FSE

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"He has fucked up stories, Winney," - Oh, how much he hated that nickname - "stories that will make you hard in three seconds. Or... make your stomach roil." The fox's tail had twitched out seizures for less than that in the past - it always happened when he came across a killer subject.

Three days and 800 miles after the phone-call, tail curling at his hips, the excitement was fading fast.

"You could do a lot of good with your stories." Winston said, trying to pick up the half-dead conversation, right paw aching in the memory of the kangaroo's crushing grip. That handshake had been the most welcoming gesture he'd received ever since crossing the State border.

Winston got no answer and watched the kangaroo's long tail disappear to the left in the doorway.

He had expected beer bottles, a gigantic flatscreen and posters of the Peak State Chargers decorating the walls. Instead, a claw-marked leather couch, the cower worn paper thin, occupied most of the narrow room. Opposite laid a lumpy armchair - upon it fidgeted the fox - and between the two weary furniture stood a coffee table. No television, no books, no plants. The lack of green didn't surprise Winston, men like Finn couldn't keep a cactus alive. Only a laptop served for entertainment.

"You've already said that over the phone." Came the measured answer from the kitchen accompanied by the high whine of glass (sliding over a counter?), then a hiss, lid dropping, then another.

Not two minutes spent in the Anderson household and Winston was rolling his eyes.

The kitchen fell silent again, Winston took a closer look at the living room to get a hint what kind of man he was dealing with. Lacking salt and spirits, his mother would say. Winston had never seen a room that felt so empty... As if the kangaroo paid careful attention to keep his quarters bland and boring. That, or the man had absolutely no need to feel at home. Then Winston fixed his eyes upon what little was visible of the kitchen. Spotless grey tiles, the wall naked, the same shade of white as the living room.

Stories that will make your stomach roil - he recalled_._ Maybe his source has forgotten to mention one or two crucial detail about Finn Anderson. Winston breathed in long and steady, sorting out the aroma of kangaroo, deodorant and washing powder from the underlying cigarette smoke. The last one was old and mild, he wasn't sure if the kangaroo enjoyed a cig' everyone now and then.

"You like beer?" Finn's voice made him jump. A moment later all six foot something hulking kangaroo returned, a bottle in each paw.

He accepted the drink with a practiced smile and nod, as if Ol' Peaky were his all time favorite. Then he met the eyes of the kangaroo and wondered how such a handsome man could be so jolting. The words of his source ringed in his ears and he was down right sure Elliot fucked him over. If the kangaroo had anything that made his stomach roil, it was his aesthetics. Mother nature had made Finn Anderson good looking - blond, dashing with disarming blue eyes - and ran out out of juice when it came to style, hence the simple black shirt and matching sweat pants. Another State to the South or East he would have been asked for his preferred drink.

Finn raised the bottle to his muzzle without saying another word, then leant back and fixed his gaze expectantly on the fox.

Winston found it irritating to simply sit on his ass and be stared at as if he were an unwanted vacuum-salesman. Usually he had no problem starting a conversation, a compliment here, a friendly gesture there and he had the subject rolling in five minutes. In fifteen he was taking notes in a frenzy of his pen gliding over the pages. Winston rattled off a couple of phrases in his head - to warm up the kangaroo - and realized he had nothing. Nothing but the gaze upon his fur that made him feel awkward. The kangaroo was a challenge, Winston reminded himself, he only had to work his magic better to open the heavy locks of silence. Getting a man of Peak State to talk about his past and - God forbid - his feelings was an award winning feat.

"Okay, Mr. Green, you wanted this meeting, now get on with it. " The kangaroo said.

Hooo Boy, the fox thought, wincing. "Please, call me Winston."

Finn raised an eyebrow. Winston felt the muscles tense in his arms. Damn the people of Peak State. He held the kangaroo's eyes and cleared his throat.

"Okay, here is the deal. Friend of mine said you had kick-ass stories up your sleeve that would blew the mind of most people." - And maybe make them sick in the same time. - "It would help a lot of bisexual and gay people in the armed forces and it would help the cause..." Winston added, his mind wandering off to calculate which friendly publisher would suit his intentions the best.

"Help the what?" Finn said, furrowing his brows. Even that suited him.

"The cause. The cause for all people struggling with their sexuality."

The kangaroo chuckled and sipped his beer, not taking his eyes off the fox. "I have no interest in any of that."

"Doesn't it excite you, just a tiny bit, to let other people hear your story?"

"They ain't fascinating in the first place."

"Try me. " Winston said. It felt as if he were wooing a character of a 18th century romantic novel.

"Right, you'd like me to start on how I discovered cock, don't you?" Finn said, snorting.

