FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Gunther sat on the porch of their cabin and looked at the City far on the other side of the bay. It was a blistering neon boil under the moonlit sky, swollen up on a strip of land protruding into the ocean, and he had thought it was his home for over a decade. He would not return there in his lifetime.

"Good riddance," he muttered and took a swig from his long necked beer. "Learn to swim," he continued, humming a song that he remembered liking.

Their cabin was located on a fairly steep hillside overgrown with trees, the terrain too difficult for developing and the location too rural for tourists, which had suited Gunther's and Vincent's needs perfectly. Martin had arranged to rent it discreetly and seen that they got there safely after Vincent was strong enough to be dispatched from the clinic. He had promised to pay them a visit but had failed to do so for months, which made Gunther relieved despite being truly grateful for everything he had done for them.

It was a simple wooden hut with no running water and a generator for electricity, but during the last month of their stay Gunther had grown fond of it. Every Saturday he made the half hour hike down a path to get to the road, and hitched a ride to a nearby gas station to get supplies. It had made him appreciate the small things in life, like the bottle of beer he had in his hand. Knowing that getting another one would take hours put things in perspective.

He wondered if anyone in the City was looking out from the window of their old apartment and saw him without knowing it, their gazes crossing each other in an imaginary spot over the sea. The thought did not bother him. No one was here to watch them, and he liked it that way. He was wearing a pink tank top that was a bit too loose for him and showed a peek of his nipples, and cyan short shorts that were a bit too tight for him, his muscular thighs straining against the cloth. He leaned back and enjoyed the balmy summer's night, listening to the rustling of small animals in the woods, and let his mind tune in on a channel of empty static.

His reverie was interrupted by a loud thud coming from inside the cabin. He sighed and got up to see what was happening. Inside he found Vincent laying on the floor cursing, and clinging on a chair to help himself up. His entire left leg was sleek and black polycarbonate, lightweight and powerful looking like high end sports gear, filigreed with a hexagonal pattern and a manufacturer's logo that glimmered in the light with iridescent beetle colors. He was otherwise naked, not even wearing his prosthetic arm, and Gunther took in the sight of his body. He had lost some muscle definition, but there was still strength rippling under his silky black fur as he twisted and turned. There were scars on his left side that would never heal over, as well as on his cheekbone and the corner of his eye. He had metal studs from implants on his back, near his shoulder blade and pelvis, and his arm stump ended in expensive looking circuitry.

"You walked too fast again, love," Gunther said as he scooped him up like a child.

"No I didn't. The floor's wonky," Vincent replied surly. "Like everything else in this dump."

"Why aren't you wearing your arm?" Gunther asked with a gentle tone as he helped Vincent to sit on a ratty easy chair that smelled of mothballs and old TV shows.

"It weirds me out. It feels like a spider," Vincent said and gave his arm a glum look under his brows. "It does things I want, but it doesn't feel like a part of me. It moves on its own."

"It's like a pair of new shoes, you'll get used to it," the dog replied.

"I don't touch myself or wipe my ass with my shoes," Vincent muttered. His eyes wandered over to the table, where his vape was charging. Gunther followed his gaze and despite a frown of disapproval got up and fetched the device for him. It was an off-brand knockoff, and it felt light and cheap in the hand but he knew Vincent cherished it like his most precious possession. The cat muttered a terse "thanks" and took a long drag from the cigarette. His face relaxed as he exhaled the smoke until a wince came over his features.

"Ugh... next time can't you get the shop to order some good menthol refills? I hate that cheap crap they're selling."

"Or maybe you could try to quit," Gunther replied and took a sip from his bottle.

"Hey, fuck you. I never say anything about your beer money," Vincent shot back. "And besides, every man is entitled to one vice."

"You have more than one vice."

"Says the sodomite."

They looked at each other in the poorly-lit room, Gunther trying to make out the thoughts hidden behind the glint in Vincent's yellow eyes. Then their smiles synced and Gunther sat down on the floor next to Vincent.

"You're right, maybe we could use some vice right now..." he said. His hand put the bottle down and gently stroked the cat's artificial leg up and down. The material was sleek and cool under his fingertips, and it even slightly gave way to the touch in imitation of real flesh.

"How does it feel?" he asked, his eyes glancing upwards towards Vincent's.

"It's... ok," he said and shuffled in his seat. "I guess when you touch it it sends an electrical signal to my brain to tell me someone is caressing my skin."

"But it's not like the real thing, is it?"

"Nah..." Vincent sighed, his chest falling a bit.

"How about this then?" Gunther grinned. He moved his hand up the leg, from the knee to the thigh, and grasped the cat's cock between his fingers. Vincent's member was smooth and hairless, and unlike Gunther's own dick it was not hidden inside a sheath. It had looked weird and exotic when Gunther had first seen it but now he loved how it flopped in the open when his lover wasn't wearing clothes.

"Mmph... Not sure I'm in the mood..." Vincent pouted and averted his eyes.

"I'll put you in the mood," Gunther said and began stroking Vincent's shaft.

Vincent gave the dog an annoyed glare and took another drag from his vape, as if considering his response. The tip of his tail tapped against the wooden floor but almost despite him, his thick member came to life in Gunther's hand. The rottweiler pulled the feline's foreskin up and down, exposing and hiding the sensitive flesh at the tip of his friend's manhood until Vincent throbbed in his palm.

"You still want me to stop?" he said, the erection a few inches from his nose.

"I never said you should stop," Vincent said, smoke curling up from his lips as he exhaled.

Gunther squeezed Vincent and a single bead of precum leaked out of him and ran down his tip. He looked at it for a few seconds as it dribbled closer to his hand and then lapped it up with a quick flick of his tongue.

Vincent's eyebrows rose in surprise but when Gunther took another lap at his cock he sank deeper into the chair and let his arms hang limply by the sides until his knuckles almost touched the floor. The dog was going at it clumsily, sometimes licking and stroking the cock and sometimes putting it in his mouth like he wasn't sure how best to tackle the job, but Vincent obviously enjoyed the attention, and his cock twitched every time Gunther's tongue brushed his tip.

For several minutes the only sounds in the room were the occasional squeaking of the chair and the wet slobbering sounds of kissing and licking. Precum and drool dribbled from Gunther's lips and pooled on Vincent's testicles, but eventually the dog realized he would not finish the job with his tongue alone. He began to stroke the shaft energetically and focused his drooling attention on the cockhead until Vincent let out a loud sigh and cum erupted all over Gunther's snout. The first rope took the dog by surprise and landed on the bridge of his nose but he directed the next one towards his mouth and was rewarded with two splashes of hot seed on his chin and lips.

