FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"For I have known them all already, known them all -

have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons.

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

I know the voices dying with a dying fall,

beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?"

T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

**

[America has always had a curious relationship with its monarchy. Let us recall, in 1776, the colonists who broke away from England wanted nothing to do with monarchy, and kings, and all that sort of thing. Those colonists wanted something new! A new system to replace the old. However, attempts at "rule by committee" failed. After America gained its independence, it was clear to the former colonists - now calling themselves Americans - that a strong leader was needed. And thus America crowned its first king.

True, a system of "checks and balances" was created. In theory, the king had to answer to Congress, as well as to the Supreme Court.

And let us not forget the method devised for _choosing _the king. Potential kings had to pass so-called tests - which were mystical, magical in nature. As well, mages had to read certain "signs," which (in theory!) would point to whether or not someone was suited to be a king. These tests and signs have remained a closely-guarded secret, and perhaps they are simply nonsense and tomfoolery. Or perhaps they are legitimate.

Either way, is it a coincidence that America's second through sixth kings were all sons of the previous king? Is it likely or unlikely that the king's son should pass the tests and the signs five times in a row?

And let us not forget, the first six kings were all humans. America did not seat an anthro on the throne until 1916.

-- From the jumbled notes of Philip Gasteau, esteemed Historian and Bard. Philip is working on a book about America's monarchy.]

**

Crossing the Rubicon chapter 4 - leaving New York.

The year is 1990.

Part of me could not believe I was doing this, while another part of me was glad. Near giddy, in fact.

I'd lived all my twenty-five years in the city. Sure, I'd visited other places - I'd been upstate, I'd been to Canada. I'd been to other states. Once, when I was eighteen, some friends and I borrowed a car and we drove down to Florida for a week of swimming and drinking.

And now, supposedly, I was on my way to the West Coast. I still wasn't sure why. Sure, Duncan was charismatic, and somewhat attractive - but that wasn't why I was going. (I hoped - hopefully, I wasn't making decisions with my penis.) I _certainly _wasn't going because of Duncan's faith in Micah, because of Duncan's quest - yes, let's just call it a quest - to put a king on the throne. I certainly didn't feel like we needed a king - we'd been without one for some time. And - a human? Duncan wanted to put a human on the throne?

I suppose I could've made all this simple. I could've told myself I was going because it was a chance to get out of New York for a while. And that was most likely true. It could've been all of the truth, or it could've been part of the truth. (It didn't hurt that I might get paid at the end of the trip, and I'd get free meals and beer along the way.)

When the world started falling apart . . . New York City, especially, I hadn't left. I'd stayed. All my friends left, but I stayed. I'd started helping folks because I'd wanted to - and, I'd made sure I'd been paid for my efforts (that, too, was important to me). I helped folks navigate the emerging underground markets. I smuggled food and other things to folks that needed them. I also moved folks - humans, anthros, elves, everyone. I got folks either in or out of the city. And every time I did something (something that, I suppose, could be called a good deed) . . . I made sure I got paid.

So, this trip could be seen as just another job. Sure, I was leaving the city - and thus, leaving my comfort zone. I wouldn't know how to smuggle things outside the city - I wouldn't know where to look for things. Still, I was good in a fight. I knew how to fight, I could hold my own. So, I told myself, this could be just another job - and thus I didn't need any other reason for going.

*

Anyway, we passed through the police inspection easily. The cop (who looked bored) didn't even ask about the holes in the van. Celeste drove the van into the ferry, and parked it, and we all sat there, for a moment. No doubt, we'd all been secretly expecting trouble. When it didn't show up, we had to take a moment to relax. Then, without saying much, we all got out.

I breathed in the semi-fetid air coming off the Hudson river. For me, it didn't smell bad at all. It was just another part of the city. I knew that somewhere beyond the river's odors were the smells of the ocean. For a second, I imagined getting into a lifeboat and just rowing down the Hudson - it wouldn't take long to reach the ocean, and once there . . . I could go anywhere. Sort of. Probably not a great idea to row into the ocean in a small lifeboat, of course.

