Chapter 8: Keep It In Your Pants

George had followed Jacko and, to his surprise, found a motorcycle dealership with a parts shop right in the mall. He missed Jacko’s media reference that it was “Bigger on the inside” but did raise an eyebrow when the tabby cat accompanied it with a wink and a pose that put his tennis-ball lump in profile with his thigh.

“Ya mean the store or something else?” asked the leopard gecko, to which the cat giggled and took him inside. They reminisced about old bikes, many of which were new when Jacko was born, and marveled over the current ones while chuckling at all the fancy features.

“They’re practically cars at this point,” said Jacko, hovering a little close to George. The leopard gecko was unsure whether or not the tabby had tried to reach for him, but he certainly had that instinct—as a function of his marriage to Gila—to swing his arm out for the other male to hang onto.

“Cars that can fall over,” replied George.

“You think it’s too fancy?” asked Jacko, whose eyes seemed to hover an awful lot below the muscular gecko’s chin … and/or his belt.

George’s full reply would have been that the same criticism was likely leveled toward the old bikes during their own time, but he was more interested in passing time than making a friend. If this underwear really did enhance his love life, he could shoot the shit again at a later date. Therefore, he said, “Frankly, the older I get, the more I appreciate all the, what’s that word, a-cooter-ments. I’m sure I could hit the highway raw-dog, but perhaps it’d be pleasant to lay back and ride.”

Jacko bit his lip, grinning as he observed the reflection of the gecko. The man was short, but he had the presence of a feral alligator: owner of his relaxation, moving only when he wanted to. His age was fairly easy to estimate, because he had the confidence of a full-grown man and the metered energy to match. He wasn’t twitchy like a teen, and he wasn’t ossified like a late retiree. With all the men Jacko served at Bulge’s, the cat found that even males in their early forties could pass as kinda young—given the right demeanor and energy, of course.

This male, on the other hand, was settled like new concrete. He wasn’t dusty and hard, but he wasn’t fresh, either. Late forties, early fifties, he had to be. The cat scanned him up and down: the gecko’s arms were thick, so he was obviously active. Those arms could definitely lift him up or pin him down, he thought with a rush of saliva and a throb in his Bulge’s apparel. The gecko’s chest was thick with a little roundness to the pects. He had a bit of a beer gut, but it wasn’t a pregnancy keg that hid his belt buckle or … his twink-slayer.

Jacko swallowed and started to hate the other cat. That little picky, prissy tuxedo twerp didn’t know what he owned.

The gecko’s plain, white tee was tucked into a pair of denim pants that were a little worn around the pockets, but not enough to throw it back to the “holey nineties” where one could tell the color of their undies through finger-sized rips. Those jeans were pretty full, too: they showed off a thick pair of thighs on either side of a crotch that could never be truly flat.

In perfect “daddy top” energy, the pair was perfectly fitted so they didn’t give everything away: that would be the realm of bottoms and men who had a Cinderella clock under which to get laid. Jacko was a long-vested (and short-shorted) employee of Bulge’s, so his appraisal skill of their lump sum was faster than an aging cougar eyeing up trust fund babies.

The tabby’s throat gurgled as a casual turn of the Gecko gave him just the approximation he needed: that man wasn’t packing a triangle, but a whole Goddamn pyramid. He was the thief that stopped the softball game … or the volleyball game. It’d take both Crofton Barrow and Sunnyvale Jones to raid that tomb, and they’d better do it quick because Jacko was feeling daddy’s curse rise from his own sarcockfagus.

George flicked the aftermarket muffler Jacko was staring into. “I’m checking out and grabbing a smoothie to wait for the balls-and-chain. Anything else you wanted in here?”

“Oh, uhm,” Jacko started, sliding his paw into his short pocket to adjust himself. The disadvantage to the products he wore that they were very encouraging to the masculine form, and discouraging them was merely just a dong-and-pony show to tease it along. “N-no; I got everything I want!”

“A keychain?”