Winston found it comforting to see the ability of showing emotions, he couldn't make a robot spill its secrets after all. Now he had a fair amount trepidation on his plate to work with. Winston recited the teachings of his mentor: it comes down to transform that trepidation into motivation.

"If that's a part of it, sure. Readers love first-time stories, they never get boring." He tried a smile and noted it didn't ease Finn at all.

"Look, I only agreed to see you because I wanted to know who told you about_my stories_."

Fucking bastard kangaroo. Winston felt the pressure in his jaw as his teeth clenched. You let me drive 800 hundred miles to make me talk.

"What kind of writer would I be if I named my source?"

"What kind of writer are you in the first place?" Finn said in a tone of calm misgiving.

Winston had faced the question a dozen times and until now he'd never felt anger rising like bile in his throat. "I'll let you decide that. Praising myself is needless."

"Like a book on the cause?"

At least we are talking, Winston thought and filed it away in the back of his head to tell Elliot he found the biggest closet case in Peak State. "Now why do you think that would be needless?"

"What more do you need to write about it? The media is full of it."

"Was it better in the pure, exclusively hetero stone age of the, let's see, fifties?" Winston bit back a snarl.

Finn shrugged. "Just seems pointless to me."

"People love a good story."

"And the cause?"

Winston cursed himself for even mentioning the cause. He blamed Elliot for planting the thought in his head in the first place. "The book could start with how you discovered cock." He said.

The look of momentary anger on Finn's beige muzzle tasted sweet. Winston fought against a smug smile probing at his lips. Long seconds of silence passed and then Finn spoke, voice flat and hollow.

"My father discovered it for me."

Winston blinked twice, ears flicking back. Then it started to make sense; the negative, repelling attitude, the lack of family photos, even the job.

Before Winston could say how deeply sorry he was, Finn chuckled and shook his head.

"Just kidding. My dad never laid a finger on me."

God damn him. The fur upon Winston's tail poofed up to twice its thickness.

"Why would you ever joke about that?" He said.

Finn shrugged and emptied half of his beer. Winston took a long gulp, nose wrinkling to the taste. Cheap fucker.

"Okay, now that we've made the rounds of seizing each other up," The fox said, "Let's make it clear. Do you or do you not want to tell your story?"

"What's in it for me?"

Seems that money doesn't smell different in Peak State. Winston laid out the numbers eyeing the shabby furniture pointedly. "Even if it doesn't sell good, you still make cash."

"I'm well off on my own."

"Are you?" Winston perked his ears, intrigued. "How much do you make a year?"

"Enough to pay the bills."

"As a mall-cop?" Winston tried not to put a lot of doubt in his words. It was as difficult as laying off the gas pedal of a Porsche.

"Got a bit of cash saved up on my account." Finn said with a shrug.

"Then what do you need?" Winston said in a light, musical voice and noticed with a sour afterthought he sounded like a trafficker.

"Tell me who tipped you off." The kangaroo said.

Winston didn't like the gleam in his eyes.

"No." He replied, taking comfort in the annoyed expression of the kangaroo.

"Fine. One story. Then you tell me whoever gave you my name."

"Now that's a shitty deal." Winston propped his back against the backseat, mirroring the kangaroo.

"That's the only deal you get today." Finn said but his eyes betrayed him. He wanted to hear that name with a hunger. Elliot, you better not have pissed off this kangaroo.

Winston entertained the staring match for a couple of seconds.

"Okay. I want the story of your fist time. First time with a guy." He added after seeing the kangaroo's relieved expression and had to suppress another smirk. Finn opened his mouth (to protest, maybe?) then closed it and eyed Winston as he produced his trusted textbook and pen from his bag.

"Is that necessary?" The kangaroo said disparaging.

"Do you want me to bring out the tape recorder?" Winston reached towards the open rim of his bag (Björn Borg exclusive collection), already knowing the answer.

"God no." Finn said.

"Then paper and pen it is." Winston crossed his legs, laid the book upon his right calf and clicked the pen. The pose brought him a sense of satisfaction - maybe power? - and banished the lurking question of "what kind of writer he was" away with the anticipation of a good story.

Everything to make the subject talk.

***

The highway shimmers in the heat. My pads would get a second degree burn from standing upon it for a minute without shoes. In the last thirty minutes the asphalt has seen as much action as I've had with my wife in bed. Null.

** *

"You are married?" Winston piped up from his chair, the pen bearing a hole into the last syllable.

"Was." Finn gave him a hard stare. "You wanna let me finish the fucking story or what?"

Winston waved a paw, a magnanimous please do go on.

** *

Even with all windows down, halfway hidden behind the tall wall of corn, I'm panting. Two bottles of mineral waters are sweating next to me, my only solace in this heat. I reach for one every five minutes, bask in the cool salvation for a couple of seconds, then I'm back at staring at the horizon, where the road disappears and dips down the hill. The heat has possibly another half an hour to rampage over the fields, and only when the sun sets would it turn acceptable - habitable.

