FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The dark blue pickup rumbled and lumbered down the old dirt road alongside the triple-beamed fence that surrounded the far outskirts of the homestead. The well-used tires kicked up dirt as the once-sleek 2020 model, relegated to an old farm workhorse, made its way back from town. At the wheel a strapping colt in his late-teens tapped his hooved fingers along the steering wheel, in time with the ancient bluegrass CD that got stuck in the player somewhere around 2037. Even with the left side speaker blown out, he always loved these trips to town on behalf of the Steadowner, they were a chance to get off the farm and to let his guard down. And besides, there was always perks of getting some alone time with the merchandise. His wandering mind caused his head to glance idly back at the pickup bed, the hardtop cover still locked down fine over his precious cargo. Shame he wouldn't get a little more time with that ass, he thought as the hammering sound of a banjo and fiddle signaled the start of the next song.

The built-up small town of Sterling had long since faded, the farm supply stores and agricultural co-op buildings long since melted away into rolling countryside. Like clockwork though, the moment he rounded the curve down by the river, the one that always washed out in the springtime melt, the handheld radio in his passenger seat crackled to life. As usual, the colt ignored the voices on the other end for as long as possible, letting his brown mane tossle in the gentle breeze and his mind take in the idyllic scenery. Until he hit the edge of the homestead proper, and he noticed the tiniest glint of reflected sunlight off the top of the old water tower, letting him know he'd been spotted.

"Welcome back, Chase, you have a good time out on the town?" the voice on the radio called out, the static dissipating the closer the truck got to the homestead. The horse fumbled a hand into the side seat for a moment and fished up the handheld to respond.

"Well not like I stopped to have a beer or nothing." Off in the distance the glimmer of sunlight on glass eased off as the watchman got his confirmation.

"At least we got the weekend to look forward to, eh? Tower calling Bruno. Alpha, Sir, delivery inbound ETA ten minutes." The watch crew always had to rush the handoff didn't they? Chase rolled his eyes and nudged the gas, letting his radio fall back to the seat side as he focused on getting back on time.

The blue pickup bounced over a set of cattle strips, gaining just a little air when the wheels hit the runoff rut on the other side, a little reminder he made it back to long dirt road that led to the main farm complex. To his left, the Steadowner's house stood proud and large, a testament to the family who had organized the farm so long ago. To the right, the large barn complex, with stall and feedlot space for plenty of cattle. Cattle, of course, was a loose term in this situation. And of course to the rear of that building, creating a sort of communal space and unloading zone was the "Dog House," otherwise known as the Security Barracks. Chase carefully tugged at the bright red arm band worn around his left shoulder as he came up to the edge of the common area, a small checkpoint manned by a rifle armed, brown furred puma wearing a black leather collar and the same armband. The two of them were 'farm hounds,' functionaries entrusted with the daily processes and security of the farm.

Chase, of course, was a known member, and was given hardly more than a wave inside. He pulled up on the gravel-lined parking area and threw the old truck into park, before stepping out and stretching his legs at long last. The colt wouldn't be left waiting for long, as he found himself quickly approached by a burly canine, and backed up by a bristle-coated boar. Chase wasn't quite sure if he was of Red Wolf or Eurasian Wolf stock, but the beastly animal sported the same red armband he did. What differed, however, was his black leather collar engraved with intricate knots and inlays befitting of a high-level operations manager. The boar, by contrast, was decked out in far more simple attire, a metal collar padlocked at a hinge point, and a black leather ankle cuff. It was obvious he was of Cattle stock himself, though the use of the term cattle was often a misnomer. While technically their meat was always on the line, many of those living as beasts of burden upon the farm were valued for their labor, their work was a backbone of making the farm tick.

"Afternoon, Alpha Bruno. Rockwell." Chase said lowering his head to his superior before stepping towards the tailgate of the truck.

"Welcome back, Chase, I trust there wasn't any trouble with the purchase today?" The wolf said with a toothy grin as he pulled a leather lined binder out, casually flipping to a bill of lading for the order. Chase lifted the hardtop cover to his truck bed revealing his prize, two large metal cages, both locked into place with bolts to keep them stationary in the back of the truck. Inside each cage sat a somewhat bewildered, gagged and well restrained creature, a fox in the driver's side cage and a weasel in the passenger side. They both looked worn down and exhausted from being inside the hot and enclosed truck bed, their arms and legs carefully locked in a sort of kneeling spread eagle to four corners of the cage. The position would force each one to kneel upright, yet put most of their weight on their core muscles. By now they were nearly hanging by their shackles, ensuring there would be no fiddling with the locks or trying to escape.