“Gotta have some nice accessory hanging off, doncha think?”

George’s eyebrow went up. “I haven’t ever had that thought, but don’t let me stop you from being creative.”

Just you wait, my Tabula Macularius …

Gila wasn’t nauseous because the stall was full of fresh sewer stink. He had mopped most of it up, and because the toilet had yet-to-be used, he was afforded semi-fresh mop water to use in conjunction with his shorts and his gaming t-shirt, his precious Live Serviceman collector’s shirt, to rid the floor and his ankles and thighs of guttural scat-spray. He was nauseous because this would require a hell of a lot of explaining. In the best-case, it’d just be with his husband, to whom he’d made vows of utmost respect and transparency. In the worst-case, it’d also either involve mall security, who would awkwardly interview him in a tiny room with all his poop stink; or it’d involve the Praetorians, who would drag him out and forcefully dress him like he was a toddler. The jury was out on whether that’d also involve their special brand of … bathroom underwear.

Adult diapers.

He cleaned with his briefs of shame wrapped tight around his waist, and when he leaned down or got up, the mass of muck hanging from his backside would smoosh and smear and wiggle like a second tail. Like the last time in their bathroom, he soldiered through this skin-crawling afterglow of gremlin debasement with the sense that he had claimed victory against his filthiest necessities, and he was more intimately owning the functions that every body went through.

His greedy, horny thoughts of how he’d taken a fat dump in his undies were a holistic instinct of sexual energy: his rump took big dicks and big shits, and both were valid. Why would a bodily function be shameful? Would that not make existence itself shameful?

That said, he was currently in a bigger pickle than an international sauerkraut festival. With the respect of a flag retirement ceremony, Gila slipped off his soiled briefs, turned them out into the toilet, then flushed. He rinsed them off in the new water, squeezed them out, then carefully folded them and put them in the same back as his damp shirt, shorts, and socks. The cat was completely naked, save for his shoes, in a mall public restroom. His wallet, keys, and phone were carefully balanced atop the toilet paper holder, and with red ears he started the arduous process of replying to George, who of course would have to help get him out of this.

George humped his small bag of motorcycle accessories—a t-shirt and a poster—to the dining area of the mall with Jacko in tow. He noticed a small uptick in the tabby’s talking, it having gone from amused tales to bigger boasting.

“But you meet the most interesting people when organizing the Undie-Run, both on and off the track. And some of the best conversation takes place in the locker room, and not just because of the agreeable views. Mister Davis—the Kioga Davis—actually should be stopping by our store today to discuss the new protective line. And honestly, he is one of the nicest people you would meet. Immensely professional. I actually have a theory that the ‘rudeness’ of rich people is actually a standard deviation curve. It’s the people buying the mid-level Blumpferwulfs—motorcycles or cars—that have the ‘short man’ syndrome. Not that, um, you have any of that… let’s call it ‘short change’ syndrome.”

George smirked. So many people forgot that he was only five inches taller than a dwarf, even when talking to him face-to…the top of his head. His campaign manager in Kaczynski had tried to hide that, but it was only his political opponents on social media that seemed to notice.

And that all devolved into a playground battle, and then he won off a purported Napoleon complex that he never had in the first place. “He’s going to turn Idaho into a Potato Republic!” “There’s a Moscow, Idaho. Putin???” blah, blah, blah.

George also noticed that his own input to the conversation was barely needed. The smallest nod or grunt was enough for the young male in the bulging shorts. Really, George was stuck in his own mind about Gila, who had been much more cat-like than usual: springy and provoked. A kind soul with twenty years on his husband, the gecko first looked inward, tracing the things he’d said and done the last couple weeks to see if there was something—anything—that had put some weird English on the relationship … like a billiard ball veering from the pocket last second.

George couldn’t find anything, but then again he was very casual about his memory. He’d trained himself decade after decade to do things right the first time, and quickly correct anything that wasn’t, so he didn’t have a loom full of loose threads to gather.

