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If only I owned a dictionary. If I did I'd probably open it on the page for 'stunning' and see a picture of the vixen. And if I opened it on the page for 'gross' I'd see a picture of the hippopotamus in the hotel suite with her.

She looks good no matter what she's wearing, her hourglass body covered in russet and white fur and long, curled red hair reaching to just below her shoulders. And she isn't wearing much beyond her strappy high heeled sandals, thigh high black stockings and a provocative expression. The hippo had already ripped off her elegant black dress and left it in a formless puddle somewhere out of sight as he settles between her thighs.

He's surprisingly small for a hippo. I'm pretty sure I'm probably bigger, and I'm not thinking it out of some kind of jealousy over where he gets to stick his dick. I'm just making a surprising observation... but yeah, I'm a little jealous.

He struggles to get it in her, like he's out of practice or something. Or maybe it's his stomach that's in the way. I'm actually starting to lose my mood and sigh wondering when this awkwardness will pass. But the vixen is encouraging. I can't hear what she's saying, but her lips are smiling as they move and eventually she reaches down and helps him in.

He's not gentle and slams forward, making the vixen rock back against the hotel bed quite violently. She takes it though, like she's had plenty of practice. Her long elegant legs stick up in the air with unmatched dexterity and she starts rocking back and forth against his fitful motions. She's got her muzzle tipped away from where he buries his fat nose in her neck, and still she's smiling and moaning and pawing desperately at the sheets.

She's so good in every way. And not just a looker, but an actress to the core. Her orgasm is fake, despite being so convincing. She has it all down, her toes curling and her legs trembling, her lean back lifting off the bed. Her rapturous expression is flawless and her moans are probably the stuff of operatic legend.

But it's a fake orgasm. Most guys can tell based on little details; but what gives it away tonight is the hippo's rhythmless convulsions for about six seconds before stiffening and spilling inside her. No woman cums in six seconds flat without some sort of mechanical intervention.

The hippo pulls out tired and spent and the vixen is probably not even wet yet... I'm wet though, but not because of the show.

It's raining out, of this I am painfully aware as I'm struggling against wind and water to hold a sodden piece of cardboard over myself. Anything to try and keep my camera dry.

Perched on a rooftop, unseen in the night I peer across at the hotel room, wondering why the hell a man would cheat on a perfectly attractive and loving wife. And while doing so, I also wonder why he wouldn't at least close the hotel room curtains.

The answer hits me like the gust of wind that tears the makeshift umbrella from my hand. The guy's a fucking idiot.

Maybe I'm just as much an idiot. I used to be something. 'Commander Wulf' they used to call me. Then the days for violent predators passed and I became 'Officer Wulf.' Now I'm just 'Wulf.' Private dick... hah! Private 'dickhead' more like.

It's hard to spend your nights on a rain-soaked rooftop spying on a guy fucking an expensive whore that you couldn't afford in a dozen lifetimes and feel particularly good about your career path. Still, I'm being paid for a job, so it's a job I do. I may not have riches, but I got my principles.

Resisting the timber wolf instinct to join into the howl rippling its way spontaneously across Zootopia, I finger the camera controls and snap some high definition peep-shots through a telescopic lens; easily the most expensive thing I own. This camera has seen nearly a hundred cases since I started my very own private investigation venture. Back in the day I'd always thought it would be a good job, filled with intrigue and adventure.

A hundred cases later I'm starting to see a disturbing trend. It always starts with a tearful woman stumbling into my office with a tale of her husband's secretive late-night ventures. Then a few days later I call her back in to show off a few pictures of the scumbag stepping out on her.

My latest case is no different, aside from the money being offered. I'm a sucker for a crying broad and generally tend to under-charge. Darla Kinkaid refused to let me spend my time for cheap though. She was willing to double my 'sucker for a pretty face' rate, so long as I could bring her the truth, no matter how painful.

This one's gonna hurt me, I can tell. Lowering the camera I think of poor Darla for a second. She hadn't cried in my office, but I can sense what will next time I call her in to settle the ledger. A handsome woman for her age, she's also a decent sort of woman. Not born into the aristocracy like her husband, she has a very pleasant middle-class sort of herbivore nature. Friendly, polite, always seeming to look out for others.