The radio cracks, then the words follow in quick growl. "Greymane district Highway patrol. Start report." I recognize the voice of my drill sergeant at the Academy. A spine injury took him out of patrolling and educating young knobs, and put him straight behind a desk. The units start responding, only giving a calling ID and a quipped summery.

"K-zero-one here, the road is calm, only minor traffic violations. Over."

"K-zero-two, same here."

And on it goes, at K-twelve I grab the microphone and switch it on. "K-thirteen, road is calm."

The moment I place the plastic device back into its frame, a black BMW dashes through the crossing and the speed meter beeps with a 102 miles per hour.

"Motherfucker..." I mumble and reach for the ignition. The dust coughs under the wheels as I roll over the dirt and climb upon the asphalt. The lights come on with a simple stroke of finger. The BWM is almost at the end of the plateau, eating the yards like a beast. Takes me at least a minute to pull up behind it, then I give the signal, that sick croak of a frog. I'm actually amazed the driver hasn't noticed the flashing blue and red in the rear mirror.

For five seconds nothing changes. The wind is blowing though my patrol car like a hurricane - a reminder to close the windows before entering the chase - and the thought crosses my mind that I'd be so-so fucked if a rattlesnake would fly in to say hello, propelled by either the BMW's or my own tires.

Then it starts to slow down, ninty, eighty, seventy ... until we both end up on the side of road.

I put my sunglasses on, undo the button upon the weapon holster and start the unnerving walk of roulette towards the BWM.

Trey had to choose this day to call in sick - the sixth or seventh time this month - and right now I could very much use his support. I take leisure steps, one paw on my glock, giving the driver ample time to notice the gun, just in case he was thinking something stupid. The license plate says Troy State, the window's tinted glass and the black paint shines spotless. I register with a wave of relief that the driver has both dark furred paws on the wheel.

"Good Day." I say, taking the last step to get a good look at the guy. Then I freeze. Shouldn't that be the other way? Yellow eyes and a pointy muzzle, black as the night, stare up to me. Black wolves just flip a switch inside my brain. The music from Kill Bill is blaring in my head.

His ears are back, nose glistening in the diffuse light. In that moment he could have picked up a gun and sent five bullets into my chest before I could even think of raising my own.

"License and registration." I say, finding my voice and footing once more.

"Yes, sir." The wolf replies, and goes fumbling in the glove compartment. His fur glistens in the late sunshine for a brief moment as he hands the documents over. Only then do I notice my neck is drenched in sweat and a chill works its way upon my back.

His eyes dart over my insignia, my weapon and the plastic cards in my paws. He sure as hell acts a lot more nervous for simple speeding than he should be. Before even looking at the papers I know I'm gonna have the guy do the body and vehicle search.

"You were tearing over a hundred mile an hour. Any reason to explain that?" If possible, his ears fold even lower. I glance at his license - birth 1985, Robert Schumacher - and back at the wolf.Schumacher, speeding with a BMW, really? I'm 'bout to tell him just that when he stutters.

"Sorry, of-officer. I'm late from my cousin's wedding."

I take a long look over his elegant collared polo-shirt and his flimsy shorts. "Would be strange to show up so under-dressed, right? Step out of the car please, I want to see your paws the whole time."

He bites his lips, making him look younger than twenty-four. He does climb out of the seat, hesitantly. Ten seconds later I have him facing the closed trunk of his car, muzzle planted sideways right under the line where the glass meets the framing, legs wide apart tail tucked firmly.

"Are you carrying any sharp objects, illegal substances or weapons?"

"No, sir." He says, quivering, unsure. Good - The thrill of perverse satisfaction make me pause for a second, then my paws move on autopilot while my mind is trying to analyze the climbing power-trip racing through me.

"You got one expensive ride, Mr. Schumacher." I say, unceremoniously taking hold of his tail - the wolf stiffens - and place it to twitch behind his left calf so I can check the other back pocket.

"It was a ... birthday gift from my dad."

The accent is Troy State through and through, I try to ignore the smarting envy. Two years younger and has car I probably won't ever be able to afford.

Done with the body check-up I order the wolf to stand on the side as I search the trunk and the interior of the car. I find nothing but a flashlight, set of wrenches and equipment for a tire-change and engine-oil.

"Where exactly are you hiding the clothes for this wedding?" The deafening "clank" of the trunk flying back into its frame makes him jump.

"My mother packed a suit for me. She and my dad are waiting for me in Cape City."

"Uh-huh, stay there, Mr. Schumacher, I'm gonna run your documents."