There was a looming frustration in the gecko’s head: he had always made it clearer than his ridged eyelids that if anything was wrong, Gila could come to him and they would sort it out faster than he could take a piss. But Gila, yesterday and today, had been supremely evasive, taking really long times in the bathroom. What was he doing? If he was cranking it to weird porn, maybe George could get in on it? Bring it to the bedroom? Because both of them had positive terminals—there was no baby circuitry—and so their relationship was predominantly predicated on the satisfaction of the other.

George rolled his eyes. In an age of misinformation, people could get really fucking creative in their conspiracies. He promised himself that the last thing he would suspect was that Gila was chatting up a male his own age because he was tired of fucking his lizard step-dad.

George remembered that he shared the same birth year and month as Gila’s father. Had their parents lived closer, the two of them would have gone to the same school. That was a weird dynamic: Gila’s father treated him as a brother, and Gila’s mother treated him as a son.

Both were kind of correct.

“Large or Extra Large?” Jacko brightly said, having Englished George to the Orange Ghibli.

George narrowed his eyes. “What’s in these things?”

“Lemon-lime soda, sorbet, orange pulp.”

So five Tum-Tums or six…

“I’ll just get a medium,” he answered.

“With your big paws?”

“Flattery ain’t a bandage, bucko.”

They got their drinks and convened at a table in the middle of the commons. Mismatched but verdantly healthy trees broke up the open space to avoid the feeling of a cafeteria. George selected a table with only two chairs, one facing the other, just in case.

Jacko attempted a few conversation hooks, and the gecko paused him by lifting a finger and his phone. He sent a text to Gila inquiring where he was, and when he got a reply that his husband was just caught up in all the fancy stores, he rolled his eyes and fired back a congenial, milquetoast response.

The tabby cat, predator that he was—of cock, husbands, pineapple curry, and bikes of the 1990’s—licked his teeth and asked George, “Oh, that the boyfriend?” He crossed his legs and stealthily pushed off his sneakers.

“Husband,” George said, who then leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink. The orange-lemon-lime sting was pure citric acid from the nineties, but the sorbet cooled it down. That decade had shimmered with radioactive colors, and this retro-petrochemical was bringing him back.

“Oh, I’m so happy for you!” Jacko said with a smile. “I’ve had problems with so many boyfriends. I don’t know whether I have a harem or a nursery with how petty some of them get.”

The gecko cleared his throat. He didn’t know whether girl-talk was better with females or gay men. “Pick your poison, really,” he said, swirling his smoothie.

“I’m not going to air out my dirty laundry; never know where there’ll be a skidmark,” Jacko joked. “But last week—am I oversharing?”

“It’s all new to me.”

“I just feel comfortable around you,” the cat said, swirling his stocking feet on the floor. He got the general sense of where George’s shoes were. “So… oh, I don’t know. It just feels like such a departure from common sense when I think about it.”

“Common sense is home; weird is either a finger in your eye or a finger in your … you know.”

The cat squeezed his thighs together around his round maleness, biting his lip as he rolled it around and got soft, electric buzzes throughout his loins. His tail was going straight up. “Oh, that I do! Last week was terrible. I had a date with … well, you’ve already met him. Marv,” he whispered, “He was late for our movie night because his date was taking too long to … you know.”

George’s eyebrows creased. “Wait, but you were on a date with Marv.”

“I mean his last ‘date,’ which was just a quick link-up.”

“And by ‘you know,’ you mean…” the gecko said, jiggling a fist.

“Yeah. Marv’d met an older guy, about your age, with a huge—” Jacko whistled, “—and wanted to grab a quick snack before the movie. Warm treat in the tummy.”

“I guess I just don’t get poly relationships.”

“Oh, nah; that was just a snack.”

The gecko held up a paw. “I ain’t judging.”

Jacko shrugged. “Nothing to judge, tee-bee-haytch. I basically came over and helped out. Guess that guy really liked his nipples being played with. But then we missed the movie.”

“Is it chaotic, juggling romantic contacts?”

