys, and wrapped them up in the shirt with a big, rotting, smelly carp. Another Furrie calling card: sleeping with the fishes. Now I had another problem: a cross-desert trip to our rendezvous point three clicks or so away. That would mean carrying the girl all the way, as her foot-paws had no pads. I could make better time on four legs than she could ever do on two. So I opened the passenger door, put one fore-leg under her knees, the other under her arms,, and lifted her from the van. Once beyond the broken concrete, glass, bits of metal, etc. I told her to climb on my back and rode her "horsey style" all the way to the pick-up point.

Firing off a miniature flare in the darkness brought the flash of the headlamps of a hydro-car. The Fur-Sym behind the wheel couldn't suppress his surprised look when he pulled up. We must've been quite a sight. Cynthia took the front passenger seat as I came around to the driver's side and ordered him into the rear seat. He was surprised at that: Furries don't drive, and he asked what that was all about. "Fox eyes: I can see in the dark better than you", I explained. Of course, identification wasn't necessary. How many other Furries were out in the Mojave, accompanied by a naked human girl? He knew better than to ask either of us questions. He had no need to know. I drove, lights off, navigating by nothing more than starlight, along a service road for an electrical transmission line. Deeper, deeper, deeper into the desert, a long, sixty-five click circuitous route back to the back-roads to just south of Henderson. There was little difficulty, except after making the turn-off to the back roads. Here, the trial all but disappeared. We almost got stuck going around a sharp bend while climbing a steep hill. Fortunately, the wheels caught just enough traction in the loose sand to make it up the incline. Once on real road (or what was left of it) it was clear all the way to the fringe of Las Vegas. In what was left of a parking lot for what may have been a restaurant, we met up with the other Fur-Syms who were expecting us, and Cynthia and I parted ways. But not until we exchanged a farewell kiss. Bad form, I know, but, I really liked her, and figured that it was the least I could do. So, her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist, a paw under each butt-cheek to support her weight, I gave her a big, old, sloppy canid kiss. It was the damnedest thing. She buried her face in my fur. When she looked at me again, tears were streaming down her cheeks: "I'll never forget you", she said. Yeah, my eyes were a bit misty too.

I arrived back my territory for a de-briefing.

Usually, we never learn how an operation concludes. However a raid that frees over 300 Furries from under the very noses of Animal Control is news that's very hard to suppress. Even by the system. As for Cynthia, her family, the Cat's Ass, I heard not a word. All I could do was hope for the best. No news is the only good news I heard.

We did lose some good Fur-syms and Furries. How many, I don't know, but one was one too many...

It began with an absolute mockery of a legal proceeding. This was held before the Court of Expedited Judgment. In more civilized times, the accused had their day in court. It was up to the state to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. This applied, even if it was obvious the defendant did it. These days, they don't bother. The Court of Expedited Judgment decides whether there is any reasonable doubt, then goes straight to the sentencing. I didn't know what went on then, though I would later find out.

All I knew is we were watching the visi-vox to learn that this girl had been sentenced to death, having been accused of giving material support to the Furries who carried out the raid. I highly doubted this, but most of the sheeple will believe anything they are told and don’t ask too many questions. The few who do keep their mouths shut.

There's this facility called the Youth Offender Correctional Facility; it's some 200 kilometers north-east of Vegas. It sounds like what used to be called a "reform school" for bad boys and girls. It's not. It used to be an extensive estate built on a ranch whose owners had done very well. As you approach the main gate, the whole place looks quite nice indeed. I some ways, it is. Time at Youth Offender is considered "soft time" as the food is pretty good, there are educational opportunities, and plenty of activities. The inmates avoid fights and mistreating each other, nor do they fuck with the staff, as no one wants to be sent to a hard core facility, such as the security forces run. There is a much darker side that the casual visitor, or the routine minimum security inmate, is unlikely to see.

They really do kill kids up there, as young as ten years old. This is shown on the visi-vox, to entertain the Beautiful People. I've heard all about their execution parties, complete with wagering on how the victims will behave. I'd never seen one before, and I don't care to watch another.

I had decidedly mixed feelings about this. Yes, the girl was going to die. Would it be better had she been sent to one of the "party parks" to serve as a living sex toy? I've heard about what becomes of these kids, and it ain't pretty. Once their looks fade, they are disposed of, either turned out to survive as street prostitutes -- these are the "lucky" ones -- and often not for very long, either falling into the hands of violent, sadistic johns, or finally succumbing to drink and/or drugs, or some nasty STDs, or... just use your imagination. Would that really be better? I don't know how to answer that question.

Her name was Lorelei Hobs and she was an honour student at this high school in nearby Green Valley. She was also a baton twirling majorette with the band. Lots of pontificating about a promising life gone bad because of misplaced sympathy for Furries. This included accusations of her having yiffed a fox fur. That was one of the charges: sexual immorality. Predictably, loads of accusations against the Fur-Syms for using such an innocent young girl.

There were interviews of teachers and students done after her arrest. One blue haired, gum popping young lady with an attitude problem said: “Too bad about Lorrie, I don’t know how I can pass Algebra now. I guess I’ll have to find someone else to copy off of”.

One was saying how hard he found it to believe when he was interrupted: “Doesn’t surprise me, remember that composition she did for English?”

“Too smart for her own good”.

That morning, the Court of Expedited Judgment announced its findings. They ruled that there was no possibility that she was not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. The Court found Lorrie guilty on all charges. The sentence was death, to be carried out with expedience. The execution was scheduled for 9:00PM.

It was a total media circus. This was the first girl execution in a little over three years, so lots of excitement. The actual case was a distant second. Most of the audience wanted to see a young, pretty, school girl’s being executed. The last one being that of “Malignant Mary”, convicted of multiple gang murders. They played it up for the entertainment of the beautiful people. Lots of speculation as to how the condemned would behave.

They explained how the execution would be carried out. In the basement of death row, there was a clear dome that would be lowered over the victim. Sealed air tight, the air would be pumped out as nitrogen filled the chamber, suffocating the victim. They pointed out that, given the execution of “Malignant Mary” fiasco, they designed a chair for females. Unlike the straight backed wooden chair with ankle stocks used for guys, the female seat had the arm rests sticking out to the sides. The seat of padded vinyl with a U-shaped indent. The whole thing being some off-white (ivory?) colour and it wasn’t clear whether it was made of particle board or aluminum. Mary fought the whole way and was strapped to a carry board. It took five gurads to get her in the conventional chair. When the execution began, she messed herself both ways. They explained that the u-shaped cutout let the shit and piss drop into a tray, and that Lorrie would sit, legs spread, to encourage urination.

Since that feeling of suffocation that comes from holding your breathe is caused, not by a lack of oxygen, but excess carbon dioxide, Lorrie wouldn’t feel anything. She’d just lose consciousness before dying from hypoxia. No suffering, but instead feelings of euphoria just before passing out. They made sure to emphasize this to demonstrate good faith to parents that their kids wouldn’t suffer when promised “leniency”. It was also to drive home the point that their kids were in effect hostages to the state.

0xFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

At 8:30 it was announced they were going live to the Youth Offender Facility. The witnesses were being led into the death chamber, each wearing a tag. They were ushered into their seats behind a plexiglass barrier. Once seated, this asshole in an ill fitting, shit brown suit, paunchy and middle aged, stood to address them:

“You are here to witness the death of Lorelei Victoria Hobs. She was sentenced to death by the Court of Expedited Judgment, which sentence will be carried out. For those of you here for the first time, you are to refrain from interacting with the prisoner in any way. Secondly, Miss Hobs has availed herself of selecting her own witnesses who will watch from the gallery. For Miss Hobs’ witnesses, the same rule applies.