Oh what I would give to get a fucking drug dog from the force. I could bet a hundred bucks a shepherd would find something in that BMW. Problem is that most drugs come _from_Troy State, which means if he carried anything before, he has already gotten rid of it.

I enter the numbers and wait for the system to get the information, drumming my claws on the black plastic frame, close to overheating. The wolf in the meanwhile stands as told, tail slowly waking up to a twitch from its previous tucked stupor. It would be a shame to let him go with a ticket.

But all is green and I have to be happy with detracting three points off his driving license. Robert is rocking back and forth on his heel as I make my way back to him and show the thin tube-end of a breathalyzer under his long nose. The wolf is just an inch shy of my height, now I notice, as he stares dumbly back at me.

"You need to blow into that end, Sir."

The breathalyzing test gives a fat 0.00 - the wolf leans forward and cranes his neck to get a glimpse of the numbers and affords a shy smile, his yellow eyes practically glowing. That's when I see the slight red just on the edge of his sclera.

"Sir, have you consumed any illegal substances before driving? Cannabis for example?"

And boy the thrill returns as I watch Robert's ears pull back slowly, tail once more tucking between his legs. I should record the kid and have David Attenborough voice it. I could watch it for days.

"N-no."

"Sir, driving under influence is a felony."

"No-no, sir, I was up late and ... look, my parents are going to kill me if I'm late for the wedding."

"I'm placing you under custody for traffic violation with the suspicion of driving under influence, you have the right to remain silent... " I recite good ol' Miranda and the wolf mouths a silent shit-shit-shit."You can either come with me willingly to the station or you can come in these." I dangle the pair of flexicuffs on the edge of my fingers. They ain't nearly as impressive as the metal cuffs but they make the wolf gulp in worry.

"Man, it's been twelve hours since I ate that cube." Roberts says, his voice the shrill of a plea. The heavy wristwatch on his paw catch the reflection of the setting sun, completing the summary of the typical rich kid. Young wolf living off daddy's money, cruising through college classes without care, aware he would take over the old man's business one day without breaking a sweat, stuffing his nose with weed and prolly all sorts of "powder".

Now, facing the cuffs he _is_breaking a sweat, nostrils and pupils wide as if he were prey.

"My ability to drive wasn't impaired. I'm not high." He puts on a brave face but can't make his ears stand up.

"You're coming with me to the station. Now, same question: with or without handcuffs?"

"Can't you just write me a ticket for speeding? I'm not fucking high." The wolf repeats, voice climbing and gestures animated with his paws. That's what the Academy calls the beginning of escalation. Fuck Trey for leaving me alone to patrolling. "Please?" The wolf adds, voice wavering.

I've misjudged the course of escalation. We are on track to Howl-n'-Cry and not Fuck-the-Police.

"Look, Robert," he sniffs as I say his name for the first time since ordering him out of the car. "We are going calmly back together to the station, make a blood test and record your testimony. If you keep your calm we'll get it done in an hour."

"You need my consent to a test." Robert pipes up in another surge of defiance. Now he actually sounds like he _knows_what he is talking about."

"Yes, I do. But I have ample reason to take you to the station _without_your consent, which brings us to the question: with or without?"

"Jesus ..." He runs a paw through his headfur, looking at his ride, than back at the innocently thin, harmless looking cuffs. "My dad is going to murder me for this."

"Look, it's your first offense. Nobody is going to go that hard on you for speeding and DUI. You will probably get off with a fine and a couple of months of probation. Besides, I don't see how that's going to put a dent on your father's bank account."

"It's not about the money. My dad is a control-freak, he is going to flip... oh, man. What if you don't report the DUI? My skills aren't impaired anyways!" The wolf says in a voice shaking of false hope. I know that tone so well, it comes right before threatening growls.

"You know I can't do that, Robert." I say, trying to sound sympathetic and notice how hard it is when I'm practically getting a hard-on for just thinking of putting the cuffs on his paws.

"Of course you can! Please, I can't get DUI on my records. I'll be kicked out of law-school."

Shit, the kid better not be the pup of a politician or something.

Robert gazes with begging eyes, the sun touching the crown of the farthest corn field of the horizon behind him. A flare of sympathy - genuine, a surprise on its own - surges through me. I squash it before it could kill my joy.

"I'm gonna have to ask you to turn around, Robert, and put your arms behind your back."

"Please, Officer," he reads my name from the breast of my uniform. "Anderson, I'm willing to do anything, just please don't take me in."

I take off my sunglasses to see his face better. Something didn't sound right about the last part. But I should have expected that he'd start bargaining sooner or later. That usually comes when the cuffs are snug and the car door clicks shut in front of the perp's face.

"Robert, I don't have all day to ask nicely to get in the car. We are going to sort this out at the station."

"Anything. I mean it." He repeats.