Jacko shook his head. “No harder than running a small retail store. You got your core staff and you got your temps. Core staff you gotta take care of or fire, but temps know you only need them for a short time. I guess we’re in a ‘marriage’ of our own, if just a bunch of verbal contracts.”

“No jealousy or envy? Competitiveness?”

Jacko straightened up at this, transferring the stretching tightness in his lap—the forming spire—and the twitchy electric emptiness of his rear hole into greed. “You see, the only people who hate capitalism are those that are, for want of a softer word, uncompetitive. People say it’s an unfair and unkind system, but they fail to remember that capitalism is a voluntary system. It’s the most fair of all. If you feel sad about getting smoked by The Poodles, then perhaps you are not a professional basketball player. You can quit the game! Or not play at all! Or get better at it. The locker room can always use a few towel boys,” Jacko purred.

“Liberating, but not sure about romantic,” said George. “Again, no judgment.”

Jacko smiled, leaning back in his chair. He brushed his stocking paw against George’s shin as he placed his hands behind his head. His lap came out from under the table, propped up by at least six inches of manhood stretching his clean white shorts. “What is the most romantic aspect of a relationship? The naked expression of it in the bedroom. When there is competition, there is no cover up. Every man can be promoted for his virtues, or released for his vices.”

George’s eyes felt over the cat’s body. His chest was fit and his stomach was flat. His smile was great and his manhood, a symmetrical, tall tent, made his mouth water and his elastic tongue writhe inside. The spire was so insistent, it lifted the legs of his shorts, allowing a peek at sleek, soft green briefs. The shorts hugged his undercarriage, producing a smooth, round silhouette of his chicken egg orbs.

George sipped his sugary drink, cooling his throat. He wondered why he was now ocularly groping the other male; he and Gila had seen several attractive men in swim briefs at the pool—and several dangling wangs in the locker room—but had not entertained fantasies.

Perhaps it was his current wariness of Gila’s evasiveness. Love was a circuit to be completed, after all.

However, the feline predator could see the look in George’s eyes: fixation. Magnetization. “But, to be kind—to be fair—it is a very complex system of bean counting. Perhaps one man is not a dominant alpha male, but his sweetness and softness lend a sort of comfort one can snuggle up to once the balls are drained and stomachs and butts are pumped full. Everyone has their own wavelengths, and it is important to find at least one person with whom you resonate.”

George smiled, and though Jacko’s countenance softened, the towering tent in his shorts had not. The gecko touched his wedding ring, spinning it around his finger a few times.

“Well, I’ll say that for all of my differences with Gila, we resonate like a yin-yang. Like bass and treble, to bring up a music term.”

“I resonate with you,” said Jacko. His slitted eyes stared right at the reptile. “I’m really loving your wavelength. I can be the rhythm section.”

George swallowed and checked his phone. Gila said he had to stop by the bathroom and would be out soon. Even as an ectotherm, he felt heat rising inside him. “Bathroom” was quickly becoming one of the gecko’s least favorite words.

Out soon, he says… George thought.

He looked back to Jacko, who was parting his legs in a classic manspread: and showing off a lot of man. His stretched tent hid his belt buckle and part of his stomach, and pulled the fabric tight around his round, warm balls. “Look, I’m sorry; I made a promise…”

“Contracts can be amended,” Jacko said, “And like a businessman who opens multiple locations, you seem like a man with plenty of love to share.”

George coughed. He couldn’t deny that his own boxer-briefs were tightening, and his jeans could only hide a quarter-erection before they were showing off a real, beautiful problem. “Funny enough, I am one of those, but that’s not important.”

Jacko’s eyes and smile beamed. “And here I thought I couldn’t like you enough. There are very comfortable rent-a-rooms at the Eudaimonia Express here at the mall. Total privacy and if it takes more than ten minutes, I owe you something fancy from our store.”

George’s heart was thumping in his chest. In and out, and he wouldn’t have to deal with any of Jacko’s problems. Just that beautiful spire or those plump cheeks … or that cheeky mouth.