Vincent let his vape slip through his fingers and looked down upon his spent cock and Gunther's face. Without taking the time to lick the semen off his lips Gunther removed his swollen cock from his shorts, grabbed Vincent's artificial leg and began to vigorously stroke himself while rubbing his tip against the cat's calf. Before long Vincent felt something hot and wet drip down the smooth synthetic surface.

They remained sitting for some time before either of them felt the need to say something. Above them a few moths fluttered quietly around the bare light bulb that hung from the ceiling. One of them wandered close to Vincent's face and he flicked it away with the back of his hand.

"Not bad for an amateur. Although with all the head I gave you you should be a pro by now."

Gunther made a noise between grunt and murmur like an agreeable beast, and slouched down to nuzzle Vincent's artificial leg. He gave it little kisses, tasting its faint vinyl scent, then licked his own cum lovingly and smeared it with his tongue across the leg's shiny surface.

"See?" he said and looked up to meet Vincent's eyes. "It doesn't matter that the feeling is not like the real thing. It still tells you that I love you."

"You weirdo," Vincent replied, his half flaccid cock hanging between his legs filling Gunther's field of vision. A thin strand of clear slime dripped from its tip and onto the chair's coarse upholstery.

"I'd love you even if all parts of you were artificial," Gunther said and rested his cheek on his polycarbonate thigh. It felt cold like snake skin.

"You double weirdo," Vincent smiled and shrugged him off his leg, only to slide down to lay on top of him on the floor. "Hold me," he whispered quietly. "As tight as you can," he added with a barely audible voice.

Gunther shifted Vincent to hug him from behind, one meaty arm slung around his midriff and the other under his armpit, taking a hold of Vincent's head. He slid his legs between his, entangling their ankles, and pulled him tightly against his chest. His still erect cock pressed against the small of Vincent's back, and when he probed Vincent's pucker with its red tip a short gasp escaped the cat's lips. Gunther laid little kisses on Vincent's neck as he slid his length inside him, only his knot giving some resistance until it plopped in the pleasantly stretched out asshole like a piston into a socket.

Vincent let out a warbling sigh and closed his eyes, letting Gunther complete their organic coupling. The rottweiler did not start thrusting into him, but was content to stay hard and firmly stuck inside him, only moving his cock enough to reignite his erection when he started going soft.

"If anything happens, and I mean anything," Vincent spoke up after a moment in a breathless whisper, "you will let me take the bullet for you. It's the least I can do."

"And waste all the money spent on these prosthetics?" Gunther murmured in his ear and took him tighter in a loving headlock. "Nonsense."

"You could sell me for spare parts." He tried to sound flippant, but his voice cracked midway through.

"No one would want second hand prosthetics smelling of dog cum."

Vincent struggled to turn his head to look over his shoulder until Gunther relented. He was crying, his eyes moonlit pools in the dark light. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"Shh," Gunther hushed him and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Shh shh," he continued to brush his lips over his pink scars and tightened his hold. "Hush now," he whispered and kissed the bridge of Vincent's nose where the tears had pooled up.

Vincent let himself be held, to be made small in the bulky rottweiler's embrace, his breathing ragged and interrupted by sniffles, his aching leg warmed up by his love's body heat. He could feel his heartbeat, against his back and deep inside him, steadfast and strong. Alive.

They laid on the floor for the night, accompanied by moths and noises of unseen animals.

-

Gunther woke up to see Vincent trying to make breakfast. He had managed to boil water for instant coffee, but was struggling to open a tin of canned peaches. He was trying to twist the tin open with his mechanical arm, and as Gunther watched it suddenly made a high pitched squeal of servos and the entire tin crumpled, puncturing and squirting peach slurry and sugar water everywhere. Vincent cursed and shook the gooey mess off his hands angrily.

"Hold on," Gunther said and got up to nab the kitchen towel. He dabbed Vincent's bare chest with it, while the cat stood in place looking impatient and frustrated.

"I figured it out," Vincent said furrowing his brows.

Gunther glanced at the ruined tin in the kitchen sink. "That's one way to put it."

"What? No, not the breakfast. Listen: The reason I'm going crazy is because I'm cooped up here, being useless."

"I wouldn't say that. I can think of lots of fun uses for you..."

"Money, Gunther. I need to go out there and make money for us. We can't expect Martin to pay our bills forever just out of the kindness of his heart."

Gunther froze, leaving the towel hovering in mid motion before hurrying to continue cleaning up Vincent. "I'm sure that he has his reasons..."

"Nobody does anything for nothing unless they are mad or a saint. There must be a hidden catch. Maybe he expects us to do jobs for him?"

"Maybe. Anyhow, what would you do? You think the guy at the gas station needs a hitman or bodyguard?" Gunther said and wiped his hands with the towel.

Vincent frowned, as if considering an unexpected problem. "I'm the best of the best. Surely I'll find..."

"No one here has any money to hire you, unless they pay in chicken and rice."

"Then fucking tell me what I should do," Vincent snapped. He turned away from Gunther, extended his prosthetic arm towards the pot of boiling water but recoiled at the last second and switched to his other hand. He poured himself a cup and turned towards the window, where he stared out through the dirty glass at the landscape of trees and lush weeds.

"Gunther, I know that place suits you," Vincent said after taking a sip, "And that's fine. Maybe we needed a change of air. But this can't be our life. What will I do? Stay at home and cook and do laundry while you work in the fields? I'm a creature of the city. I need to be in the thick of the action."

Gunther sighed. He always knew this conversation would happen but part of him had hoped that it wouldn't, that somehow if the topic could be avoided for another day or another week the problem would shrivel and die on its own.

"Listen. We can't go back, it's too dangerous," he said, "But I'll speak to Martin. Maybe soon things will cool down sufficiently for us to come out of hiding and move to a different place. Some place where we can work and get back on our feet again. Just be patient."

Vincent turned to face him, his good hand still holding the coffee mug, and for a split second Gunther thought the cat was about to toss its contents right at him. But there was more weariness than anger in Vincent's eyes.

"Alright then. But that better not be bullshit." He gulped down the rest of his coffee, made a grimace when he swallowed the sediments at the bottom of the mug and shrugged.

"I'd love some scrambled eggs. In the meantime I'll go take a shower." He put the mug in the sink and walked towards the door, removing his mechanical arm as he went. Gunther followed him with his eyes, filled his own mug with coffee and waited until he heard the sound of splashing water outside. He walked to the window and took a sneak peek at the bathing Vincent. The cat was sitting on a plastic chair on a bare patch of concrete right outside their front door, his artificial leg resting beside him. Gunther waited until Vincent aimed the shower head at his back and admired the way the flowing water made his black fur sleek and shiny.

All good things must come to an end, he mused and went back to the kitchen. He tried to think of where "some place" might be as he cooked the eggs. There were other cities where the two of them could work, perhaps in security. They'd never enjoy the same lifestyle and money as Vincent was used to but compromises went both ways. Besides, the question was moot until they could be sure their pursuers had given up.