The drone of bugs becomes so loud in the following strained five seconds I wonder how I didn't hear it earlier. They are having a festival in the crops.

"Robert, I remind you that offering a bribe is a felony, you better chose your next words with care."

He takes another gulp, not daring to take a look at me.

"Now you either get in or I'm going to have to detain you forcefully."

Robert bites his lips, staring absently at my nameplate. Part of me wishes for the wolf to make a stupid move, the other part just wants to get this over with. I think I've given him enough time already to make up his mind.

"Look, you are going to miss the wedding, that you can't change. The sooner we get rolling the sooner your process finishes and the sooner I can go home to my wife and kid."

"You're married? For real?"

Do I imagine the utter awe in his voice? I squint at him, searching his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You are not wearing a ring." He says in a tiny voice, briefly meeting my eyes and looks away immediately. Suddenly I feel as if I were the suspect. The fuck has gotten into this wolf?

"Cruiser. Now." I place a paw upon his shoulder and jerk the other paw at the car, the flashes still on, hoping the physical contact would persuade him.

There we fucking go, one step, three, seven, that's right, careful with your head.

He looks stricken on the backseat, hunching forward with muzzle hanging, I trot back to his car, close the trunk and lock the door, pocketing his key.

Back in the cruiser, the heat still rolling in waves, he asks, "What about my car?"

"I'm gonna call for a tow-truck from the station."

The start of the engine silences his next question. From the rear mirror I watch the wolf dip his head again. Strange, I expected a bit of satisfaction there.

But this one thing keeps bothering me, I realize after the image of the black BMW shrinks to to the size of ant and disappears as the road goes into a long right curve. The setting sun paints Robert's right half blazing dark orange, he jerks when I call to him.

"You were quite shocked to hear I got a wife. I know I married young but is it that surprising?"

He doesn't answer for long seconds. "Yeah. Must be a Peak State thing."

"Wolves in Troy State marry only after college or what?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

Why am I even bothering to talk to the guy? - It occurs to me. Guilt for ruining the wolf's rap sheet? I consider that for a second. Naaah.

I guess the finality of the situation got to him. Then I meet the yellow of his eyes, a curious, inquisitive look from the mirror. He averts them instantly.

"What?" I say, irritated.

"Nothing."

I expect that to be the end, but Robert goes on after a silence that stretches through minutes and miles. "You just didn't struck as a mated guy."

My first genuine reaction is a frown. Then I roll around Robert's words in my head and stop at one sentence: "I'm willing to do anything."

Robert keeps looking through the window on his right in that awkward hunching position. He can't rest his legs or back, the seat serves to make the ride uncomfortable and constricting. I want to haul his ass back out unto the roadside and demand to know what he meant with willing to do anything.

"Look at me."

He does, grudgingly, first at my shoulders, then meets my eyes in the mirror.

"Why the hell would you come to that conclusion?"

Robert tips his ears back. "You ... you looked at me, well, interested."

"Huh?" I crane my neck around, like in that meme with The Rock. The road has become ruler-straight and I'm keeping at a safe fifty an hour so I can afford that. "What?"

"You touched my tail." The wolf says, trying to put a distance between us. He has an inch or two, then the seat starts digging into his back.

"Your tail was in the way." I turn back to face the road again. Jesus, if he mentions this at the station I won't hear the end of it from the guys.

"You touched at the base. Is that protocol?" He sounds bitter now. Did I shatter some kind of cop fantasy of his? I better put an end to this before he dishes out some kind of sexual harassment at the station.

"I had no intention to make you uncomfortable or communicate ... non-verbally communicate interest. In you." Never thought I would be saying that to an apprehended man, most of all, to a wolf.

"That doesn't explain the look you gave me."

Fuck every wolf on the planet. I step on the brakes enough to rattle the car and make the tires wail. Whoa, haven't done that in years. With a much gentler touch I park the cruiser on the side.

"What's that supposed to mean?" The wolves on the force I can tolerate - not that I have much of a choice there - but my patience with this one is wearing thin.

Roberts' hackles are up, fur standing on edge, nostrils wide. In the canine behavior class at the Academy I've watched hundreds of such slides.

Then he hangs his head and refuses to meet my eyes.

"We ain't moving a yard until you spit it out." I almost ask if I have to beat it out of him (which would mean the end of my career on the force) when he finally mumbles.

"You looked at me ... like you wanted me. Then you touched my tail, then my shoulder and..."

"What look? The fuck are you talking about? I didn't give you the let's fuck look!"

His ears strain back, more from the volume of my voice than the swearing. The guidelines of treating the arrested person with respect is out the window. So is my worry if I'm breaking rules. I wish I had let him go with a simple ticket, the wolf would be speeding towards his god damned wedding or dealer and I'd be pondering on the way home if my wife was going to talk to me tonight at all.