George’s phone buzzed and he swore he’d smash the thing if it had the wrong message.

“Love, I have a big problem,” it started. George started looking for the first personless corner to fling his phone, throwing it like the hammer of Thor. But then he rubbed his wedding band and calmed down. This was exactly the situation referred to in his vows. At least, he hoped.

“And I can explain it all later. I’m in the bathroom between the ComfortABDL shoe store and the Poodles trophy shop. Should be a big sign for Neo-Tennies, wacky adult-baby shoes. Long story short, I need clothes. Any brand, I don’t care, I’ll text you my sizes next. Shorts, shirt, and flip-flops, something cheap. I’m fine, I’m healthy, I’m safe.”

George’s disdain was stamped on his face. Jacko let his chair down, hiding his persistent protrusion and placed his paw on top of the gecko’s. George blushed, feeling like this touch alone was infidelity—like he’d let Jacko enter his intimate emotions.

“Is it time to play superhero, or time to play villain?” Jacko asked.

George put his phone away. “It’s time to play superhero,” he said, standing up from the table.

Jacko smiled, feeling his own heart being lifted by the gecko’s big chest and strong arms. “Can I give you my number?”

The gecko growled. “Look, man, to me it’s all seeming like a harem for King Midas and I don’t think I’ll ever be interested. Gold is great, but it’s cold and hard to the touch.”

“So are reptiles,” the tabby purred.

George paused to riposte. That was almost a touché. “You forget the warmth of heart. I know where you work if the roulette wheel spins just right. I’m talking the green space.”

“Your face says it’s coming up black,” Jacko quipped.

George’s urgent curiosity of Gila’s situation screamed like alarm bells in his tympanies. “And the casino can still throw you out. We’re done.”

The cat nodded and stood as well. His erection boinked against the bottom lip of the table, making George’s orange drink wiggle. The spire of the shorts cast a shadow over the surface, sticking out obviously into the public eye. Jacko stuck out his hand. George hesitated, then shook it.

Before the cat released it, he said, “I think is this why singles always fetishize married men. There’s an implied wholesomeness. Integrity.”

George let Jacko release the embrace. “And just like King Midas, if you try to grab it, it’s gone. I hope your love-business is fruitful, and not a tomb of gold.”

Jacko laughed. “Now we’re a moralizer!”

George smirked. “No, a philosopher. Naked honesty, as you said. Beauty in nudity. As Isaid, if it works for you, it works for you.”

“Oh, it works,” the tabby said with a grin. Brazenly, he opened his fly and his green fabric tent popped right out. He unbuttoned his shorts and unbuckled his belt, revealing the warm, plump sac at the base. “But don’t deny yourself these lucrative opportunities.”

“Grass is always greener,” George said with an eye roll..

“Hey, don’t you dare!” called out an authoritative voice. A horse in purple armor and golden pauldrons started clopping their way.

“Shit, it’s the cops!” Jacko said, but then slipped on his stocking feet and fell. He tried to catch himself with the chair on the way down, but it slipped as well and he came crashing down to the floor. His shorts fell to his ankles, and laying on his side the cat gave George a luscious view of both his perky, round rump, plump backsac, and prominent protrusion.

The gecko gladly ate the eye candy, then went on his way as the Praetorian scolded Jacko for being Stupid.

In the bathroom, Gila was visited not only by the ghost of crimes past, but of crimes present as well. The shoes of mall cops, Praetorians, and Marvin “snitch” Mallomar tapped annoyedly outside his bathroom stall. Rotating, flashing lights of red and purple turned the facility into a nightclub, and Gila moaned as he sat naked on the toilet in a weakened, but penetratingly present, haze of his gratuitous voiding.

“Thank you for the tip, Mister Mallomar; here is a Pendrael-Davis coupon, and from the Treasure Trail mall, thirty pieces of silver. Thank you for keeping the peace.”