"It'll be alright," he told himself as he poured the eggs into two plates, "They're business people. At some point they'll get tired of paying someone to work on our case full-time."

-

"You just need to give me some time. He's alive, I know it."

Janice was sitting on the edge of her bed, the phone tightly clutched in her hand. Her third eyelid slid over emerald-green eyes as the person on the other end of the line spoke.

"That death certificate proves nothing. Any idiot can buy one," she hissed, "You're just looking for an excuse to give up, aren't you?"

Leathery lips bared to reveal a row of small, sharp teeth.

"I don't care if that goat knew people. Anyone plays smart with me I'll rough them up, and that includes you... No, you're not firing me, I'm going on a sabbatical."

She hung up and rose.

-

Janice had no particular fondness for violence, but she loved the hunt. Stalking her prey made her blood stir, and she savored the growing fear in the mark's chest and the subtle but noticeable fastening of their heartbeat when she would finally make her presence known. What unpleasantness followed afterwards was simply business. She did not mind getting blood on her hands, but she considered it with the same passionless disinterest as taking out the trash.

Except Vincent.

Despite her being superior to him in every way imaginable he refused to be prey, and the thought irritated her. She wanted to smash that smug grin of his into a pulp with her bare fists, and the thought aroused her. He made her restless in all the wrong ways, living rent free in her head even as a ghost, and the only way to banish him was to witness his mangled body with her own eyes. If she had to kill him to make that happen then that was just a perk of the job.

She stepped into the mouldering men's room frequented by junkies, standing alone on the corner of an abandoned lot, illuminated by a single streetlight's haze of sodium vapor light and sweating concrete moisture and mildew in the heat of the night. Inside fluorescent bulbs flickered on the toilet green tiling as she walked past stalls in various stages of disrepair, accompanied only by the occasional crunch under her combat boots as she stepped on shards of glass and worse. Her biker leather creaked a little when she stepped in view of a man waiting for her impatiently at the far end.

He was a young German shepherd wearing the metropolitan police force uniform, sweat trickling under his body armor despite wearing a short sleeved shirt. He wrinkled his nose at the urine stench and tapped his foot with a rapid staccato.

"Finally you're here! What took you so long?" he said, looking past her nervously.

"What did you find for me?" she said coolly.

"Well...I think I might have a lead." He fished around in one of the pouches on his vest and produced a handful of pictures. "Vincent's trail-"

"No names." She spoke with the faintest of growls, letting it linger in the silence between them.

"Ah, of course. So. The person of interest's trail goes cold after his death certificate, and while the doc who signed it received large sums of money during that time, they are from an untraceable source. However, I found footage of the P.O.I. 's buddy hanging out with someone in the surveillance cameras."

He handed the pictures to Janice. They were stills from a video showing the bulky Rottweiler named Gunther walking together with a dainty looking borzoi.

"He doesn't look like his type, so that caught my attention." The dog looked pleased with his cleverness, but when Janice did not acknowledge it he continued. "So I did some digging around. The guy's called Martin Wi?niewski, an independent fixer that is suspected to be involved in several high profile murder cases. As to why we haven't nabbed him...well, he's not affiliated with any of the families, so I think that the higher ups just like having an usual suspect like him around in case they need a fall guy."

The police dog grinned after finishing. "Pretty good work, isn't it? I think it deserves a bonus."

"Good work." Janice stashed the pictures in her jacket pocket. "Come over here."

"Wha-" he started, but she grabbed a hold of him with practiced ease and snapped his neck in one swift motion. He looked at her wide eyed from the sudden shock of realization, smothered in the lethal embrace of her firm arms, and rapidly fell slack as life petered out from his body.

"Nothing personal," Janice whispered with a raspy voice in his ear, and then stashed his limp corpse in a grimy bathroom stall. "Right now I got a cash flow problem, that's all."

Sabbaticals, she scoffed as she walked out without a particular hurry. Not good for anyone.

Outside she sniffed the night air. It smelled of heavy fuel oil, street food grease, and the unwashed bodies of the millions living in the City. And hiding somewhere among all those scents was one belonging to a borzoi. She bet that he would smell nice. He would smell of fear.

Janice mounted her bike and merged into the night, parting the traffic like a shark parting the water.

-

The wooden spoon moved in erratic circles, mixing the crushed garlic and chopped onions into the warm tomato sauce.

"That's it, stir slowly and don't let it stick. Don't overthink it, just follow the flow."

Vincent frowned in concentration as Gunther held his wrist and guided his mechanical hand. Their marinara sauce wouldn't win any cooking awards but it served the double purpose of providing muscular exercise for Vincent and a relief from their daily routine.

Gunther kissed the back of Vincent's head and let his jaw rest on his shoulder. "It already smells great," he added as encouragement.

"It better be good," Vincent said and added a pinch of dried herbs, "If I see another can of tinned spaghetti and meatballs I'm going to be sick."

The cat was wearing a well-worn apron and not much else. The dress code inside the house had slackened considerably over the past few weeks but now as he hugged his lover from behind Gunther didn't mind it at all.

"Did you check the pasta?" he asked.

Vincent plunged a fork into the pot in which the spaghetti was cooking and wrapped some pasta around it. "Almost done," he said after taking a bite.

"And what's for dessert?" Gunther whispered and slipped two fingers between the panther's buttcheeks.

"Goodness!" Vincent gasped, "I'll ask you to wash your hands before dinner."

The phone rang just as Gunther opened his mouth to respond.

Both men froze and stared at the vibrating phone on the kitchen table. The device kept ringing so they exchanged a glance and Gunther looked at the screen cautiously.

"It's Martin's number," he said and picked up with a mixture of relief and reluctance.

"Hullo? Hey, long time no talk. How's it going?" he answered in a tone that was just a bit too cheerful. "Yes, he's still with me and making a good recovery," he added and turned his head towards Vincent, "I really want to thank you again for..."

His smile dropped mid-sentence. "Yeah, it's a good idea, we should catch up. What? You mean... No, I'm not super busy right now but..."

The rottweiler bolted from the kitchen, leaving the stunned Vincent behind. "Listen," he hushed as he crossed their small living room at a brisk pace, the phone glued to his ear, "Now's not a good time. He's literally next to me... Of course I enjoyed the fun we had together, but it's different now. What would I tell him?"

There were steps coming fast behind him, half the soft patter of bare skin and half the thudding tempo of something inorganic. He crossed the threshold of their front door and walked straight ahead, trampling the mud and damp grass. "I think we should leave this thing behind us. I don't want him to ever find out... Yes, I'm very grateful for everything you've done and all the risks you've taken. Please, please, PLEASE understand..."