Instead I'm yelling at a fucking wolf on the backseat in the middle of nowhere. Despite the surrealism of the situation I want to know.

"What did you mean when you said you'd do anything?"

I consider hitting the mesh wall to gain his attention, much like a petulant child does at the zoo, hurt that the exhibit wasn't giving a shit about him.

"You need a dictionary to the word: anything?" Robert says, watching me from the corner of his eyes, in the last minutes he managed to press himself tight against the door. "You don't know my dad. I'm seriously fucked. So yeah, I was going to do anything to get away. But now you are going to make the report..."

"And you thought offering me ... whatever, was worth staying in daddy's good grace?" The logic is beyond me.

"Yeah, I would blow you on the spot if that's what it took."

The image forces itself into my mind and there is no fighting it off. I'm twenty years too young to get a heart attack, but that one thought makes my chest painfully tight.

"I'm not that kind of a cop." I say, putting as much iron into it as I can, and almost smack my head, because I should have said: I'm not a fag.

Robert shrugs, his eyes glowing like the moon upon the sky. He would make a great cop with those eyes.

"Right." He says after seconds of strangling silence.

"What was that?" My heart decides to move into my throat.

"Would you just drive? I'm ... I just want this to be over." Robert growls, its the growl of a frightened wolf.

"How about you don't break the law?" I snap back at him, my claws burrow into the leather of the steering wheel and the cruiser rolls onto the asphalt once more. The fields are getting darker around us and the first stars begin to twinkle. God I haven't been this riled up since the academy's stress exercises. The nerve this fucking wolf has...

"I can smell you, you know."

I feel the rage building up, like the mercury of the haemodynamometer climbs, so I use the breathing technique for anger management to calm down. I can feel his eyes on my fucking fur.

"You better keep quiet now, wolf." Slowly breathe in, then out, repeat until...

"The seat stinks but I can still pick up on your scent."

Problem is: the wolf does have a point. I'm not having an erection, yet, but something close to it. I don't know if it's the oblique conditioning by my wife - we have the craziest make up sex after a quarrel - or I'm just excited by the idea of a male wolf going down on me. Maybe both. Or maybe... don't even go there, my right mind tells me.

"You're gonna' spend the night there if you don't shut up."

My warning falls on deaf ears. Robert has reached his limit too.

"Or maybe you could get your head out of your ass and just admit it. What's so wrong with that?"

And I'm back to yelling, matching the wolf's tone. "How about you don't offer yourself like a piece of meat?"

"I told you I thought you wanted it. How am I at fault?"

I'm used to junkies throwing a fit back there, but this is something else. That's when I spot the next intersection and I decide on something terrible. I don't even have time to digest the sheer aggression behind my resolution. I only feel this vibrating, exuberant anticipation to solve the tight tension in my body. My paws steer the cruiser onto the turn-out.

The wolf doesn't suspect a thing. Yet.

"Do you think you would enjoy it? Being at the mercy of another man?" I say, watching the road with glassy eyes.

"Just forget it."

Reaching down to my weapon holster with my right, I click the safety-lock on. Two hundred yards later I start slowing down. That gets the wolf's attention. Around us the cornfields stand tall and thick. Not a soul in sight.

"Why are you stopping?"

The next series of action - opening the door, rounding the car and looking around one last time to make sure no one is nearby - executes my brain automatically. Every other nerve is focused on what happens when I let the wolf out.

"What are you doing?" Robert backs away from the door. Futile.

My paws are shaking but its a god damned high. Still, I can't tell if it's anticipation or fury. I haul Robert out of the car, gripping the scruff of his neck, pulling hair and bruising skin with my claws. He struggles for a second, before his knees meet the ground, one arm twisted behind his back. Without me holding him, his muzzle would turn up the ground like a plough.

I'm getting off on this. Shit.

"This happens when you decide to suck cock, Robert." I say, voice hoarse. I get the feeling the crickets stopped and are looking at us. They are watching the show of cop kangaroo losing his marbles.

Robert whines out, long and begging.

"Does it make it worth?" I let go of his paws. Surprisingly, he stays there like a statue. "Is it fun to kneel and have some man tower over you? Now imagine someone sticking his fucking prick into your mouth while you crouch on the ground. Is it still appealing? Do you still wanna blow me?"

It dawns on me, slowly, that I've assaulted and humiliated a civilian. I can hand my badge to the chief at the station and click the cuffs on my own paws. On the ground Robert is panting, his black fur making him look bulkier. Even as the cold feeling creeps into my chest I'm thinking, deep down: it was worth it. He will fucking think about it the next time.

Then he lungs at me with surprising strength. I reach for my gun and realize I shouldn't be worried about the wolf aiming for it. He had another plan in mind.