“Thank you,” the skunk said, and went on his way. That striped rat had snuck in and chosen the stall right next to him. Gila didn’t even hear any plops, and that piss was merely a sprinkle, good for seven seconds at the fucking urinal.

Gila stared at his phone, his pawpads burning hot enough to melt the thing and explode the battery. All of George’s texts were short, microscopic answers.

“O?”

“K.”

“...glad your safe. on the way.”

Any of Gila’s status inquiries were similarly answered, aside from one.

“shoping.”

“checking out.”

“You know, that ComfortABDL store has some good deals…”

That let some of Gila’s shame boil off. The gecko could make a joke during a nuclear holocaust if he sensed distress in the cat. “I hope my rates don’t go up,” he might say.

“Damage due to nuclear radiation or war isn’t covered in our policy,” Gila would irresistibly snipe.

“So now you’re an insurance agent,” George would counter, and then their flesh would crisp and their skeletons explode.

“Look, buddy, I’m giving your husband another seven minutes and then we’re doing things Prae style,” said the purple boots.

“Not before I do my job,” said the mall cop. “I bet that cold steel chair will feel great on this felon’s buns.”

“I can slide you my phone if you want proof,” said Gila.

“After your filthy paws have been all over it? I don’t think so!” said the cop.

“We have wipes,” said the Praetorian.

“No, no. Youse just paintcher prison bars baby colors and pretend you’re real cops while you get your jollies off!”

“Don’t you talk to me about playing pretend cop.”

“You don’t have real guns, neither. Just a doohickey that makes perps shit their pants.”

“I think real guns do that, too.”

“That’s not the first mess I’d be concerned about.”

“I’m surprised; I thought the pool of blood would be an oasis of justice to you.”

“In my dreams, maybe.”

Gila felt a surge and a rumble, then his tailhole flexed and let out an empty poot into the bowl.

The mall cop banged his baton against the door. “Yeah, that’s right! Sit in your shame!”

“Jesus, Greg; why don’t you go find some shoplifters?”

“Amar is on that,” said Greg. Gila saw a heavy reptilian tail wag, revealing that Greg was a crocodile.

“No, I’m serious. I’m here for the public health as well, and this smells like my jurisdiction.”

Gila wrapped his arms tight around his naked body, feeling like there was a camera above him and one right in the toilet, looking up at his black and brown-tinged undercarriage: cock, balls, and winking tailhole assuredly stained and fragrant. He’d wiped himself down as best he could with his beloved gaming shirt, but a long, hot shower was miles away.

“I’m not moving.”

The Praetorian growled. “No, but parts of you are,” he said. Gila saw a flash of purple through the gap in the stall door, and heard an electric whine before the snap of a shock.

“Fuck, Cam; don’t be using your cattle prod on … hnng!” grunted Greg.

Gila saw the security guard bend double, then heard a rattling rasp as the croc’s tail disappeared from view, likely raising. There was hurried shuffling, and the second blurt was solid with an accompanying crackle.

“No, no, no,” groaned Greg, trying to interrupt his gastral lurching. He rattled one of the stall doors, inadvertently locking it, and his final fart turned into a long, crackling splurch and a moan.

“Now you know what our public deals with,” said Cam. There was a thud and a plastic slide. “There are some wipes; go get yourself cleaned up.” Then a plush thud. “And a new pair of briefs.”

There was grumbling, then the click of a lock as Greg entered the farthest stall from Gila.

“Sir, may I have your name?” asked the Praetorian to Gila’s stall.

“...do I have to? Am I being detained?”

“I’m just trying to be polite. You said your husband was on the way?”

“Y-yeah, with a fresh set of clothes. I got cologne, too.”

“And it smells like the nineteen seventies. Reminds me of my grandpa, but I won’t go into all the reasons.”

Gila’s ears burned. “W-what are the charges?”

“Conservatively? Disturbing the public with an unkindly smell—ten charges since you’ve been in here—plus disruption of business and its reputation—plaintiff Bulge’s—and partial contamination of a relief facility.”