“Miss Hobs is fourteen, so expect an emotional display, lots of tears and pleading and resistance. If you would rather not see this, you are free to leave now…”

Four stood to walk out. It should have been more, preferably all of them.

“After the prison doctor pronounces Miss Hobs dead, you will exit in an orderly manner”.

Next, we were taken to the third floor holding cells where the girls’ wing was located. Two guards arrived and Lorrie was sitting on a love seat. The room contained a kitchenette table, a visi-vox, bookshelf, desk and cot.

“You know why we’re here?”

“Take me to the hypoxia chamber”, she answered without looking up.

“Are you going to come along quietly, or will we need this?”, one asked, referring to the carry board he brought.

“No, that won’t be necessary… I’ll… co-operate”.

The door was buzzed open, the guards entered and Lorrie stood, hands at her sides.

“I see you saved us the bother of forcibly stripping you”.

Lorrie was completely naked.

“The shameless slut couldn’t wait to take off her clothes”.

“Nothing wrong with being a slut. Sorry for depriving you of the strip tease”. This was contrary to what we were told: the prisoners undressed just before being strapped in the chamber.

Lorrie was quite the pretty girl. Trim, stomach flat so’s you could see the slight bulge of her uterus, gently widening hips below her waist. Shoulder length brown hair with natural golden streaks. Apple sized breasts that didn’t look like udders. She definitely looked the part of a cheerleader or majorette.

The slut shaming guard indicated the love seat; “Kneel on the seat”, he ordered. Lorrie did as instructed.

“Bend over”.

Her ass two silky smooth ovals. The bottoms of her buttocks curved smoothly into the backs of her thighs without any overlap. The guard took from a back pocket a small leather paddle with a thick, heavy blade just large enough to cover one ass cheek that looked designed to hurt.

“Is that really necessary?”, his partner objected. “Miss Hobs said she’d co-operate”.

The guard with the paddle ran his hand over Lorrie’s ass: “Your pristine ass will look better for the visi-vox audience. OK, I won’t give her a preview of the consequences of making trouble, but I can always change my mind”.

Lorrie got off the love seat.

“Your jewelry, remove it”.

“What…”

“Your earrings”.

She must’ve forgotten she was wearing them. The guard held out a hand. The guard examined the earrings before slipping them into a front pocket: “Not cheap costume jewelry usually given to kids, you have good taste”.

He was examining the clothes neatly folded on the table top. He picked up a pair of new, red sneakers.

“I have a daughter who’s your age and she’s been saying she needs new sneakers. Since you have no further use…”

“Tell your daughter where you got her new sneaks and earrings. Tell her Lorrie Hobs hopes she likes them”.

“Out to the hall”, one guard ordered, and she stepped from the cell.

“This way”, he led down the hall, Lorrie’s keeping up. At the end of that hall, another off to the right, past a sign: “No prisoners permitted beyond this point”. She gave a chuckle at the irony of that. Down this hall to where another guard stood by an open door. This led to a staircase that spiraled down to a half landing, then continuing to the second floor landing. They went single file with Lorrie between the guards. Down three floors where another guard held the door open. Out and to their left. The guards got extra alert.

Two more guards were waiting.

“The Lord is my shepherd…”

“Wait!” Lorrie called out. “I don’t want him praying over me. You don’t mean a word of it and we both know it!”

“I don’t want you to go to Hell”, he said in that smarmy, grandfather voice that almost always means hold tight to your wallet.

“I love you…”

“No you don’t; you don’t even know me. I doubt you’ll remember me a week from now”.

“Trust Christ to save you. You don’t have any time to waste in seeking salvation…”

“Tell it to someone who cares”.

“Chaplain, it looks like your services aren’t needed”, the lead guard said. The Chaplain stalked off.

Lorrie was held by the arms and wrists with one ahead and the one with the carry board behind. The doors to the death chamber stood open. Their grip tightened as they felt her rising fear as they drew closer to the open doors. Upon entering: “Wait here”, one told her as she stood on a yellow circle on the floor. The hypoxia chamber was straight ahead. The witnesses gathered to her right.

Two guards stepped to the chamber, standing at the sides of the chair under the dome. Lorrie looked to her right, and up, to her witnesses behind unbreakable glass. She was mouthing “Love you”. Lorrie forced herself to look at the chamber and the special females chair where she would be the first girl to die. The chair was attached to a platform elevated above the floor a few centimeters.

A lumpy asshole in a cheap suit approached:

“So, Lorrie, looks like the end of the road”.

“Looks like”, she agreed.

He crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back:

“Tell me, do you still think those animals were worth it?”

“I always knew there… was a chance I might… I… neverthoughtitwouldbethissoon”, she said with a slight catch to her voice.

Lumpy walked off, not satisfied by that non-answer.

“We’re ready for you”, one of the guards at the chair called out.

Lorrie hesitated a few seconds to will herself to step forward. The visi-vox audience watched the naked girl crossing the floor to stand in front of the chair. She hesitated, observing the thinly padded vinyl seat and back, the restraints dangling below the arm rests, two sets of straps attached to the sides of the back.

“Sit down, Lorrie”

She stepped onto the circular platform stepped forward and turned to slowly sit down. She put her arms in the U-shaoed channels, and the guards strapped down her arms and wrists.

One guard stepped behind while the other stood by her left side. The one behind brought up the straps which were buckled across her chest, just under her arms. He passed the second set of straps, buckled across her middle.

All the while, she was sitting, feet flat on the floor, knees together. One guard put his hands on her knees.

“You aren’t gonna fight us?”

“No, I won’t”.

He spread her legs without resistance. She sat quietly while one guard went to fetch more hardware: a stainless steel tray and the leg restraints. When he returned, he handed over what looked like a collar: leather bands attached to a steel ring with a double headed swivel clamp attached. One band had a buckle and the other the tongue. He held it up, and Lorrie watched as he placed it around her left thigh, buckle end over and the tongue under. He buckled it snugly to the third hole and clamped the opposite end of the swivel to an eye bolt. He buckled another around her right thigh. He got down on one knee and buckled anklets around her ankles. He slipped a length of chain through an eye bolt attached to the back of the front leg and clipped one anklet to a link. He ran the other end of the chain through another eye bolt, and clipped the opposite anklet to a link, leaving little extra length to secure her feet. The tray was slid through rails half way between the floor and seat.

The guard stroked her hair and she looked up.

“Good girl”, he said. Lorrie half smiled st the complement.

Lorrie’s legs spread wide enough to fully expose her freshly shaved genital region, now as hairless, pink and smooth as any seven year old’s, and stretch her labs. The lower insides of her buttocks and the gap between ass cheeks fully exposed.

A photographer took pictures. Then Mr Shit Suit faced and addressed Lorrie:

“The Court of Expedited Judgment has found you guilty of Aiding and Abetting terrorism, accessory to murders of Officers of the Court before and after the fact, willful dissemination of disinformation, and sexual immorality. Given your lack of co-operation during the investigation, and the serious nature of the offenses, the Court has sentenced you to death. You will be suffocated with nitrogen until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul”.

Lorrie didn’t react to the address. She sat there as if wondering what would happen next. She turned to look. The Commandant stepped up and placed a hand on her knee. She didn’t flinch from his touch and didn’t protest. The more she didn't object, the further up the inside of her thigh he slid his hand until he was caressing the inside of her thigh and the bottom of her ass for about a minute before speaking.

“You understand the decision’s been made, there will be no last second reprieve?”

“I knew you were gonna say that. I knew it all along”.