He cast a panicked eye over his shoulder and saw Vincent emerge on the porch. He walked faster, going round the house. "All right, all right. Tomorrow morning at the station is fine but we'll have to make it quick... Yes, I'll be there, trust me. And don't call again unless I tell you it's safe."

He hung up just as Vincent rounded the corner. The cat was holding the pot of sauce in his left hand and clutching his crumpled apron in the other. "What the fuck was that?" he asked, "What's wrong?"

Gunther leaned his shoulder against the rough planks of the wall and thought about how nice it would feel to collapse against them with a weary sigh right now. "Nothing's wrong. Let's get back inside before you ruin the sauce."

--

Martin stared at the end call notification on the screen for a breath or two, then put down his phone with a trembling hand.

"Very good, very good..." a voice hissed in his ear. "You sounded a little awkward maybe, but I bet someone like you always sounds awkward."

"Please..." he said without moving a muscle on his face, "I did what you asked..."

"That you did," Janice chuckled and ran her knife down his cheek, cutting a few strands of the borzoi's silky hair, "But you're not getting away so easily. You're coming with me to that rendezvous, and after we catch your friend with his pants down you will show me exactly where the other one is hiding. And if I find out he's not there or you tried to play a trick on me... Let's just say it's fascinating how long it can take for someone to die. Are we clear on that?"

Martin nodded and a tear rolled down the corner of his eye.

-

The next morning Gunther shrugged a jacket on his shoulders and shut the cabin door quietly as he left. The weather was still stifling and the ratty camo jacket was already causing sweat to trickle down his back and soak into his sleeveless t-shirt, but he felt the need to have something between his body and the eyes of others. Better hot than cold, he muttered to himself, remembering the kind of folksy nonsense his father was fond of saying. He would not approve of any of what Gunther was about to do. Maybe he should've listened to him.

He and Vincent had fought last night, the first time after the attack. Vincent could guess that he was holding secrets from him, and he did not like it at all. It had been stupid and they had said things to each other that neither of them meant, and it had opened up wounds that had barely started to heal over. Gunther sighed and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. Vincent would not understand the sacrifices he was making for them, so he could not explain himself to him. And his silence made the cat feel weak and powerless and angry. Like a cripple.

Suddenly his boot slipped on the steep mountain path, snapping him out of his thoughts and making him scrabble around to keep his footing, and grasp nearby trees for support. The rough bark hurt the palm of his hands, but he steadied himself and looked back at the cottage. Vincent had not risen from the bed to watch him leave and had just burrowed deeper under the blanket. Gunther could not tell whether that made him relieved or not. He wiped his hands clean and squared his shoulders, then disappeared down the rocky path.

For a while the cabin stood silent as the sun's rays dissipated the morning fog lingering about it, but then someone inside moved the curtains for a cautious look. A little later Vincent appeared on the front porch, wearing shorts and a windbreaker. He pulled up the hood and put on a pair of large sunglasses, then sat down to slip his feet into running shoes, tightened the shoelaces, and got up. He did a couple of skips to warm up, his cybernetic leg matching his motions perfectly, and jogged across the yard and down into the forest after Gunther. Unlike Gunther he had no trouble keeping his balance on the path, skipping over wet stones and past gnarled roots with feline agility, his face expressing only silent determination. There was little point to smile, because there would be no witnesses to his hunt.

-

The ramshackle gas station squatted by the highway and between vast fields of green wheat. It was a small one man operation held up by cigarettes and stubbornness, selling kerosene good only for storm lanterns and sputtering 2-stroke mopeds. Its windows were dingy and its advertising lights faded, but a pink radio sitting on an upturned plastic crate next to the door wailed out upbeat pop tunes to mark the place open for business. Any would rarely come, which suited Gunther just fine. He wiped his brow with the back of his arm, and adjusted his clothing. He realized that for the first time in months he felt naked without a gun, but he swallowed the queasy feeling at the pit of his stomach and held it in.

The store was devoid of customers, but that didn't stop Gunther from looking over his shoulder several times before he headed to the tiny aisle that held the hygiene products and grabbed two boxes of condoms--one extra large size and one small--and a tube of lubricant. The booze section of the shop had no wine but a bottle of locally-made whisky would do just as well for a romantic day out. It was only when he went to the counter to pay for his stuff that he noticed that the owner was not there either. The small fan that provided some ventilation and white noise to the store was still on, and from the half-empty soda bottle that adorned the counter Gunther judged that the man could not have been long gone. He craned his neck to look into the storage room at the rear but the yellow-toothed, perpetually twitchy muntjac that had become a familiar face over the past few weeks was nowhere to be seen. Gunther was still debating whether or not to go look for him when the loud ding of someone opening the front door sent him scrambling to cover his embarrassing purchases with a magazine.

"Hey, watcha doing?"

Gunther recognized the voice before he turned his head to seek out its owner. Martin was waving at him from the doorway, the sun at his back and his silk shirt clinging wetly to his thin frame in the late morning heat.

"Oh, hi!" Gunther smiled and waved back with the hand that held the magazine, "I wasn't sure when you'd show up."

"I'll never be late for you, dear," the borzoi chuckled and shuffled his feet without stepping inside, "Are you alone? Is Vincent at the cabin?"

"Why, yes of course. Why would he come?" Gunther replied and raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing, don't worry," Martin muttered, "But come and let's have some fun!"

With that the borzoi vanished out of sight. Gunther opened his mouth to tell him to wait then shrugged, rummaged through his pocket and tossed a bill on the counter before following after Martin. He squinted in the strong sunlight and saw that his friend was waiting for him in the middle of the small concrete parking lot that stood in front of the station. Martin fidgeted with a lock of his hair and motioned Gunther to come.

"Where are we going? Where's your car?" the rottweiler asked as he walked, the bottle of cheap hooch still clutched in his hand.

"Oh... I took a taxi and sent it back. I thought we could do it here."

Gunther stopped a few steps away from him. "What? Here? You mean in the middle of the fields? I thought we'd go somewhere more private."

Martin shuffled again and pulled the lock of hair in front of his mouth, avoiding eye contact with Gunther. With his crumpled pink shirt and stiff posture the lean borzoi looked positively like a scarecrow with a girly sense of fashion. Gunther couldn't remember him being this nervous the first time they went together.

"Come to think of it, I didn't hear a taxi at all. How long have you been here?"

There was only an evasive mumble from Martin. The parking lot was empty, save for the two of them, and something at the back of Gunther's mind told him that he was awfully exposed.

"Martin, did you come here alone?"

The borzoi lifted his head and cast a frightened look past Gunther, like a kid who forgot his line during a school play and was trying to signal to his teacher for help. Without thinking Gunther dropped the bottle and ducked. The bullet missed him by a fraction of a second and a shrill cry pierced his ears as the shot that was meant for him hit Martin instead.