"Aaaah." Before this day only my wife and girlfriends made me moan like that. I look down, balancing with my left on the door of the cruiser, still open, an watch Robert rub his nose and muzzle over my uniform pants.

That's not what I wanted. - Whispers something in the back of my head. The whole argument in the car, the yelling turns pointless. Robert makes soft noises, murrs of appreciation as he buries his snout at the base of my erection. Thoughtless concentration is plastered over his face, he looks more sure of himself than I could've ever imagined. No, _ this _, I could've never imagined.

There is no use of trying to stop his paws, my protest comes half a second too late anyways - a shaking 'Wait, don't...'- as his claws undo my belt and pull my pants and underwear down with a firm move.

He doesn't waste time and unsheathes me, the night air barely touching my skin, and engulfs the head of my erection.

Robert must not have done this many times before. He gags, sooner than I expect, but carries on, licking, slurping, gripping my hips with all ten claws out, as if I could - or would ever - pull away. He had me the moment his nose brushed against my dick beneath two layer of cloths.

The tension leaves my arms and chest to relocate down south. I put a paw upon his shoulder while still gripping the upper edge of the car door and wonder about giving a stroke to those upright ears. I haven't seen them stand tall ever since ordering him out of his car.

He had quieted down, only his paws and clothes susurrate with his movements, wet sounds coming from his lips. I open my eyes every once in a while and see the pink of my shaft disappear between the white fangs of his dark muzzle. Doesn't take long and my hips start twitching, my breathing turns shallow.

I can't prolong it. Not after two months of celibacy and cold shoulders from Angie. Yeah, she is to blame - I almost chuckle at that loose thought. My hips tense and I'm free of marital and moral problems...

For about twenty seconds and eight or nine spurts.

Then the thoughts flood right back in. I find the wolf sitting on his haunches, vague lines of white streaking through the fur under his chin.

Jailtime. That's the minimum. The post-orgasm bliss is holding off the true terror and weight of those thoughts, but not for long. And slowly, disgust overwhelms me.

At me. At the wolf. At my wife.

The funny thing: he looks more at peace, covered in seed, hunching in the dirt than I feel standing, towering above him. As if Robert had his dick sucked and not the other way around.

Then he opens his eyes and the true meaning of my actions hit me. I've humiliated another being.

We are also out in the fucking open. With record speed I pull my pants up, catching fur with the belt. I'm shaking again, I notice, rounding the wolf, each step as unsure as if I were drunk. Then I shove my gun into the glovebox. Robert could have gotten hold of it at every second while he... while he was blowing me.

God, that will take time to digest. Even so because Robert proved me wrong. Or I proved myself wrong. I shouldn't be even thinking about that right now, because I have a wolf with my seed drying on his fur. Evidence, says a mirthful voice in my head.

"Robert." I say. No answer. He is still kneeling there. "Robert." I try more firmly.

"What." The wolf says, unreadable.

"Get up." It's nigh impossible to return to the original roles. I can't play the cop, not after turning my back on my oath of 'to serve and to protect'.

Robert shakes visibly as he stands, his tongue licking over his nose and lips. I could point out he should try a couple of inches lower but he finds the remains of my orgasm with his fingers. Then comes the low whine of frustration because he just smears it in and over his fur and can't get rid of it.

I'm nearing the point of breaking down. If we don't get rolling NOW then - what is the plan actually? There is no fucking patent solutions in the book for this.

It turns too painful to watch his fight against slowly drying spunk, so I pop the trunk and give him the first piece of cloth that comes close to being clean. He accepts is without a word.

Cigarettes. That's what I need. Trey keeps a pack somewhere in the car. Miraculously, I find it in ten seconds under the ammo box and give thanks. The first puff of smoke burns my nose. Two years of being nicotine-free goes down the drain, following my principles and career.

I'm through half of it when the wolf clears his throat, his eyes glinting in the darkness. "Can I bum one?"

Post-coital cigarette with the male I terrorized minutes ago... I can't bear to look at him so I just hand the whole package over with the lighter, close the trunk and sit on it, facing the highway from which we came from.

The phrase of taking the wrong road comes to me. I flick it away with the ash, the heat slowly reaching the warning level between my index and middle finger. From the corner of my eyes I see the wolf's polo-shirt and shorts wrinkle next to me as he sits - both grey in the creeping night - I can't make out the edge of his fur. Makes him look taller and larger, the tip of the cigarette flares from where I expect the tip of his muzzle.

"I don't even like smoking." Robert says.

"I do. Way too much." The crickets strike up their serenade again. "Was it true? You've eaten the cube twelve hours ago?"

Inhale, exhale. Robert's weight rocks the car as he fidgets. For a second I fear he would touch me. I don't know if I could stand that. I'm still tense like a string pulled too tight before the concert.