The cat gulped. His dick shrank into his body, and his rectum gaped like his eyes. “What’s that gonna run me?”

“Two-fifty.”

“Thousand?!” he gasped.

“Hundred. Which you can convert into a Pendrael-Davis coupon—”

“I hate that company; I’ll do cash.”

“They also sell very comfortable bed sheets at an incredible discount.”

Gila sighed. “I suppose. But only that much?”

Cam shrugged. Gila saw through the gap he was a panda bear, but buff like a werewolf. “People are gonna forget the incident at Bulge’s real quick. Janitor takes care of the stall. The ten that came in here, and promptly switched bathrooms, are just gonna remember someone having taken a nasty shit.”

Gila’s dick twitched at that, warming between his thighs. “Well, they weren’t wrong.”

“Please be more respectful. We have colognes and safety briefs that will allow your maladies without making it the public’s problems.”

“You’re talking about adult diap…” he said, but couldn’t finish the word.

“Adult diapers is their austere term, yes. But speaking as a spokesman, employee, and a customer, I won’t say that posterity briefs don’t have their uses.”

“I’m not wearing a fucking diaper.”

“Then keep it in your pants next time.”

“I did!”

“The smell, too.”

There was mumbling at the exit door, then another authoritative voice told the mysterious person, “Right this way, sir. Check in with Prae Stevies and Greg … if he’s available.”

“Thanks, officer,” said George, his steps accompanied by the rustle of a plastic bag.

The panda’s boots turned. “Hello, there. You’re the foretold husband?”

“Yeah, I’m here to pick up my kid or what have you. He needs a change of clothes?”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“So how do we do this?” George’s voice was even, but ragged by hurried walking. “I’ve been lucky to never been a part of this, even though I’ve been a resident for three years.”

A clipboard popped over the stall with a citation and a QR code to the Pendrael-Davis website. Gila stood up and took it, and blindly signed the indicated lines—embarrassingly indicated with pacifier stickers—then scanned the code.

“By making this purchase of Baby-Bucks, you admit you’ve been a naughty boy but we still love you :3” said the text down at the bottom.

Gila gritted his teeth, wanting to throw his phone into the ceiling. But that’d be another form, wouldn’t it. As soon as he hit the button, a device on Cam’s wrist beeped, and the buff panda knocked on the door. “All done, son. Restroom’s empty except for us chickens, so you can change in or out. You need some wipes?”

“I just need a shower.”

“The Eudaimonia Express has rentable rooms. I think a shower’s only twenty-five bucks.”

“That’s kinda steep…” both George and Gila said. The cat slightly smiled at the connection. He prayed that George was smirking.

“Yes, sirs, I know, but once you get in one of their showers, you’ll wish you paid double.”

“I doubt that…” both Gila and George said.

“Heh,” said the leopard gecko. “No, officer; if it’s all the same to you I got the new Fjord Stallionmaster with the Huge package.”

Cam clicked his tongue. “Oh, that the one with the V10 deep-injected?”

“Mmmhmm, more randy horses than a California ranch.”

The panda let out a low whistle. “I’m gonna ask the force if we got the budget for a few of those.”

“The trailblazer suede seats are waterproof, too.”

“That’ll fit our problems perfectly. Yours, too.” There was a pause, and Gila saw the panda’s thick arm shoot out. “Camaren Stevies, by the way.”

The gecko’s similarly thick arm shot out and the paws met with a virile thunderclap. “George Stronghold,” he answered. Another pause ensued, and the two men changed their grip to pull at each other, making their biceps bulge.

Gila pressed the heels of his paws to his temple. He couldn’t believe this was happening again: he got in trouble, and George made a friend.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mister Stronghold. Say, you’ve never been to Idaho, have you?”

“The very same.”

“My sister lives in Kaczynski. That’s a really nice place; real rustic. Not a lot of industry there.”

“We’re just concerned about its consequences. But if you ever need your car repaired…” said George, reaching into his front pocket.