"Fuck!" was all that flashed through Gunther's brain as he instinctively scrambled to get back to his feet in the mess of spilled whisky and glass shards from the broken bottle. The hidden gun spat death again and sparks flew when a bullet hit the concrete next to his hand. He darted towards the cover of the shop's interior, the bullets that whizzed past him no longer aimed but sprayed angrily. Gunther was two steps away from safety when the gun roared once more and a bullet, luckier than the rest, caught him on the shoulder and sent him tumbling through the front door and crashing into a snacks rack.

He made a pained huff and tried to get up, but was stopped by a tearing sensation blazing through his shoulder. Janice--because who else could it be--had used a high powered rifle, but he was not bleeding out. The bullet had lodged itself between his subdermal plating and muscle, deep enough to hurt but stopped just before severing a major artery. Knowing that he would live for now Gunther took stock of his surroundings, looking for anything to use as a weapon, but the most dangerous thing he could see was a carton of cigarettes.

"Hey faggot," he could hear her raspy voice from outside, behind the corner. "Where's your boyfriend? I want to have a couple words with him."

Gunther licked his lips. She did not know he was unarmed. He had to keep her talking so she wouldn't sneak up on him, so he grunted and scooted forwards, and propped himself against the door frame.

"Fuck you!" was the best comeback he could think of at the moment.

"Your borzoi friend is bleeding out, don't you want to help him? Come out with your hands where I can see them."

Gunther glanced out of the doorway. Martin laid there on the concrete in a crumpled up heap, hugging his midriff and moving ever so slightly as he moaned in pain. He could see his pristine white fur becoming stained with the red of blood. Anxiety grasped the pit of Gunther's stomach when he saw how helpless he was.

"Fuck that guy too!" Gunther hoped that Martin was in too much pain to pay attention to him. "I hate him because he made me fuck him! Are you stupid? I don't care what happens to him."

Janice's reply was a crack of the rifle. The tip of Martin's foot exploded in shrapnel of bone and gravel, making him twitch and yelp in pain.

"The next one is aimed at his knee. Come out where I can see you, lover boy, and make it snappy."

Gunther cursed and wiped his sweating face. He had to do something. He scooted forward to lean against the corner and pushed himself on his feet. He had to make a dash for Martin no matter how improbable it was, because he could not watch him getting shot to pieces in front of his eyes.

"Alright you win! Don't shoot me okay? If you do then you'll never find Vincent."

"We'll see about that. Move slowly!"

Gunther peeked around the corner. Janice was crouched on one knee at the back of the yard, where the concrete met the wheat field, aiming an automatic rifle in his direction. He took a deep breath, prepared to sprint, and then noticed movement among the tall stalks of wheat.

Like a shark cutting the waves Vincent emerged from the field, coming for Janice from her side with a low profile. He ran past propane tanks stacked near a gas pump and snatched one in passing, then half threw, half rammed it at her, putting his entire momentum behind the wild swing. It smacked into her with a metallic thud and sent her reeling backwards, and she discharged her rifle harmlessly before it was knocked out of her hands by the pouncing Vincent. Both of them disappeared out of view behind the building.

Gunther ran to the back and saw Vincent and Janice grappling on the ground. He grasped the entire right side of her skull with his cybernetic hand and squeezed as hard as he could, plunging his thumb into her eye. Janice screeched and spasmed like a tightly wound coil snapped in half, grabbed Vincent by the throat, and tore him off her in a spray of blood. She flung him like a rag doll against the back of the shop, where he slammed against an air conditioner with a thud that rattled the entire building and pulled down the machine with him as he slid down into a pile of curses and hisses.

Gunther saw the rifle laying unattended close by and went to pick it up with his good hand.

Janice rose to all fours, snarling and clasping the right side of her face, with blood flowing profusely between her fingers. She looked up when a shadow cast over her, and stared directly into the muzzle of the automatic rifle.

"Seriously, fuck you." Gunther pointed the rifle at her with one arm, and pulled the trigger.

The magazine made an empty click.

A deep, guttural roar rose up from Janice's chest and she burst up, slamming into Gunther and sending him sprawling on his back. She followed by snatching the propane tank and swung it overhead like a toy, and smashed it down on him with all her might. The impact bruised his organs like a sledgehammer kidney punch, and at that moment he knew that without his reinforced flesh his body would have burst open like a ripe fruit.

Vincent had gotten up and launched himself at her again, throwing quick jabs at her like an angry wasp, but she swatted aside his fists with an offhand slap. Trying to punch her was like trying to dent girder iron with bare knuckles.

"Get a car!" Vincent shouted at Gunther while ducking and weaving, keeping her off balance while avoiding her lunges.

Gunther grunted affirmatively and pushed himself up painfully slowly, then lurched forward on unsteady legs. He teetered across the concrete to where Martin laid bleeding and crying, and picked him up in fireman's carry. He howled in pain when he was moved, and so did Gunther, but the rottweiler did not give up. He could feel hot, warm blood trickle down his back and mix with his sweat as he staggered forward and around the other side of the gas station. Martin's car was parked there, an economical if ugly little electric the size of a bucket, but when Gunther tried its door he found it locked.

"Shit!" He looked around tired and scared. "Shit!"

Martin on his shoulders shifted and made a sound between a gurgle and a hiss. "Let me...do it...for you," he exhaled and let his hand fall limply in front of Gunther's eyes, with the car keys dangling from his finger.

Gunther snatched them and stashed Martin on the backseat with far less gentleness than he would have preferred, and got on the driver's seat. He revved up the engine and screeched around the corner again, only to see Vincent and Janice both on the ground. She was holding on to his ankle and had started crawling on him, while he was stomping on her face repeatedly with his free foot.

Gunther pushed the pedal down and sped the car past Vincent, and slammed into Janice in her half crouching position. The fender gave her midriff a glancing blow and sent her careening into the wheat fields, where she tore up clods of dirt as she rolled around.

He rolled down the window. "Get in the car!" he yelled at Vincent, still catching up his breath on the ground.

The cat coughed and limped around the car, then flopped down on the passenger seat dirty and spent. Gunther shifted gears and backed out of the yard, then sped out on the highway as fast as the car's adorable little engine would let him go.

-

Janice stood up, spitting dust and swaying a little, her gaze following Martin's car as it rolled out on the road and to her right until it disappeared from view. Her right eye was pouring out blood and black, coagulated gel, dripping to the ground in a steady trickle. She scrounged around in her jacket pocket and took out a wad of hamburger joint napkins that she rolled into a ball, then jammed it into her eye socket without flinching. Satisfied that the bleeding was stopped, she walked to pick up the rifle and loaded it with a fresh magazine from her other pocket, then swung it over her back.

Her motorbike waited untouched behind the building for her to mount it, her heavy body making the suspension give in a little. It roared into life with just a little twist of the handle, and she paused for a moment to sniff the air. She could no longer see Martin's car, but that did not matter to her. The fear smell was still strong in the air, and that was all she needed to follow them. She twisted the handle again, and the bike thundered on the highway in hot pursuit.