I wondered if I'd actually get to the West Coast. Would I get to see the Pacific? What would that smell like?

The engines of the ferry rumbled under my feet. The boat started moving, then, at a slow and steady pace. Off to New Jersey. Micah and Drake were standing by the rail, looking to their right - at the city. Celeste and Rav started walking to the rear of the boat. They wanted to watch New York get further and further behind. I didn't see Duncan anywhere.

I joined Micah (the future king?) and Drake, the feral Doberman with blue and black fur. I thought about how I was leaving - we'd been shot at by mercenaries, hired by some human in a suit who (somehow) knew exactly where we'd be. And we'd been shot at by arrows, not bullets, which was both hilarious and weird. It was like the city had thrown us a farewell party.

Or, it'd been trying to kill us.

"I've seen other versions of New York, in other worlds," Drake said, startling me out of my thoughts.

"Yeah?" Micah asked, curious.

"Some of them were incredibly prosperous, and others - well - others less so."

"I guess this one is somewhere in the middle," I said. My eyes traveled along the waters of the river, and then I gazed at the famous New York skyline. "Things got really rough, a few years ago, but we were climbing out of it. Things _were _getting better. And then we had the attacks and, well, everything else."

"Hopefully, things will get better in this world," Drake said. He looked at Micah. Micah didn't see Drake looking at him, but - for a moment, the young human looked overwhelmed. Jesus, I thought, as something occurred to me. I wondered if I should pray - to the Catholic God, or the pagan goddess, or the Elven pantheon, or whoever. Duncan, I reminded myself, wanted Micah to fix all this. Not alone, of course - the kid (shit, the young man) would have help. Still, this was Duncan's solution. Put Micah on the throne, and have Micah fix Everything. It suddenly felt - like an impossible solution? I wondered if Micah was thinking about that, and if that was why he looked so overwhelmed.

Duncan may as well ask Micah to climb a mountain barefoot using only a spoon.

At that moment, on the boat, I felt like Micah had an impossible task before him. Shit, getting to the West Coast was going to be dangerous. Getting anyone to accept Micah would be - probably - difficult, at best. And then trying to somehow "fix" this whole country, which was falling apart. Jesus.

I was starting to feel like my own solution had been the best one. I'd been helping folks one at a time, or a few at a time, and I hadn't been looking at the big picture. I'd just been trying to help others get through the day. One day at a time.

A humid breeze wafted over us, bringing with it the polluted scents of the river.

"Man," Micah said, wrinkling his nose. "That's some strong stuff. No offense, but how do you stand it?"

"We New Yorkers are tough," I said, with a playful smile. "Long lines at the payphones, busted subway trains, the guy at the deli messes up your sandwich. Polluted rivers. Sirens at all hours. Sidewalks so hot in the summer time you can fry an egg. Not that you would. Sidewalks are filthy." I shrugged. "Such is life."

"It's a beautiful city," Micah said. "But it must be tough to live here."

"We put up with it for the pizza," I said, joking. Mostly joking. "And the bars. Plus, in every neighborhood, I've got one or two favorite coffee shops."

"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons," Drake said, quoting T.S. Eliot, one of my favorite poets. I looked at the big dog with new appreciation. Micah looked puzzled.

"When this is all over," I said, "I'll take you to my absolute favorite coffee place. It's always crowded, and the AC's usually broken. But the coffee is amazing, and the lady who owns it is like everyone's favorite grandmother."

Micah looked at the city. Possibly, he was thinking that when this was all over, he wouldn't have time for New York, or coffee shops.

If, of course, we were successful.

I glanced, briefly, at the rusted hulks of the New Jersey docks, which the ferry was slowly approaching.

Then I looked back, at my beautiful, crumbling city.