“Would you like to take this opportunity to clear your conscience and confess your guilt for the crimes for which you were sentenced?”

Lorrie looked up and directly at the witnesses and spoke forcefully: “I admit it. I did it, everything he said I did. I want there to be no doubts: I take full responsibility for my actions. I blame no one other than myself for being here. I accuse no one but myself”.

“Since you have admitted your guilt, do you acknowledge the justice of the Court’s sentence?”

“I do”.

“Would you like to make a final statement or last request before the sentence is carried out?”

“Mom! Dad! Elaine! Grandpa! I love you. I will always love you. I’m sorry for the grief I’m causing you…”

She hesitated to blink back the tears. (“Dammit, I swore I wouldn’t cry”)

“… I regret leaving your lives so soon after becoming a part of your lives…”

She took deep breathes to steady herself.

“… This morning, the Court sentenced me to death and I had all afternoon to think about it. I realize that I deserve to die for what I did. When you see me take my final breathe, understand that I got what I had coming, and paid for my crimes.

“After… after my funeral… I hope you remember all the fun times, the joyous times, the good times we had and be happy, not sad… Remember how I lived. Please don’t forget me.

“If you’re watching, because you wanted to see a pretty young girl naked, please turn it off now”.

Lorrie said nothing else for a couple of minutes.

“Do you have anything else to say?”, the commandant asked.

“No, that’s everything”.

“I want you to listen closely”, the commandant told her, “when the dome is lowered, you will hear the pneumatic seals, and the roof fan starting. Don’t let that startle you. Next, you will hear the nitrogen. Try your best to relax, close your eyes and don’t fight it. Accept your death and let it come nice and easy. When you feel dizzy, light headed, and euphoric you will know the end is near. You’re going to a better place”.

“Do you really think so?”, she asked as she looked up.

“Yes, Lorrie, I really do”.

She couldn’t hold her bladder any longer as the yellow stream poured out of her full force to splatter into the tray. A guard arrived with a pail, spray bottle and a towel. She looked away as he was standing right beside her. They didn’t do the gentlemanly thing and turn away while she peed. When she was done, he sprayed her with warm water, then wiped her dry and emptied the tray into the bucket. He wiped his hands with a towel before feeling her thighs, her ass, stroke her labs and tickle her clit. He left and the doctor arrived.

“I need to have a look at you”. He placed the ear pieces of the stethoscope he had draped around his neck and listened for a few seconds. He must’ve liked what he heard as he took out another stethoscope and taped it to her chest, between her breasts. He connected a rubber tube to the stethoscope and to a box mounted to the side of the chair and turned something on.

He stepped over to a monitor panel, stuck ear buds in his ears, and flipped a switch that let everyone hear her heart beat.

“We can proceed”, he said, “good to go”.

The commandant caught Lorrie’s eyes and he froze. They both looked into each other’s eyes.

“Commandant”, the doctor called out, “we’re waiting for your order”.

Lorrie looked away: “I waited long enough. I’m… ready”, she said. That broke the spell.

“Let us proceed with the execution of Lorrie Hobs”.

One guard standing by the doors crossed the floor. He flipped open a round brass cover on the floor beside the platform, took a key from his pocket and slipped it over a valve stud and gave it a ninety degree twist. Next, he stepped to a wall switch behind Lorrie, out of her sight. He turned a chicken head switch to the first stop to begin lowering the dome. Two guards stood by to guide the dome in place over the lip of the platform. The guards inspected the flexible duct going to the ceiling, and made sure the dome was properly seated. The commandant gave a wordless nod.

He turned the switch to the second stop. This started the exhaust fan and opened the nitrogen valve. Lorrie heard and she took the commandant's advice: closed her eyes and took deep breathes. After about three minutes, she opened her eyes and announced; “This is it… Goodbye… Good… bye” while looking up to the witnesses she’d invited to her execution.

Her eyes lost focus and breathing slowed. After another four minutes, she was making gasping for breathe sounds. She also seemed to be having convulsions as she struggled against the restraints. Then she stopped; her heart silent. That’s when I saw it, you’ve seen it once, you never forget, as with the skunk furrie, I saw the light go out of her eyes. I knew then and there that the loving daughter, the honour student, the baton twirling majorette was gone. That doctor looked on for another five minutes before calling out: “It’s over”.

The guard turned the switch to the last stop to open air vents and speed up the roof fan to clear out the nitrogen. Enough breeze to ruffle her hair. The dome lifted. That doctor stepped over to the body, lifted and spread her fingers, shined a pen light in her eyes. Standing by the chair: “I pronounce Lorelei Victoria Hobs dead”.

The witnesses got up to leave as did the doctor, commandant, and guards. That photographer was back to take more pictures. The body removal team was arriving with a gurney. Next scene: there was a speech from the commandant to the assembled crowd outside, but I didn’t hear a word of it. I was doing the slow burn, but none of my compatriots knew.

The right side of the screen showed a sweet, pretty teen in a dark green, silk, majorette’s costume with an angelic smile, looking like she didn’t have a care in the world. (From an article about a highschool game.) The left showed the sweet pretty teen’s dead body strapped to the chair. It was obviously the same girl in both photos. Along the bottom of the screen:

“Lorelei Victoria Hobs: 12/2/2134 – 09/26/2149”

The slow burn became an explosion. There was more, but we never got a chance to see the rest. I picked up the closest heavy object and threw it will all my force at the visi-vox.

“WES!”

“THOSE FUCKERS! HOW COULD THEY?!”

Savin pulled the heavy bookend I was using to demolish the visi-vox from my paws. He tackled me to the floor and literally sat on me to keep me from destroying who knows what else.

“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”

“Wes, we really need to work on your anger management issues”, he said calmly.

He let me up after the storm passed.

“What’s gotten into you?”, he asked.

“I dunnow… what came over me…”

But I did know. Over the next days and weeks, I felt… what… totally empty inside. Everything I believed came crashing down. Did any species that would do that to one of its best and brightest really deserve to survive? I thought I hated them all. Fur-syms were useful, that was all. The slightly best of a bad breed, I thought, but I really didn’t care about them.

Yet, I watched a sweet, pretty, loving, intelligent girl my age walk to what she knew was certain death without a complaint. She did it for others not of her own kind. Had the roles been reversed, I had to ask myself if I would have done the same. I had to admit it: I would not. How did we screw up? How could we let that happen? We could have hit that kiddie prison hard and fast. We rescued over 300 furries so how difficult to rescue one girl? Was it that all too many of us just didn’t care enough to fully consider the consequences? That the regime would never take an affront like freeing all those furries lying down? Did all too many of us think Fur-syms were just useful, and who cares what happens to them? Yes, we’ve gotten little more than cruelty from humans, yes, we have good reasons to hate them. I thought we were better than that; I thought we could do better. Could I have been wrong? About everything? About… myself?

I had a big gun and an even worse attitude. What made me different from any thug in the nastiest inner cities? I had to admit that there was precious little difference. That is what separates the warrior from the thug: honor. I had precious little of that. I resolved to rediscover the conscience I thought I discarded, to always be guided by honor. I will soon be making decisions that will send hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Furries and humans alike to their deaths. I hope that I am doing the right thing, that I am not needlessly sacrificing innocent life. No, Lorrie, you didn't die for nothing.

I was left to stew over this. I knew what I had to do, even though it would be the hardest thing I ever did. I tracked down Lorrie’s parents: Ted and Megan. Late one night, I slipped a window (I’d gotten very good at B&E). They didn’t notice until I entered the living room.

“Whothehellareyouwhatdoyouwant? GET OUT OF OUR HOUSE!”