-

Gunther floored the accelerator but the car stubbornly refused to go any faster. The speed controller on the dashboard blinked red to remind him that the road they were driving on had a speed limit of 80 kph and he had to force himself not to smash his fist into the display. Whoever designed the safety features of this dump did not envision a scenario where the driver would be racing for dear life while being chased by a one-eyed monster with a big gun and a taste for mammal blood.

"How's he doing? Is it bad?" he said without taking his eyes off the road.

Vincent lowered his backrest and slipped to the rear seat to inspect the softly moaning Martin. He forcefully removed the hand that clutched the wound and gave a rapid look at the mass of bloodied fur and flesh.

"Looks like the bullet grazed his ribs but did not hit any vitals." He took off his windbreaker and pressed it tightly to the borzoi's wound to stop the bleeding.

"What about his foot?"

"Half-gone," the cat replied, "let's just hope Jimmy has a loyalty program for frequent customers."

Gunther looked over his shoulder and saw Vincent deftly tear off his T-shirt and tie it as a makeshift bandage around the mutilated foot.

"What the fuck was that?" he said. "How come yesterday you needed help taking a piss and today you go kung-fu on that bitch?"

"Must be the adrenaline," Vincent replied without taking his eyes off his work.

"Adrenaline my ass! You've been bullshitting me!"

"No, well, not at the beginning. It really took me a while to get used to the prosthetics, I exercised when you were away."

"God, just to think that I was putting you to bed at night and helping you get dressed in the morning like a big fucking baby. I must have made a fool of myself," Gunther barked and slammed his palm on the steering wheel, triggering another flash of pain in his shoulder.

"But that felt nice," the now bare-chested cat protested, "I felt so bad after what I did to you, and at first I really thought I was going to stay a cripple for the rest of my life. It was so reassuring when you took care of me, I didn't want it to stop, I was afraid of what would happen if you stopped..."

"Christ, you're fucked up in the head..." Gunther muttered and closed his eyes in disbelief. He reopened them just in time to scramble out of the way of an overloaded truck. Martin moaned again when the car lurched and Gunther caught a glimpse of the other driver giving him the finger as the truck passed them by a hair's width of space. He gripped the wheel tighter, really wishing he had a gun right now.

"Well, you should be happy I'm better now, and that I saved us both," Vincent frowned, "And what were you doing with Martin anyhow?"

"None of your fucking business," he muttered. The traffic around them was getting thicker.

"Have you two been fucking behind my back?"

"Did I have a choice? I was doing it for you, to get the money for your surgery."

Vincent remained silent for a handful of seconds, then sprang like a wounded viper. He grabbed Martin by the collar and reached for the handle of the car's door.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Gunther yelled over the shrieks emanating from the borzoi.

"Tossing that little blackmailing piece of shit out of the car," Vincent spat out with bared teeth.

"What? Stop it! Stop it, godammit!"

The rear window exploded in a shower of safety glass that sprayed the inside of the car.

"Shit! She's right behind us," Vincent said and dropped Martin.

Gunther looked over his shoulder and through the gaping hole. Janice was coming towards them, one hand gripping the handle of the bike and the other her gun. The rottweiler swerved the car to the left lane, then to the right again, putting a pickup truck between him and the pursuing bike. She followed them almost leisurely, deftly maneuvering her bike through traffic so as to tail them but denying Gunther any chance of ramming her. Both he and Vincent ducked as another bullet flew and hit the car's hood.

"What the fuck do we do? She's going to shoot us to pieces," Gunther said and gave the wheel another hard turn.

Vincent shook glass shards out of his fur. "She could have killed us already if she wanted to. I think she wants to make it last as long as possible. She enjoys it."

Gunther heard the roar of a mighty engine to his left and turned his head to see Janice less than five meters from the car, close enough that he could see her mangled face in exquisite detail as she held the rifle with her right arm and unhurriedly steadied her aim for a third shot. The front tire exploded with a loud bang and the car began to screech.

Gunther turned the wheel hard with his good hand but the car flew off the highway and down towards the ditch, jumped off a bump in the grass and careened towards a chainlink fence surrounding an abandoned lot by the roadside. When it slammed against the fence the rotten posts holding it up gave away and became uprooted, and the loosened fence slipped over the car like a steel net, shrieking as it scraped across the paintjob. Gunther struggled frantically to gain control as the car slid across the lot, its remaining wheels spinning uselessly in the slick mud, but it came to a sudden stop when the car struck its side into a pile of construction debris with a harsh jolt. Martin wailed when he was sent to the floor by the impact, and stayed whimpering in the gap behind the front and back seats. The car's emergency lights were blinking and its windshield wipers were pushing mud back and forth with a wet sound while Gunther and Vincent clambered out shaken and on unsteady feet. The seat belt had left a friction burn on Gunther's bare neck but they were otherwise unharmed.

They had come to a halt at the loading dock of an old factory, its broken windows staring at them with jagged eyes and its corrugated metal doors left wide open at the mercy of the elements. However, their attention was soon drawn by the low rumble of Janice's bike, and she rolled into view and stopped a couple dozen meters from them, confident and without any intention of hiding her presence.

Gunther stepped forward. "Hey bitch!" he yelled and flipped the bird at her. "You hungry for my cock? Come get some here! I'm going to feed it to you until you choke!"

"What the fuck are you doing?" Vincent hissed at him and grabbed his wrist.

"Getting her attention," Gunther replied with a low voice. "Come, let's hide inside."

Even as they spoke Janice dismounted and started walking towards them with purposeful steps, carrying the gun casually in her arms.

"I'll make you regret those words," she snarled as she approached, her smile slicing her face into a cruel expression. "I'll feed your own dick to you before killing you, and I'll make your boyfriend watch the entire thing."

Instead of exchanging threats, Gunther and Vincent hurried inside, and Janice followed them without paying any attention to the car and the wounded Martin laying inside.

Broken glass crunched under their shoes as they sprinted on the bare concrete, and came to a large, dust covered hall. Once this space had been dominated by large machines, and their hollowed out shells still laid rusting in geometric rows, and the two of them ducked out of sight behind one of them. Flaking paint shedded off the walls and the detritus of time and neglect littered the floor. Local youths had given a half hearted attempt at vandalism here, but even they had lost enthusiasm due to the site's depressing atmosphere.

"What are we going to do?" Gunther asked and tested his wounded shoulder tentatively. It still hurt like hell.

"We fight," was Vincent's tight lipped reply.

"With what?"

"With whatever we have." He glanced at the doorway they had passed through. "Someone must've seen the car crash and called the police. We don't have much time to take her out for good before they arrive."