A hind heart you can judge with just one look into her honest eyes... a heart that just feels wrong the break.

And unfortunately her sort are always the ones taken advantage of by unfaithful spouses. I'd seen it a thousand times before, and tonight the natural order of things seemed to hold.

With a twist of my lens I zoom in for the close-up and trigger the shutter again. The DSL vibrates in my hand and clicks audibly, and in a moment of blackness obscuring the viewfinder the image is burned into the digital realm of an SD-card.

The vixen has squatted down and takes the married man into her hot muzzle. She gives him the tender loving care of a practiced professional. His seed is still leaking from her furry quim and staining the carpet as her practiced tongue gets him hard again. It takes some effort and a few moments I catch a frustrated flicker in the fox's eyes. She's obviously worked with some stubborn dicks in her time, but this one was clearly wearing her patience thin.

To his credit, with his hands pawing at her hair and his hips rolling to fuck her mouth for a few long thrusts, the hippo is hard again. The vixen straightens and leads him by his rigid erection towards the window.

Legs spread, her heels pointed outward slightly she bends over like a good girl, grabbing a hold of the windowsill for support. Usually a prostitute would have said their good-bye's by now, but clearly this lady is feeling sorry for the guy. She's probably fishing for a good review, so she's making sure he gets his money's worth.

The hippo grabs her by the hips and with much less floundering than before manages to find her opening and slides his length into her cunny with relative ease. No longer crushed by his weight into the bed anymore, the vixen seems a lot more comfortable.

She's biting her lip, stretching out and singing sweet songs over her shoulder at him. Once again, it's a good act. The subtle sigh and sarcastic roll of her eyes every time he spanks her or thrusts a little harder than before gives the sweet lies away.

He's picked up the pace compared to before and the show lasts longer than a few seconds.

Sixty seconds later it's all over... again. Frankly the undressing had taken longer than anything else in this affair.

No point hanging around. I got what I came for, and then some. I keep my camera protectively under my trenchcoat, hide the erection the vixen's performance gave me and I make my way back to the street.

I love Zootopia at night. Sometimes I walk or stand in the neon lit rain getting soaked to the bone just for the sake of it. Just for fun I'll narrate to myself, pretend I'm in a noir movie.

But life isn't a damn movie. There's no script. There's no happy ending. We live, we suffer and we die. And sometimes the lucky few of us find something or someone that makes life worth seeing through to the bitter end.

Darla had found that someone. And that very someone just dashed her hopes, her dreams and shat on the very soul she'd handed to him in the ultimate test of trust, love and loyalty.

... fuck, I'm bleak tonight.

Still, I love this city. I'm soaked through but I don't care. I take my time. And eventually I turn the corner to my home. It's a run-down apartment block. Nothing too fancy, but at the same time I've never heard my neighbours complain it was too shabby. It suits me fine. I've got central heating, running water and electricity. It's good enough.

Just wish the front door lock wouldn't stick so much. I twiddle the key as usual and she lets go, letting me in with a sigh of the hinges. I'll let the superintendent know the lock needs looking at again in the morning.

I lock up behind me and go through the motions. My camera, still dry by some miracle goes next to my laptop. I hang my coat and fedora out to dry and trail a long puddle to the bathroom. The intention is for a hot shower followed by a cold beer and a late night movie - but I stop with my hand on the bathroom door.

Something is off. My nose twitches and ears flex, straining to pick up sound. There is none, bar the patter of rain on the window and the creak of an old building's structure. There's a familiar copper tinge to the air. A smell that brings up all sorts of memories out of the dark place I like to keep drowned in alcohol and mind-numbing Netflix Originals.

It's the smell of death. And it's oddly garnished with rose scented massage oil.

Standing in the doorway to my bedroom I look at something I never thought I'd see. Darla is in my bed.

She's not your average hippopotamus. She's got the right proportions, a large rounded snout that's quite cute in its own way and bright honest eyes. She's fit too, with a typically thick but voluptuous curviness to her body. Her belly fat is pretty much minimal, and made somewhat proportionate by her wide hips and large breasts.

She's laying back, sprawled in a relaxed sleeping pose, clad in nothing but the faint shimmer of slick oils and crimson lingerie that stands out on her glistening blue-grey skin. My room is decorated with rose petals, an empty bottle of red wine and a half-eaten box of chocolates.