“I’m Wesley Evers, sorry for the unannounced intrusion – it’s not like I can just ring the doorbell… I wanted to talk about your daughter…”

“Our daughter’s dead”, Ted said flatly.

“I know, and I’m so sorry...”

“Take your sorry, shove it up your furry ass and get the FUCK out of our home!! You and your Fur-syms promised she wouldn’t be involved! You got what you wanted; you got those furries out, and all it cost was my daughter’s life! We’re going to have to move out of the city, change our names, or be known from now on as the parents of the traitor. We won’t ever be able to visit her grave”.

“I thought you’d want to talk about her…”

“Not with you!”

“It’s like… Like I’m all broken up inside…”

“Don’t.. talk to me… Don’t you dare! Have you ever had to bury a child? Have you watched knowing you can’t do a parent’s highest duty to protect your child while they strapped her into that chair, watched as the life drained from her, and there’s nothing you can do for her? They wouldn’t even give us the chance to comfort her. HAVE YOU?!”

“No…”

“If you want forgiveness, tell it to a priest. I’m not in the forgiving business. You say you feel broken inside? I hope to God you live with that for the rest of your life. I know we will.

“I have half a mind to call Animal Control right now. I suggest you get the fuck out of my house before I change my mind”.

With that, he grabbed handfuls of fur and dragged me to the front door.

“I used to hate all humans until I saw what Lorrie did for us, and I know I wouldn’t have…”

“Ted...”, Megan interrupted.

“WHAT?!”

“I… think we should let him see it”.

“You… can’t be serious?”

“I can’t explain it… I think Lorrie would want him to see it”.

Ted relented at hearing that.

“Sit”, Megan offered a seat in front of the visi-vox. I wondered what this was all about as she loaded a DVD.

“Thanks for allowing me to record this. I know your folks will want to see it”.

Lorrie appeared on the screen.

“What has happened? I thought there was no outside contact? Your folks have been trying to see you, talk with you, ever since you were picked up”.

“There’s a loop hole for spiritual advisers. Something happened all right. After my hearing this morning, and return here the commandant told me scheduled my execution sometime around 9:00. I was kind’a expecting that: nobody who’s taken to HS headquarters ever leaves alive. Still, hearing it, was like a kick in the gut. I’d rather Mon and Dad heard it from you than some phone call from some uncaring official. I never did anything to die for!”

“I know you didn’t. I can’t do this in person, so I’ll do the best I can. If you would kneel, I’ll hear your confession and give you a blessing”.

“You know I don’t believe that…”

“Yes, you’ve been one of my most problematic Sunday School students. I considered asking your parents to withdraw you on more than one occasion”.

“I’m finding it especially hard to believe in God right now”.

“Times like these are when you especially need faith. It may seem God has abandoned us, but he never does. Not even Jesus Christ himself was immune to that feeling of abandonment. You just have to believe. What harm can it do? Can you deny it just might do you some good?”

Lorrie knelt, and the video was interrupted since this was between Lorrie and Father Mike.

“When they were interrogating me, they had that essay I did for English last year. I didn't think it was all that inflammatory or subversive, just asking wouldn't it be better to deal more fairly with the furries? They had some stuff from my computer. They asked if I knew what my parents were up to. Did I see any meetings with people I didn't know and about whom they wouldn't talk? Did they go out without saying they were leaving or what they did when they came back? I didn't know anything about that, and wouldn't’ve mentioned it if I had.

“Everything I said, they twisted into what they wanted to believe. I signed a prepared confession. The first day I arrived at HS headquarters, a boy, he was seventeen, I guess, was dragged past my cell. I stood by the door. He was crying and pleading. The guard said: “He should have picked his friends more wisely”. Later, I heard the screams coming up from the lower level. They make you kneel before this concrete trough. Then they slit your throat and the trough collects all the blood.

“I told them nothing of any real consequence, either because I didn’t know or wouldn’t say. That’s when the interrogator decided I needed additional “persuasion” (finger quotes) . I was lead to this room especially for women and girls. I was told to undress. I will spare you the details but it wasn’t too long until I would do anything to make it stop. They wanted the password to unlock my HD, and I gave it to them.

“The next day, I was taken to see the interrogator. He showed me two forms: ‘I sign this and you go to the basement right now’”.

“I subconsciously put my hand to my throat”.

“Yes, that’s right: your throat will be cut”

“’I sign this’, he showed me the other form, ‘a transfer to the Youth Offender Correctional Facility and I shred this form and say it arrived too late. Which one do I sign?’, he asked as he handed me a “confession”, all filled out already.

“I signed the ‘confession’. Then I was taken to the facility. “They kept me waiting for two weeks until yesterday when they brought me to ‘Vegas for an over night stay. Early this morning, I was given my civilian clothes for a hearing before the Court of Expedited Judgment. I never got a chance to say anything since I was gagged. They sentenced me to death. Upon returning to the facility, the commandant told me he scheduled the execution for 9:00 tonight and sent me to the Death House girls’ wing.

“The Commandant said I can have my own witnesses to my execution. I would appreciate it if you could come, Mom and Dad, and Elaine and Grandpa Charlus. I don’t want to die alone. I want to see at least one friendly face. I know I’m asking a lot, and it won’t be easy. I’m so sorry for all the grief I’m causing. If you can’t, I’ll understand.

“They will come for me in a few hours. I know what I have to do. I will not cry, plead for mercy, scream. Plead for mercy from the merciless? I don’t think so, that just makes it look like there’s mercy to give. I won’t fight them. I hope I have the strength. Father Mike said I will be going to a place where there is no more sorrow. If he’s right, I’ll see you again on the other side. If he’s wrong and there’s nothing, he’s right either way. The councilor who’s been spending the day with me said that we may never know how many lives we touch, and how.

“I know some will be watching because they’ve been told I’m a traitor and criminal and they think justice is being served, some want to see me naked, the cheerleader and majorette costumes, they might as well send us onto the field naked. You don't think we all didn't notice how every male in the stands are undressing us with their eyes. Some want to watch a school girl suffocated to death. My only hope is that my death will touch a conscience, make someone stop and think about what this country’s become. I hope some good comes from it even if I’m not there to see it. Please don’t blame the furries; keep up with your work. I know you couldn’t tell me any of the details, but I’m proud that you did, that you stood up for them. I wish you would have done more to include me. If I’m to die for being a Fur-sym, at least I could actually earn it. It was the right thing to do.

“After they... do it, I would like for you to invite Elaine over. I have some jewelry she’s long admired. I’m sure she’ll be wanting a memento or two. She can have it all, if she wants. Carla from down the street is my size, so give her her pick of my clothes. Same for my collection of figurines, see who in the neighborhood wants them. I would rather my things go to those I know instead of complete strangers.

“After I’m gone, remember all the good times we had. I hope you stay together, and I hope you keep doing whatever it is you do for the furries. If you don’t, they win. Please don’t forget me; remember how I lived.

I hope the beast will be satisfied after it devours me.

That’s all I have, love you. Your daughter, Lorrie”.

“I’ll see to it this gets to your parents. There’s something else we need to discuss. It won’t be pleasant. Your grandfather is making all the arrangements for your funeral. He picked out some formals for you…”

“How can he do that already?”

“Lorrie”, Father Mike said, “we knew you would be executed several days after you were picked up. There was no trial that meant anything, and the decision was made first”.

“Then they kept me waiting around…”

“To get back at your parents”.

“Then my death is their punishment”.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is. Your grandfather picked out some outfits for you”. Piccies of the outfits.

“None of those. I want to wear my vixen outfit”.

“Vixen outfit?”