Gila’s eyes bugged and he massaged his head. He swore people had voted for George just to get out of conversations with him. This was why trips to the hardware store took five or fifty minutes. His husband could run for Mayor of Puerto Panuela if he wanted to. The cat looked down at his naked body, the slight pudge of his belly resting on his bare thighs. His genitals were a soft, small package nestled in the center of them. He hoped that when George’s happy conversation was over, the gecko’s patience was only stretched like a good pair of briefs.

“Well it was a real treat meeting you, Mister Stronghold!” said Camaren, sounding ten years younger than his cop voice. “I’m fixing to break something on my truck just so we can continue this conversation.”

“We can always give it a lookover, see if there’s something hiding. Say, this doesn’t get my husband out of the ticket, does it?”

Cam cleared his throat. “Well, if you put it like that then no. We’re here to grease intimate parts, not palms. But you come on by to Mercatio Munerum—or if hubby here gets sent to Carcer—we’ll getcha the employee discount, all right? Hey, by the way, you ready to come out, Mister Stronghold?” the panda asked of the stall door.

“I should probably give you this,” said George, draping the shopping bag over the stall. “You okay, baby?”

“I’m fine,” said Gila, pulling out George’s plunder.

“I’m not gonna have to wash my truck, am I?”

“You’re gonna wash it anyway.”

“Isn’t there anything better on a Saturday morning?” George asked Camaren.

“Not if I’m mowing the lawn, first.”

“What kinda mower you got?”

“Oh, it’s a ride mower. You see I was down—” Camaren started.

Gila flew into superhero speed, pulling on a pair of gym shorts—very short, very seventies—and an oversized t-shirt which had a breast pocket. Even with his modest member, he was practically falling out of the shorts. The cat rooted around his shopping bag of horrors and found a pair of briefs that had been shielded from the soaked shitshow. He took the shorts off, then put the briefs on: a pleasant soft red that really accentuated his petite bulge. On went the flip-flops and Gila burst out of the stall, accidentally smacking his husband with the door.

Well, perhaps the door was smacked by his husband, because George wasn’t moved.

They both looked at him. George was the first to speak.

“Morning, starshine,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind me stopping by the pharmacy on the way home. Might need some antibiotics with the air I’ve been wagging my tongue in.”

“You’re the one that opened your mouth,” Gila countered.

“Do you want me to take that bag, sir?” Prae Stevies asked. “We can disinfect it or destroy it.”

“Our washer at home can handle it.”

“No, it won’t,” said George, and he took the bag from Gila and handed it to the Praetorian.

“B-b-but my shirt is in there!”

“We’ll mail your belongings after they have been analyzed and sanitized.”

“Analyzed?!” gasped Gila.

Camaren gave a courteous nod. “Your feces will be part of the Prae record.”

“You can’t do that!”

“You shouldn’t have made them public,” said Camaren, then tipped his helmet and walked off. On his way out, he banged on the stall door with Greg in it. “Doing good in there, bud?” he asked, but all he got was farts and groans.

Through all their conversation, Gila and George hadn’t previously noticed the croc’s long, agonized laments nor his bowel’s vehement trumpeting. His “plops” were practically “thuds.” They saw his underwear between his ankles under the stall door. There was a big brown streak in the back, some of it still shining.

Two more Praetorians were outside the restroom, along with two security guards who were keeping the public out. Gila blushed as he saw the irritated faces of many males shuffling around, waiting to relieve themselves in the toilets. The Praes and mall cops were giving some sort of speech about the restroom being cleaned soon, all for the public health, but couldn’t quite agree on the benefits of certain types of Pendrael-Davis underwear as an alternative.

Camaren intercepted them and guided them to the closest exit, and they were out in the parking lot before they could share another word.

They stood in the windy silence, with one of them ripe as if there was still a fresh load in his drawers. Gila gingerly reached over to George, then brushed his scaly arm. His paw made it down to George’s, which finally reached back and clasped the cat’s.

“I can explain everything,” said Gila.

“We parked on the other side of the mall.”