"Yeah." He says, staring at the burning light in his paw "Friend offered me after passing the exam."

"Shit." The acrid smoke is making my stomach turn. Maybe not just that. "I'm taking you to the nearest rest stop to clean up. Then back to your car."

My whole future hangs in the silence that follows.

"No arrest?"

"Not after what I've done." I feel his stare on my muzzle. "You can report me at any station if that's what you want."

And I thought my heart couldn't reach another gear of tachycardia. Drum-drum-drum, pulses through my ears.

"Yeah, that crossed my mind."

Life does have humor. In twenty minutes our roles have changed so much. Now, he has me by the tail. I should give him the handcuffs. It would be poetic justice to have Robert Schumacher, wolf born in 1985, deliver me in my own cruiser. It would be national news by tomorrow.

"I won't do that." The wolf says, voice turning a bit hoarse and he has to clear his throat again.

"No?"

"No."

I don't need an explanation. He can change his mind whenever he wants anyways, but somehow I believe he won't.

"We should get going." I say, the darkness and the smell of wolf slowly unnerving me. I have to drive his tail to the rest stop - ten minutes there, another twenty back to his car - and I have to return the cruiser for the next shift. If we hurry I can just make it. "You are riding next to me."

In the car the light stings my eyes, now I see how bad of job Robert made of cleaning up but don't say a word about it.

"Seatbelt." I warn him, done with mine, the car already rolling. The interior light fades as I switch on the headlights. The wind whips away the stale scent in the car, clears my head from smoke and shakes up the clotted memories in my mind. I've kept repeating the scenes before my eyes without order, jumping from yelling at the wolf to moaning above him, gripping his fur ... without end, getting more and more lost in it. In the car, barreling with ninety miles an hour, wakes me up from that stupor.

"I'm sorry." The words slip out before I could bite my tongue.

"What?" Robert turns his head from gazing out the window on his side.

"Nothing."

Soon I spot the sign and the first lights on the road. I navigate the cruiser through the empty lot, parking close to the restroom. Robert jogs off in a hurry, not that anyone could see us, and disappears behind the door with a blue, vague but definitely male sign.

Questions keep firing at my skull, lots of hows and whys; how could you do that to him, why did you let it happen.

Is he taking a fucking shower in there? Clean the spunk out of your fur and get the fuck going.

Then the questions reach the continuous whine, the same where the program on the TV ends and that fucking lame ass signal stares back at you. The whine in my head says: Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, what the fuck?

None of the would have happened if Trey had been here...

Without thinking I hammer a paw down on the wheel. Then the pain starts throbbing. That finally settles me down, I prop my muzzle into my left paw and stare at the last, distant light that leads back onto the highway, flickering ever five seconds.

Did that god damned wolf slip on the tiles and lost consciousness? He better not be bleeding out in there...

No, he gets to have all the time in the world after psychotic kangaroo went nuts on him. And you, post-psychotic kangaroo ... now what on earth could you do to forget all of this?

Claws scratch the door and the next second Robert's dark frame slips in, smelling of cheap soap and wet fur. I nod at him, he does the same in return.

***

"Then I dropped him off at his car, drove back to the station, got a lift from a colleague back to my house. End."

Winston stared at the spot of white on the wall, right behind the kangaroo's blonde ears. His paws still but aching. He wasn't aroused but he would've been if taking everything on paper hadn't have required all his attention.

Opposite him, the kangaroo was trying his best not to look at him, staring off into the distance, still clutching the beer bottle. He didn't seem to be sorry or moved by reliving those memories. He delivered the story with a calm resignation. As if they were in an AA meeting and had just finished the round of "shit that I did drunk". That had bothered the fox the most. It simply didn't fit.

"Now I have one big problem. A part doesn't make sense for me."

Finn looked at him as if he were an idiot. Then shrugged. Winston went on.

"I don't think the calm, collected kangaroo officer would loose his cool because of a gay wolf making a pass on him. I can't imagine you would hoick any suspect outa' the car to teach a lesson." Maybe for a better reason, he added silently, maybe.

Winston thought about the kangaroo's resume. 3 years of SWAT, 2 years low security, 1 year high security prison duty, 5 years on the Peak State police force. Two years forensic psychiatry. Impulsive guys don't pull that off. They can't pull that off.

"You got your story." Finn said and Winston cringed at the sheer amount of disgust in the last word. "Who talked?"

"Elliot Barnes." Winston replied but the expected effect didn't come.

Finn focused his eyes on the far corner of the room, his face scrunched up in a slight frown.

"Elliot Barnes. Who the fuck is that?"

Winston had to stifle a laugh. See Elliot. That's how fucking remarkable you are. Pulitzer my red ass.