“Mom and Dad will know. Grandpa will probably object, but that’s what I want”.

“He also had Roo-Roo restored. Who, what, is Roo-roo?”

“I haven’t thought about Roo-Roo in years. He was this plushie kangaroo I had as a kid. He was an imaginary friend. Last I recalled, Roo-Roo was looking pretty threadbare”.

“He said he wanted to put Roo-Roo with you. He said so you wouldn’t be lonely”.

“That’s fine, he can do that”.

“What’s your preference? Open or closed casket?”

“How can they say ‘Goodbye’ if they can’t see me? I want it to look like I’m asleep”.

“I’ll pass that along to Charlus. I’ll see about a visit and if Eleane's parents will let her come”.

“Thank you for that, and getting the video to my folks”.

Megan loaded another DVD. This one showed Lorrie in what she called her vixen outfit. Lorrie said they were in the woods camping out above Lake Tahoe where it was a good deal cooler than down in the desert valley of ‘Vegas, and it was the first chance she got to wear it outside. She explained she spent the previous year making it.

The vixen outfit was a reddish-orange dress fitted with a fox tail, and snaps to attach a hood in the shape of a fox’s head. There was a draw string decorated with poofy balls that could draw the hood tight enough to almost completely conceal her face. The sleeves were long, and fit hand paws with plastic, partially retracted claws like a fox’s. The dress also had a figure enhancing elastic waist band so it wouldn’t just hang like a sack. It also made the dress poof out to make the hemline seem higher than it really was. She also wore foot-paws made of faux fur that matched the colour of the dress that came less than half way to her knees. The hem and long sleeves decorated with bands of white faux fur. She did a twirl that made the hem and tail fly out.

“So what do you think?”

“I still don’t quite understand why you wear that?”

I didn’t understand either. Nothing could scream “Fur-sym!” louder, and that’s a very dangerous thing to be known for.

“Sometimes, I wish I’d been born a fox-girl”.

Megan said that Lorrie never played with baby dolls like most young girls, but rather animal dolls.

“I hope you’re not offended”, Megan said.

“You know what they say”, I said, “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery”.

Another DVD, this one showing one of Lorrie’s majorette routines she was practicing. She was in her majorette costume while spinning a baton too fast for eyes to follow. The outfit was a dark green silk, sleeveless dress with a high hemline. The collar buttoned which then zigged down and to her left. Five brass buttons closing the front that zagged to above the elastic waist band. The front outlined with a gold stripe. Another gold band encircled the hem and collar. Tasseled leather boots completed the costume. She did this with both hands while dancing, swaying hips, to some instrumental music. Then she spun the baton one-handed at the same speed, passed it between hands behind her back. How she managed to do all of that, I can’t imagine. As a majorette, she was quite talented.

Megan started: “After the blackest days of our lives, I wondered what Lorrie meant… about anything good coming from… About touching a conscience. It would seem Lorrie touched yours.

“I don’t know you, Wesley, I don’t know what you’ve done… are doing; I don’t need to know. You don’t look to be much older than Lorrie…”

“I’m fifteen”.

“You’ve seen things, done things no fifteen year old should ever see or do”.

What could I say to that? I said nothing.

“I do know this: The good Lorrie mentioned is now in your hands. Maybe it was Fate that brought you to us, maybe it was an act of God. If there’s any meaning in her death, help us find it”.

“I will do my best, I can promise you that”.

“Come with me”.

I followed as Megan led me to Lorrie’s bedroom. She paused briefly after flicking on the lights, knowing Lorrie wouldn’t be coming back, ever.

“We can’t bring ourselves to clear out her room, not yet”, Megan said.

The room was typical of young girls, lacy curtains over the window, frilly bed spread, unfinished homework on her desk. A selection of plush animals decorating the bed.

She went over to a display case on the dresser. It had a mirror back, glass shelves for knick-knacks. She opened the door and took out a ceramic figurine of a red fox.

“I would like for you to have this…”

“I couldn’t…”, I held out both paws.

“Yes you can, it was one of her favourites, and I’d like for you to have it. Let it always remind you of Lorrie’s hope for good”.

“Hope for good”, I accepted the gift. I still have it and it's sitting on my desk as I write this.

We sat on the sofa where the visi-vox was as Megan showed pictures from a photo album. Lorrie as a baby, a five year old sitting and smiling at the kitchen table, various awards for good behaviour and academic excellence. A picture of a nine year old Lorrie at Christmas time where she wore Christmas ornaments like ear rings and a shirt with the slogan: “Girls always win”.

A ten year old Lorrie, completely naked as she posed on a bear skin rug. There was also one of her sitting astride a hobby horse that left nothing to the imagination.

The photo of her showing off the majorette costume after announcing she’d made the band.

“I hoped to give you some idea who Lorrie was”, Megan said.

“Thanks for that… for everything”.

“Before you go, I suggest you see Father Mike. I can let him know he’s expecting a visitor, not mentioning you’re not human, of course…”

“I’ll consider it”, I promised before taking my leave.

A couple of days later, I dropped in after dark.

“I was expecting you”, Father Mike said.

“How?”

“I figured you were a furrie. Megan was mysterious enough”.

“I don’t know why I’m here”, I admitted.

“You are searching for something. You will have to decide what that something is”.

“I confess: I don’t share your beliefs”.

“And that would be?”

“All my life all I’ve heard is how we furries are just animals without souls. The humans have used this to excuse the cruelty we’ve suffered at your hands. No soul, no eternal punishment in Hell, nothing to deter us from doing whatever we want so we can’t be trusted. Since they made us they can use, abuse, and discard us however they please”.

“It’s unfortunate, and it’s been going on now for almost 2200 years. People have been doing evil in the name of Christ that Christ never sanctioned. It’s Christianity’s biggest failure. As for furries, no one has any say whether you have a soul or not”.

“I’ve heard how humans are made in the image of God, and we were made in a lab…”

“Yes, that’s true, humans were made in the image of God. That includes God’s creativity that allowed humans to genetically engineer furries. You were also made in the image of God by proxy…”

“Heretical ideas…”

“According to those in whose interests it is to keep people from asking inconvenient questions. There’s a reason why our church is barely tolerated. I ask you again, what is it you want? Talk to me, I’m a good listener. It’s a requirement of the profession”.

“It’s… Lorrie and what she did. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way! Wasn’t her fight, not her responsibility. How did we screw up? How were we that oblivious? We could have – should have – hit that kiddie prison hard and fast, rescued her. Didn’t we care enough? How could your God let her die?”

“Wesley, people have been asking that question for thousands of years. Perhaps for as long as the first proto-human climbed down out of the trees. Sometimes the only answer we’ll ever have is ‘I don’t know’. As for your failure, mistakes get made, and there’s no one to blame. What’s really going on?”

“It’s just that, if the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t have done it. I really thought I hated them that much”.

“It’s good you can learn from your mistakes. You know what they say about carrying that much hatred?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“It’s like drinking poison and hoping the other guy dies. You need to learn to forgive…”

“Forgive… them?”

“Forgive yourself, Wesley. Since you’ve already done your confession, if you’ll kneel, I’ll grant you absolution”.

“I’m not a member of your church”.

“There is nothing that says our concerns for the well being of souls ends at the church door”.

“I really don’t believe in this religious nonsense”.

He chuckled.

“What?”

“You remind me of Lorrie. It’s too bad you didn’t know her. You’d have a lot in common. I’ll tell you the same thing I told her. Let’s say I’m completely wrong, and you’re right and it’s a load of malarkey. What’s the worst that can happen: nothing. You’re no worse off are you? What if you’re wrong? It might do you some good”.