Her lingerie barely covers her body, most of the attire is translucent and the bra in particular seems only fit to push up her already plump bosoms. Her perky nipples stand upright and hard in the cool breeze rolling through the cracked window, and I'm staring at my naked client a little longer that I should.

My eyes are fixated on those inviting mounds of hers, and my stupid fucking brain is too slow to realise her breasts aren't moving like they're supposed to.

Wide eyed I rush closer and finally realise those aren't rose petals decorating my bed. There's a broad gushing pattern of blood splatter spread out to one side, originating from Darla's throat which is brutally ripped from her flesh. A large chunk of meat is missing, no doubt swallowed by the predator whose DNA is no doubt filling the used condom draped over Darla's bare thigh.

This is not the first time I've seen, smelt and touched death. There was my time in the army... it's a gaping darkness, and I refuse to let it swallow me up again. I fight my way back to the light and hang my head sadly.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry." My hand moves automatically to caringly close her dead eyes. "I'll find who did this."

Zootopia's finest seemed intent on doing the same. The flash of blue and red on my window draws me away from the bed. Looking down I see the street out front is choked by three squad cars, their lights flashing and occupants rushing the front door with weapons drawn.

That was quick. Damn quick.

My blood runs cold. Too quick. This is no mere random murder. No, this is a message to me personally by some dark and unseen force. A herbivore laying half-naked, her throat ripped out in the bed of a predator? That automatically looks worse than bad. This is a set up, and I'm hanging around like the coppers wanna come up for tea and scones.

I refrain a curse out of respect for Darla, but I can pay her corpse no more attention. It's her memory I have to try and honour now, and I won't be able to do that from the wrong side of an interrogation table.

So, I run. I'm not proud of the split-second decision fate threw me. Innocent people don't run. That is abundantly clear to me even as I pound feet up the stairs to the roof access. But someone killed an innocent woman and put her in my bed. That's not a simple thing. There's effort involved. Premeditation. And if they put the effort into placing Darla in my home, they would have gone through with the next step of either paying off Zootopia PD, or fabricating enough evidence to stich me up good.

I've stumbled headlong into something I don't understand, and I'll never learn any truths if the police catch me.

The roof is not the escape I had originally envisaged. Twenty stories up with a dilapidated fire escape not quite reaching the top floor limits my options drastically. But it's not all bad. The next door building is not that far away. Just about a dozen metre jump straight across over a fall from which there would be no return.

Fate throws me another decision. Surrender or broken bones?

The dark place reminds me; bones heal. So, I jump.

I take a run at it and leap into the air. Raindrops find my eyes and sting, but I blink it away and through the blur spot the fire escape of the opposite building rushing up to meet me. It wraps me into an embrace of pure pain as my chest slams into the handrail. My lungs explode with a wheezing groan and my limbs go numb. There's no purchase on the metal and I slip, falling back.

A dozen metres spiral all around. The world is spinning. There's no sense of up and down. My shoulder slams into something hard, and I feel a sucking pop. One second my arm is out of its socket, the next my tendons pull and it's painfully yanked back into place again.

My hand finds the metal rung of... something. I don't know if it's a handrail or a ladder, but it hardly matters. I clamp on hard and arrest my fall with a sharp tug. I'm swinging about, crashing into stuff. Rough bricks tear my knees through my pants. Both my shoulders are nearly torn free and there's a fire in my chest.

My fingers, slick with rain, go weak again and I'm plummeting one last time before slamming into the lid of a dumpster with a sense of finality.

Ringing explodes in my ears, and my head is spinning, but thankfully there's pain. Pain is good. Pain means I'm alive. My shoulder, though only momentarily dislocated, hurts and feels like it will never be the same again. My chest feels broken, shattered even.

But I'm alive, and unsteadily I roll off the dumpster and into a puddle. I find my feet and stumble out of the alley. The police cars still choke the street, a few officers Zootopia's Precinct-One manning the radios. The others are searching the building.

They're be looking for me. But they won't find me.

I've gone to the dark place. Willingly. The memories of my army days resurface. And with them my training. With them, my true nature. The nature of a predator.

I go hunting.

###

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