"You're insane!" Gunther blurted out in disbelief, louder than he had intended. His voice echoed in the cavernous hall.

Vincent shook his head. "No. I'm in love. There's a difference."

Gunther was about to protest but he was stopped by the heavy clunking sound of Janice's bootsteps entering the hall.

"Two million, five hundred and fifty four thousand a year," she listed off in her raspy voice. "That was enough to make me the second highest grossing assassin in the Consortium."

She walked steadily towards their position, and Vincent gestured at Gunther to move to the other side before he shouted back at her.

"I didn't know you were short on cash. All you had to do was to ask nicely and I could've given you some!"

"It's not about the money," she replied flatly. "It's about the high score. I've kept the tally."

"Who the fuck thinks that this is a game to be won!?" Vincent breathed out incredulously.

"I do." She lifted the rifle and fired at Vincent's head peeking behind the machine. The bullet ricocheted off the corner and into the distance, sending out a shower of sparks and flakes of rust.

Vincent drew back for cover and swore under his breath. Janice had not really tried to hit him, a bullet to the head would be too fast, too easy. But he had no doubt that if he tried to rush her she would put a round or two between his eyes. He circled around the machine and raced to the row behind him. As he did so another bullet whizzed playfully past his ears.

"You know why they paid you less?" he shouted, sweat trickling down his back, "Because that's what you were worth. No brains, no subtlety, no finesse. They trusted me with the most challenging stuff because I was a surgeon, you were nothing but a thug with a big hammer."

"Maybe," came the voice, already much closer than Vincent was hoping, "But now that big hammer is about to smash your pretty face."

Vincent wiped the sweat from his eyes and dashed behind another machine. Keep her talking, he thought, draw her deeper into the hall...

Gunther's fingertips traced the cold metal as he slipped from cover to cover with a smoothness that belied his muscular bulk. The knowledge that Vincent was in danger whetted his senses to the point that he could hear his own heartbeats just as distinctly as the heavy stomping of Janice's combat boots. She was more than a match even for him, but her blind eye gave him a fighting chance. He moved in a wide semicircle around her, keeping the carcasses of the dead machines between him and his target and carefully avoiding the broken glass that littered the floor. His eyes fell on a rusty iron bar among the detritus and he picked it up as he moved. It was clumsy and unbalanced but reassuringly heavy. Enough to crack a skull, or so he hoped.

"Come on, is running all you can do? Maybe I'll blast your limbs off one by one so you stay still while I gut your boyfriend."

Another gunshot crackled sharply through the cavernous hall and this time Vincent yelped. Gunther held his breath but the scurrying sound further down the hall told him that the cat was unhurt. Gunther ignored the urge to bullrush the lizard and instead moved slowly and carefully behind Janice, the iron bar gripped tightly at waist level in his good hand. Two more meters, he whispered to himself, his fingers flexing nervously. Already he could see the back of her head. She lifted the rifle to take aim again and he sprang forward, his weapon upraised for a deadly blow. In a flash Janice wheeled round and pointed the gun straight at his face.

"Think I'm that dumb?" she cackled, a malicious joy glinting in her lone eye.

Gunther's mind stopped racing as time seemed to slow down and melt. That's it, I'm dead, he thought matter-of-factly as Janice tightened her finger on the trigger. Then a rock flew through the air and hit her on the side of the head. A glancing blow, but enough to make her shift her aim by a few vital inches. The gun flashed and Gunther felt a burning sensation to the side of his face when the bullet grazed his left ear. Without thinking he brought the iron bar down on Janice with all his strength.

"Fuck!"

She brought up her rifle to parry the attack. Iron bar and rifle muzzle met with a resounding clank of metal that sent a vibration shooting up the rottweiler's arm and made Janice reel. Gunther swung his weapon again in a wide arc and she parried a second time, wood splintering off the ruined gun. Before he could land another blow she hit his arm with the butt of the rifle, making him drop the bar and knocking him back a few feet.

"That's gonna cost you," she hissed, her face screwing into a mask of surprise and rage.

Gunther's peripheral vision registered a dark shape coming extremely fast and the next second Janice was engulfed in a flurry of furious blows and slashes. Vincent had armed himself with a glass bottle and was trying to stab her remaining eye. The glass shards left huge gashes across Janice's face and hands as she raised her arms to protect herself and stumbled backward like a drunk. She began to swing the broken rifle blindly and retreated into the space between two machines, blood pouring down her face, and Vincent had to step back when the club-like butt almost caught him.

"Run," he said and grabbed Gunther by the shoulder.

They ran, with bleeding, snarling Janice in hot pursuit. Without much thought they fled towards the back of the hall, where metal stairs led them to steel walkways hanging over the factory floor. The rusted grating shuddered and creaked under their pounding footsteps, and when they crossed a long stretch perched mid air over the hall a loud snap made the entire walkway sway. To Vincent's surprise Gunther behind him suddenly stopped and turned to face Janice. He braced the railing on both sides and squared his shoulders as he watched her approach.

Janice stopped at the other end of the walkway, and looked at him suspiciously. "What's the matter, pupper, tired of running?"

"Yeah I am," he grunted. "If I have to die then I'd rather die unwinded. Let's get this over with."

"The fuck are you doing!?" Vincent hissed and tried to tug Gunther's arm, but he would not budge.

Janice's torn open face spread into a mirthless grin. "A coward," she said with a throaty chuckle and started walking towards Gunther with a leisurely gait, her heavy boots thudding on the metal grating making the entire walkway shiver and groan.

"A coward taking the easy way out because he's afraid of losing," she continued taunting as she walked closer. "You like what you see, Vincent? This is what you threw everything away for. A coward and a weakling. Does it upset you, Vincent?"

"I'm going to show him something all right," Gunther muttered and slammed his foot on the grating as hard as he could, throwing the entire bulk of his rottweiler body behind the kick.

It made a loud, clanging noise and loosened a snowfall of flaking paint. Janice stopped, looking puzzled, but then snarled and picked up her pace. Gunther kicked again, and this time there was a series of loud snaps as the bolts holding up the walkway gave up, the concrete around them cracking and the metal pulling itself loose from its sockets. The entire walkway swayed from side to side like a rope bridge, groaning and letting loose shrieks of tearing metal as it started to deform, detaching from the ceiling and crumpling up.

Janice's snarl grew to a roar and she lunged forward to cross the final few meters between her and her prey, but her weight made the entire bridge snap in two with an even mightier roar of screeching steel and rust. She fell downwards, plunging her feet in the air, but she managed to grasp the grating with her claws and tried to pull herself up. Her heavy body clinging off the lip of the bridge was the final straw and the entire structure became undone, lurching inwards and collapsed like a stack of dominos with a reverberating crash.