No arguing with that, so I knelt and Father Mike performed his confession ritual.

After leaving Lorrie’s parents and seeing Father Mike, I knew it wasn’t our fault. Lorrie died because of a rotten, corrupt shitstem made by an Elite who destroyed the entire Old World. How many lives did that cost? What’s one more teen girl who happened to get in the way?

Lorrie, you died a Furrie soldier, and I swear that one day there will be a memorial. You didn’t die for nothing, and you will be remembered so long as there are Furries to remember.

That charge of sexual immorality? Lorrie wrote a story. In it, she was in the woods wearing her vixen outfit when a fox-boy mistook her for a vixen, and spirited her off to his den. Even though he realized his mistake, he ravished her anyway. She went into great detail about how they yiffed. It was just a story, the kind that lots of kids her age write for their own amusement. That’s all it was: a young girl’s bodice ripper fantasy. It never happened because she got so many details wrong. Our mating season is December, not summer. The fox-boy wouldn’t have been able to do what she said he did, and furthermore, wouldn’t think of it anyway, not six months from mating season.

Accusations of “Disinformation? She wrote a paper for English Composition last year. She didn’t say any more other than why couldn’t we give the furries a fair chance? If treated fairly, couldn’t they contribute to the economy? How would it be a bad thing to have them attending school like the human kids? It was hardly the anti-government screed the “news” was describing.

Lorrie's funeral was held two days after she died. That wily wolfie, Savin, got this vid to me several months later. Who made it and for what purpose, how he came to have it, he could not or would not say. He knew it was something I needed to see.

This was at Father Mike's unofficial, non-government sanctioned "church" - not a “real”, officially sanctioned and licensed church. These days, preachers are all licensed; they all toe the party line to keep the sheeple in line with empty promises of heavenly rewards for earthly obedience. They also spy on their congregations. When you confess your sins, anything you say can and will be used against you. Unlicensed preachers and churches are barely tolerated, and closely watched at all times.

Grandfather Charlus chose a casket appropriate to one her age. Lorrie lay in a white casket with gold coloured hardware and decorated with blue and pink butterflies. There was a banner of a butterfly above and behind the podium, half pink and the other half blue. Why butterflies when it was clear she liked foxes? Perhaps that was symbolic, how butterflies are reborn from caterpillars? Between the red dye in the formaldehyde that filled her veins, and the make-up, she looked like a kiss from the right set of lips would see her sit up, ask where she was and how did she get there. She was wearing the same vixen outfit from the video, a crown of daisies encircled the fox head hood. The hood drawn only close enough to frame her face,

Her hands clasped to her chest the kangaroo plushie that had been a favourite childhood toy, and imaginary friend: Roo-Roo. She probably hadn't slept with Roo-Roo in ten years at least. Lorrie's parents, grandfather, Elaine and her parents, a scattering of other relatives were attending. Also included what looked to be a boyfriend and his parents. The guys were putting up a tough front, but there were no dry eyes there.

Father Mike stood at the lectern:

"My predecessor welcomed Lorrie into this world in Baptism. It seems like yesterday that I was giving her first communion. Everyone who knew Lorrie was looking forward to her Quinceanera, graduations, a wedding. I expected to be presiding over Lorrie's wedding in a few short years, not her funeral. At times like this, it's natural to ask 'Why?' Sometimes there are no answers and all we can do is turn to God in faith to ask for support…"

Next, he addressed the boy friend, pointing out that sometimes first love is lasting love, but none too frequently. He said Lorrie was his first significant other, and it’s always sad when relations end. It’s especially sad when a first love ends with death, that he may feel he’ll never love again. Father Mike assured him this, too, will pass with God’s help, and if he doesn’t give up.

Then Elaine addressed the audience, telling how she and Lorrie met during first grade, how they became friends since they were both tomboys. How being friends with Lorrie led to their parents’ becoming friends. The plans they were making for their futures.

To hear Father Mike tell it, Lorrie had simply died; random shit that just happens for no apparent reason and no one expects. Obviously, he was aware of possible surveillance, and measured his words accordingly. No, Father Mike, God didn’t call “our sister” home because the heavenly choir needed another majorette. A filthy, rotten to the core, shitstem of some of the most selfish bastards unfortunate enough to draw breathe sent her there. They’d killed humans by the tens of millions, destroyed the entire old world, so what was one more teen girl? What's one more "example" to be made? This was another score to settle once and for all before the revenge of the Furries can be complete. I vowed to do what I must to eliminate every last one of them. I vowed that, one day, there will be a proper memorial for Lorrie, for all Furries and Fur-syms. I can't make it right, but I can do what little I can accomplish.

The final insult? Lorrie was buried in an unmarked grave.

Five years to the day of Lorrie's death, a dapper older man walked into an Office of Animal Control. At first, no one took notice, just another official or businessman. That was until he pulled out an old Colt 1911A .45 semiauto and opened fire, shooting officials at random. He was cut down in a hail of bullets. He never stood a chance. He didn't mean to. He had two items on his person: an ID card in the name of Charlus Neesome, and a lock of brownish golden hair.

Investigators arrived at his house to conduct a search. They paid no attention to the antique clock with a fancy looking stone set below the face. It was so old tech, no laser beams, no radio signals, no ultrasonics. Just a lens focusing the light onto four photodiodes. These were connected to comparators. If the signals varied, motion had been detected. The countdown had begun.

They hadn't searched the basement, but if they had, it's unlikely they would have thought anything strange about the gas pipe running some five meters from the meter to the furnace. Maybe they would have wondered why there were two valves at each end, the one closest to the meter closed. They wouldn't have noticed the rags plugging the draft. Or that the pilot light was out, or that the air conditioner was cross connected to the gas valve.

Thirty minutes later, the air conditioner turned on, and the gas valve opened. From the heat exchanger, and into the air intake poured a very old discovery, a 300 year old discovery of one of the first organic compounds, made by a Sir Humphrey Davy -- a byproduct into his research to determine if chlorine was an element or compound.

By the time the agents noticed the scent of freshly mown grass, it was too late.

The officers heard a strangled sound coming from their handy talkies. More officers rushed into the house, only to be greeted by a scene straight from Dante's Inferno. One officer was lying on the floor, foam pouring from mouth and nose. He tried to say something, but could not. Others lay where they fell. They would soon have company. One officer, suspecting gas, smashed out a plate glass window. This sent an invisible cloud of the heavier than air substance rolling across the front yard towards the remaining officers. Some of whom would take a week to die.

That pipe in the basement? It wasn't filled with gas, but with a substance so deadly, but so easily made, that it was one of the first of the war gases. Conveniently, it condenses at a higher temperature than water freezes.

Carbonyl chloride, phosgene, is some nasty shit indeed.

Later, investigators finally found the carefully hidden message that was Charlus Neesome's final testament

Dear Animal Control Fucks:

You took from me my precious granddaughter, Lorelei Victoria Hobs. I don't suppose you will remember her name. I watched how, because of you, she was stripped naked, and gassed to death. So I gassed you. You didn't even have the decency or respect to cover her body before parading the witnesses past her lying there in the morgue. I couldn't save her, but I can take a lot of you with me.

Contemptfully Yours,

Charlus Neesome, Lorrie's Grandpa

P.S. I’ll be waiting for you in Hell.


I did some free lancing. First on my list was that so called doctor/executioner. One day, he came home, calling out: “Honey, I’m home”. There I was, sitting behind his desk, reading his journal. Getting no answer, he probably didn’t think on it, as he headed upstairs.

“You called me Honey? I’m genuinely touched”, I said as I leveled the antique Barreta .380 ACP semiauto pistol at his gut.

“Whoareyouwhatdoyouwantwhere’smywife?”

“Honey’s been delayed, an accident or something…”

“Whathaveyoudone?!”

“She’s all right… Your journal is most fascinating”, as I went through the journal. “Emily Webber, age: 10; 157.5 centimeters, 40 kilograms.

“You killed a little girl”.

“Look, you, it’s not up to me. The court sentences them, and I carry out the court’s orders. That’s the law. Don’t like it? Then change it. Until then, they’re gonna die anyway, so better to see it’s done right, none of them suffered”.

“Just doing your job? Just following orders?”

“Yes!”

“It never occurred to you that some may be innocent? Ummmm… How about this one? Lorelei Hobs, age: 14; 165 centimeters, 50 kilograms. Co-operative, first female inmate to undress before entering the execution unit”.

“So this is what this is all about? Are you the fox-boy she was committing bestiality with?”

“I could’ve been. I would’ve liked that. Unfortunately, no”.

“I don’t suppose you are. You handle that gun like it comes naturally to you. I’ve seen that look in your eyes, a stone cold killer”

“How perceptive of you, I’m impressed”.

“Is the family paying you for this? They took out a contract?”

“They know nothing about this, and they’ll never hear it from me. I’m doing this on my own. It never occurred to you just how absurd those charges were? A fourteen year old girl runs an operation like the one that freed over 300 furries? Really?”

“The court sentenced her to death. I carried out the court’s order. If they made a mistake, that’s on the judges. That’s not my responsibility. I don’t care about their back stories”.

“Your curiosity underwhelms me”.

“Afterwards, I personally take charge of washing the bodies, to make them ready for either a respectful, dignified burial, or to turn the bodies over to the families in a condition fit for a nice funeral. They already paid the price for their mistakes, so I treat them with respect and dignity…”

“… When it doesn’t make any difference.

“And you think that makes it alright? You really do get off on it, don’t you? You squeed your britches over every one of these kids you murdered, didn’t you? The thought of you touching Lorrie’s body turns my stomach. You are a total piece of shit, you know that?”

“You’re one to talk. I have the law on my side. All you are is a murderous hypocrite”.

“Correction: you operate under the colour of the law. In saner times, that meant doing wrong while conforming to the letter of the law all the while violating the spirit of the law, but I don’t suppose you’d understand the concept”.

I stood, and ordered him to get moving. At the top of the stairs, I tripped and shoved him down the stairs all the way. He wasn’t dead yet, just knocked out. One quick twist took care of that.

The paddle happy, slut shaming guard? He went to his car to drive to work one morning. I suppose they buried what was left of him in a shoe box. IEDs aren't that difficult to prepare if you know what you're doing. A shaped charge under the driver's seat, a little do it yourself electrical work, hit the starter and BOOM! The lead guard? Tragic accident, ran off the highway between the Youth Offender Facility and Las Vegas. At 70MPH when wheels leave hard pavement and hit soft sand, a roll-over is guaranteed. I guess he should have been more careful ;-).

As for Mr. Lumpy, electrocuted in his shower. Shaving while showering with an electric razor really is a bad idea. Mr Lumpy was the HS interrogator.

Mr Shit Suit? A judge from the Court of Expedited judgment: seems he foolishly kept rat poison in an unmarked jar like the one with sugar and got it confused while preparing his evening cocoa. I wonder how that happened ;-) ;-)

I eventually got them all, one by one, everyone involved in Lorrie’s execution. A string of tragic “accidents” and pseudocides.

As for that commandant, an unusual case indeed. I tracked him and his son to Tahoe: a fishing cabin in the woods, some father/son quality time that they now had since the commandant had recently retired. I got the drop on the son real easy as he wasn't expecting a thing.

He left a pan of frying fish on the stove, and that’s when I slipped into the kitchen. I turned the fire on full. Pretty soon, the oil was smoking, the fish turning into charcoal. The son comes running back to turn off the heat.

“What the…”, he begins, but is interrupted by that most attention-getting and horrifying sounds: the click-click of the hammers of a double barrel, sawed off shotgun being cocked.

I motion with the gun towards the table: “Sit down”, I order.

“What’re you…”

“Shut up!”

I took out a glass, poured some water, and added a few drops from a small bottle.

“Drink that”.

“What…”

“I said ‘drink’, either you can drink it, or I’ll decorate the wall behind you with your brains. Your choice. You have five seconds”

He drank. I helped him into the nearest bed: “Sleep tight, Sweet Prince”, I said.

The Commandant opened the door…

“You burned our lunch?!”, he waited for the response that never came. “Rod?”, he called out.

He had fishing rods in one hand, and a stringer full of just caught fish in the other. He took one look at me and the sawed-off aimed right at his gut. His face fell: "You're here because of Lorrie"

Not a question, but a statement.

"So you remembered her name?"

"As much as I'd like, I can't forget. You don’t think I didn’t know what you’re doing? That I couldn’t figure it out? You’re her fox-boy lover? The age seems right. You’re here for revenge? I was afraid something like this would happen”.

He sat on the sofa next to the door: "What have you done with my son?", he asked.

"Sleeping off some 500 milligrams of chloral hydrate", I said, pointing, "back there but otherwise unharmed. He’ll be out of it for the next twelve hours or so. And, no, I’m not. That charge was absolute bullshit, based on a story she wrote".

“Then… why?”

“You said it yourself: revenge. Actually, I like to think of it as DIY justice”.

"Just promise me you won't harm him and get it over with".

"What you say in the next ten seconds determines whether you live or die".

"What do you expect me to say? I did what I had to do and I won't apologize to you or anyone else for that. I've presided over many an execution where the perp got what he deserved".

"So far, you’re not making a favourable impression. Go on".

"I knew it was all political, Lorrie’s whole case, and she didn’t do anything to deserve it… unless you think she made a wrong choice in parents. I really hated these political cases. Sending these hardened killers to a well deserved early grave never bothered me. I at least tried my best to make it easier for her...

"You never thought to do something about that?"

"Like what?"

"If you weren't so gutless, there are certain individuals. If you wanted to, you could find them, or they could find you. There are those who're trying to make a difference".

"You don't think I don't know that? And don't you know they watched me like a hawk? I took some pretty big chances already. You know Lorrie was forbidden any outside contact? Were you aware that I arranged it so she could conference call this preacher friend of hers? I brought in a councilor who specialized in end of life matters so she wouldn’t have to sit up there, alone, hour after hour, stewing over her execution. That was very much against regulations. Then there was this gal-pal…”

“Elaine”, I added.

“… Elaine: she shouldn’t’ve been there, even if her parents escorted her. She was very insistent, saying that they had been friends ever since kindergarten, that she needed to be there for Lorrie, even if they couldn’t talk. It was against regulations for her to be in the witness’ gallery because she was just sixteen. I would have gone to prison myself for that. I risked much more with the call Lorrie made to that preacher”.

“Yes, I’m very much aware. Even though I still think you’re a cowardly piece of shit who could have – should have – done more, even if I think you deserve to have your innards turned inside out, it was something Lorrie’s Mom once told me. I will take my leave. However, I’d strongly suggest that you stay well away from the windows for the next twenty minutes”. I melted into the woods.




III

I moved up the ranks quickly. First: Capo de Regime of a small regime that handled minor enforcement jobs, low-level assassinations, and controlled the center city drug trade. For the latter, I insisted on quality. I pulled an ancient book on organic chemistry from the family library and insisted that it be read. Those who could read would read it to the illiterates. No more half-assed equipment and sloppy lab techniques either. The quality of meth, opioides, and other "happy stuff" with which the "Beautiful People" destroy themselves went way up, and explosions went way down. Soon, we had the best stuff in all of the city center. Speaking of city center, I made an effort to clean it up, and make it clear to the gangs and thugs that they'd be better off finding somewhere else to operate. This brought in even more of the "Beautiful People", now that they no longer had to fear assaults and robberies. Pay offs to the cops had to increase, but so did the profits.