Gunther and Vincent ran as fast as they could, fleeing from the disappearing floor licking at their heels amidst snaps and pings of breaking bolts and the choking dust that billowed from the factory floor. They half ran, half fell down the stairs and stumbled on the solid ground, deafened by the dying rollercoaster noise of walkways tearing themselves free, and blinded by the clouds of pulverized concrete and asbestos stinging their eyes.

Eventually the silence arrived, broken only by the tinkling of settling metal. The dust clung to their sweaty, bloody fur, their eyes burned, and their lungs felt gritty, but there was no other movement in the hall.

"Is she done?" Gunther spat and tried to catch his breath.

"I have to be sure," Vincent said and lurched towards the middle with unsteady feet.

She laid on the floor, still holding on to the grating but this time it was embedded squarely through her midriff. A rapidly spreading pool of blood and bile dripped over the debris, and her one, good eye did not blink when swirling dust gently settled on its surface. Vincent stood silently looking down at her with an incomprehensible expression, but Gunther pushed past him to rifle through her pockets. He found a rolled up wad of bills and the keys to her bike, which he confiscated for better use.

"You know, we're not so different, she and I," Vincent said quietly.

Gunther frowned and got up with a grunt, his beaten up body protesting against the effort. "The fuck you are talking about?"

"She was a brute, and when push came to shove, when it mattered the most, I chose to be a brute too."

Gunther opened his mouth, stopped, and gave him a long stare before speaking up. "That is some of the stupidest shit I've ever heard. Let's go."

When they got outside they could already hear the police sirens in the distance. Vincent had two functioning arms so he took on the bike by the handles and Gunther sat behind him, clinging to him with his one good one. Vincent twisted his bruised knuckles and the bike roared to life, its thrumming engine eager to blast off.

"You worried about Martin?" Vincent asked.

"Nah, he'll be fine," Gunther said without knowing why. It certainly wasn't true.

Vincent nodded and hit the gas.

-

"I feel like we've been through this before," Vincent said.

Gunther took a deep breath and his nose filled with an odor of stale tobacco and mildew. He let his tired eyes wander from the peeling walls to the worn carpet and something with too many legs to be a mouse scurried across his field of vision before disappearing into a dark corner of the room.

"Nah," he replied, "This is much worse. The other motel didn't have a cockroach problem."

Vincent shrugged. "At least we're not getting blown up again. Hold on, I almost got it..."

Gunther let out a small whimper as Vincent plucked the bullet from his shoulder. The cat stared at the gory piece of metal at the end of the pliers for a second before tossing it through the window.

"It doesn't look too bad. Just a couple inches to the left and you'd have had to borrow my prosthetic arm," he said while packing the wound with disinfectant and healing gel.

"You gotta be lucky sometimes, I guess..." the rottweiler grunted and cautiously moved his arm. He was sitting naked on the edge of the bed, his torn and dirty clothes piled haphazardly on a nearby chair.

"Yes, I don't think we'd have found another disinterested benefactor this time," Vincent nodded and got up to wash his hands.

"Not again!" Gunther slammed his palm on the mattress, "I told you, I did it to save your life."

"I know, I know..." Vincent sighed from the bathroom. He removed his shorts and underpants and tossed them in the shower. "Was Martin a good fuck at least?"

Gunther blushed as he suddenly relived the visceral sensation of the borzoi's long, slender cock slipping into his ass and ejaculating inside him. "Meh. He was okay I guess... I'd rather not talk about it."

The nude panther leaned against the bathroom's doorway facing Gunther, the light at his back making him a dark silhouette. "Alright," he said, a smile revealing his white teeth, "Let's just forget about the whole thing."

He crossed the distance between him and Gunther with a couple brisk steps, his cock jiggling as he moved, and sat astride the dog's legs. He wrapped his arms behind his neck and pressed his lips to his in a long kiss.

"You think the hotel staff will call the police on us?" he said and nibbled Gunther's jowl, "We didn't exactly look like tourists."

"Mmpf... Pretty sure they don't want cops sniffing around the building," Gunther replied, licking the panther's face. His sheath was swelling and his manhood began to slide free.

"There's a laundromat in the basement," Vincent sighed and pressed his cock against Gunther's nascent erection, "I'll try and steal us some fitting clothes tomorrow morning."

"Sounds like a plan. In the meantime there's one more thing we need to settle..."

Before Vincent could say a word Gunther grabbed him by the shoulder and rolled him off his lap, pinning him to the mattress flat on his stomach.

"I still need to punish you for lying to me about being crippled..." he grinned and grabbed the base of Vincent's tail, yanking it up hard.

"Come on. I only did it because I wanted you to pity-fuck me..." Vincent pleaded with a mock-frightened expression while Gunther prodded his pucker.

"You'll get no pity from me this time."

The bed squeaked in protest as Gunther buried his dripping meat balls-deep in Vincent's ass and thrust inside him again and again with a furious energy borne out of the day's accumulated tension. Vincent moaned, not caring one bit about the paper-thin walls of their hotel room. The muscles around his anus were stretched taut by the thick canine member and his own rigid dick rubbed against his belly and the bed sheets with each stroke. The panting, growling dog's knot grew and swelled until Gunther couldn't pull out of Vincent anymore. The cat clenched around him and bucked back just as Gunther came, biting his artificial fist as he rode the rottweiler's orgasm. He creamed himself almost immediately afterwards, his semen adding another stain to the dirty sheets.

They collapsed and lay in each other's arms for some time, sweating and breathing heavily. Their next door neighbour banged against the wall hard enough for some plaster to detach and they exchanged a tired smile.

"We'll have to move out soon, and find some cash," Gunther whispered while the afterglow slowly faded away.

"Oh yeah," Vincent propped himself up on an elbow, looking suddenly serious. "I want you to let me take care of that, it's the least I can do for you. Now that I'm fit again I can earn us money."

"We can't attract attention, maybe we could take jobs in security, or as bouncers. Won't pay much but..." Gunther said distractedly and stroked Vincent's artificial thigh.

"What? No way. Listen, I have it all figured out. I've decided to move into the high-end restaurant business."

Gunther stopped, his deflating erection half-out of his sheath. "You what?"

"I'm serious. I've eaten at plenty of starred restaurants, I know all about cocktails, wines and cheeses. I could become a maître d' at a classy place and earn good money from tips alone."

"You know how to order a meal, that's it. I actually know how a kitchen looks like from the inside."

Vincent snorted and raised his eyebrows.

"It's true," Gunther protested. "My dad worked all his life at a diner. He taught me how to handle a knife and not embarrass myself, back then."

"A diner? Hmph, that's not really the kind of establishment I had in mind..." Vincent muttered and traced his finger on the crumpled bedsheets.

Gunther wasn't sure whether to laugh or roll his eyes. In the end he thought better of it and simply kissed Vincent again.

"We'll have plenty of time to figure it out tomorrow. Together."