Next, a promotion to a bigger regime that was behind the drug trade for the ritzy suburbs farther to the West, all the way to what was once the "San-san" megalopolis. This was the territory of the elite's elite, even going back to the "old times". (I liked that: the fat-cats ultimately financing the instrument of their own destruction because they couldn't control themselves. Little did they know that the very Furries they were trying to eliminate were supplying them their "happy-stuff".) Higher level assassinations of politicians, not just the occasional thug who tried to put one over. I ran a tight regime, kept our drugs high quality with fair prices and no cuts. We also ran the gambling (I insisted on clean games at all times -- crooked dealers found themselves having a hard time even holding a deck of cards, let alone able to deal seconds). I kept our hookers and call girls clean, and saw to it that they were never cheated, I set up college and educational funds for them so that they could leave that life, the independent operators were put under our protection, so no more greedy, abusive pimps to deal with, even if it cut into our profit margins. That brought the elite from their lairs, looking for our special brands of depravity.

Then, in a few years, I made Consigliore. Yes, I was now second only to the Big Boss Furrie. The BBF was smart, had good strategic sense and an excellent feel for personnel needs. He was a total illiterate, and so I did all the reading for him he required. He wouldn't be bothered to learn. In this capacity, I passed along orders to the Capos. If an unreliable Capo needed to be "retired", I had a paw in that decision. I can't say that I'm proud of some of the things I had to do, but it's a survival thing for us Furries.

This wouldn't be complete unless I told you about the worst day of my life. That was when Father died. It started out like any other, as I was helping him coax a little more life from our old generator. Wesley had a massive coronary. I tried CPR, but it was no good. Mother and I held a funeral on the ridge overlooking the property. All our Furries insisted on attending, despite the great danger of being out in the open during daylight. I said a few words, for mother's sake, even though I can't believe in the human god. (How can I? If Man was created in the image of god, then what of we Furries? This just offends my sensibilities, especially as this is frequently used an an excuse for our abuse.) There were 36 pairs of Furrie eyes there, not a one dry, and all surrounded by tear-matted fur. One-by-one, they all gave mother and me a hug, when we needed it the most. None of them could say words; they substituted animal sounds instead. I worried about mother, but she had more strength to go on than I suspected. So we went on, teaching our Furries their lessons the very next day. Let me say again, I still miss my father, especially now. I could really use his council... especially ... now...

IV

I regret that Mother will live to see this... Even though she says she's 86, I believe she's really older. I left her a few hours ago. I'd dropped by to say my farewells, and explain the arrangements I made with the Fur-Syms to try to protect her. It was not easy, explaining the entourage of petro-fuelled military vehicles, the weapons, the uniforms, the deference and saluting of the other Furrie soldiers. It was not easy explaining that I could no longer simply live on the farm with her, as if I had no greater obligations to the outside world -- or to my kind. I explained that she had prepared me for this moment all my life, and that Father would expect nothing less from me. She's afraid... It was not easy...

"What is that you're wearing? You haven't wanted to wear clothes since you were a boy"

I sat next to her, taking her hand in my paw, to explain as gently as I could:

"It's not 'clothes'. It's a military uniform. There's a war coming..."

"Does the Commander think it wise..."

"Soldier! This is my mother. She has the right to know"

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

"War? What war? Wesley?"

"We're fighting for our lives, for our right to exist. The system as it stands needs to go, and we are going to tear it apart. I hope we can build something better in its place. You and Dad prepared me for this moment all our lives. Would you expect anything less of me?"

I'm afraid this will probably kill her.

My final promotion: Commander. In a few more hours, the war of our liberation begins: to let no one say we can't live because we're "too smart", to educate our minds, to enjoy that which we earn with the labor of our minds and our paws, so that we can say the word: "Furrie" with the pride of the free instead of the shame of the slave. Even now, more Furries are arriving to join our efforts. Hopefully, it will be our last. I'm not sure how much abuse this old world of ours can take. I'd say our chances are pretty good. Don't dismiss our "rag-tag" little army. Where ever there are Furries, Furrie armies are gathering. Such forces have prevailed before: Yorktown comes to mind here. As for the opposition, well, even in the final decades of the Third Republic, they were so decadent that they let the lower classes do all their fighting. In places like Vietnam, Kuwait, the Oil Wars: the "beautiful people" couldn't be bothered to dirty their paws. They've had over a century to indulge their pleasures, to grow even softer. Will slaves fight for them? Furrie slaves: almost none left. Human slaves? Whence their loyalties?

Don't deceive yourself. There's literally tons of tech lying out there in the desert, most from old, forgotten Third Republic military bases. Indeed, we have six nuclear-capable cruise missiles, two functional thermonuclear warheads, and another possibly functional by week's end. RPGs, small arms, ammunition: we've got it. We have a field piece, a mobile cannon called a "Paladin Howitzer", aimed right at the regional Animal Control Headquarters. Our forward spotters are already in place if we need to adjust the aim. The morning shift begins at 0800 hours. By 0900 hours, the building should be full.

(The elderly human who's sighting this gun has, I admit, gotten a bit exasperated with my asking how's it going: "With all due respect, Commander, I've spent half the night checking and rechecking the aim. If this antique doesn't malfunction, we'll drop a shell right in the Superintendent's lap. And if it does, there won't be enough of our asses left for you to chew out".)

Then the big gun barks, the Furrie War begins. Granted, it's not a strategically important target, but it's a damn satisfying one. When I think back on all the atrocities they caused, how I had to spend my entire life running and hiding from these people, well no, I won't feel the least bit bad about giving that order. Those Animal Control assholes made their choice, and they're gonna pay for it. Hell, most of them probably will never know what hit them. It's way better than they deserve.

What will become of our world? I don't know. However, can we Furries possibly do any worse? Look at this fucked-up mess of a world and ask yourself that. Then check back with me in a couple or three centuries and we'll talk about it. Make no mistake: regardless of the final outcome, the reign of the power elite is through. Either we are victorious, or Planet Earth joins the other eight as a lifeless ball of rock circling an average star at the outer fringes of an average galaxy.


"We have, or soon will have, exhausted the necessary physical prerequisites so far as this planet is concerned. With coal gone, oil gone, high-grade metallic ores gone, no species, however competent, can make the long climb from primitive conditions to high-level technology. This is a one-shot affair. If we fail, the planetary system fails so far as intelligence is concerned. The same is true of other planetary systems. On each of them there will be one chance, and one chance only."

-- Sir Fred Hoyle, 1964


Smart human, that Sir Fred. Is it true? I don't know, and I can't really say I give a damn. I can dig a den, and make it as cozy for myself, a mate, and our kits, as my old childhood home (hopefully, it will still be standing, but if it isn't, nothing more than a sentimental loss). I guess we'll find out soon enough. I hope I haven't bored you silly with my ramblings. I hope that I have given you some insight as to what has led us Furries to these extremes. I hope you learned something.

V
To Whom it May Concern:

Consider this the last Will and Testament of Wesley Evers II, of sound body and (reasonably) sound mind. If you're reading this, then you have also discovered the library of the Evers family. To you, I bequeath its knowledge, more precious than gold or silver. It is yours, for better... or worse. That's strictly up to you, whomever you may be.

P.S. I have been waiting for you... or Eternity.