"Not in the least, Sir. That broker we've been working with has done a good job breaking them before the transfer."

"Oh don't worry, they always break. Unfortunately, we're going to need your help again this afternoon." The wolf smiled as he reached a hand out and rested it softly on the weasel's flank, his clawed fingers caressing through the short and soft fur. "...I'm sorry if the broker told you tales of living a fine life on this farm, cutie... but we got an order in today that you're going to fill."

"Quartered and broken into primals..." grunted the boar in a far less flattering tone as he stepped up and helped Alpha Bruno undo the bolts and lift the cage of now struggling weasel out of the truck. "I dunno what they want such lean meat for, never been a fan of mustelid steaks myself." The poor creature inside began to jerk in a nervous panic, tugging at his restraints enough to make the cage wobble between the two. But by this stage of the process there wouldn't be an easy rescue for the terrified beast.

"High brow meat, not for my taste. Gimme a fatty pork roast any day..." The wolf growled before licking his chops and adding, "...no offence, Rockwell."

"Eh, you want to replace the best butcher on the farmstead, go ahead and retire me to the oven." The boar shot back with a little smirk. "Chase, it won't take long. Go grab yourself a bite and I'll have this one broken down." The colt nodded and scampered off at the first chance he could to attend to his hunger. Most of the 'farm hounds' and indeed many of the Cattle who were not being kept on feedlot regimens, were given the opportunity to eat at a sort of outdoor canteen organized by the domestically inclined members of the Farmstead. Here was one of the few neutral territories in the household, where superior and slave could intermingle with some level of comfort. Chase quickly fell into the chow line just as a hearty pot of chili was being set to warm over a slow fire. A workman's meal of beans, corn, onion, tomatoes and beautiful spices to round out the meal. Of course, when he asked who the meat came from, he could never get a straight answer. The head chef, a proud and motherly lop rabbit doe sporting an honorary red armband (for her insistence she would never take a turn in the pot, would always tell him it was from a horse about his age.

But despite a few of his fellows beckoning him to play dice, Chase declined and took his food back across the dusty loading zone to the barn. Quietly learning up against the front bumper of his truck, the colt had a prime view of the life and death show. He wasn't a sadist, not by a long shot. But the young buck knew that business was business, and it was expected that he should learn how the process worked. He couldn't do that without seeing how the sausage was made, quite literally. Taking a bite of his chili, he quietly observed as the boar guided a chain-operated hoist, hung from one of the barn rafters overhead, until it settled near the open back side of the cage. The weasel was obviously mewling and whimpering, a mix of panic coupled with an understanding that his life was marked in minutes. With the help of Alpha Bruno the two would work with cold, practiced efficiency, unlatching the restraint on one ankle and securing it to the hoist. Then the other. Each time the terrified weasel tried to take advantage of the momentary freedom, but quickly found himself uselessly restrained by both legs.

As the hoist began to lift once again, the weasel's lithe body was dragged upwards, twisting as his shackled wrists bore the brunt of his own weight. As his rump crested outside the cage the remaining shackles were released, allowing his whole body to slide out of the cage and dangle helplessly. There was only one real attempt at lashing out, a jab that nearly caught the boar's chin, before Alpha Bruno managed to wrench both arms back behind his body and tie them at the wrist. It wasn't pretty but there was no need for it to be. No sooner had Alpha Bruno twisted the last knot did the boar walk back into view with the knife, the glint of honed steel flashing in his hand as his other hand settled a galvanized tub underneath the hanging side of meat.

Chase had always imagined that those entrusted with butchery and slaughter, or any processing of meat, followed the stereotype of the coldhearted anthro-butcher, cruelly honing his knife in front of the helpless victim. Rockwell bucked every convention. His free hand would grip the wide-eyed weasel behind the shoulder, bracing his back. A second later the knife plunged, a hot spurt of arterial blood spraying out in a fine gush from the wound. There was no cruelty, no sadism, not even a sexual tease. This was processing, just business. With a practiced hand the boar guided his knife from ear to ear, severing the weasel's windpipe, veins and arteries in one go, leaving the gaping neck to flop open, his head staring down into the basin below. Whatever plea he was making quickly turned into sloppy, gurgling noises as blood pulsed and flowed out of his body. The colt found himself staring transfixed at the sight, a living creature, hung and bleeding out before him.

Rockwell stood, turning his head and spitting on the ground, the hot blood having spattered across his face and body. Without waiting for the struggles to stop he would plunge the knife into the weasel's pubic mound, carefully carving a downward cut from belly to rib cage, popping open the struggling diaphragm with his knife in order to snake a hand up into the chest cavity. Even Chase could see the gentle vibrations the beating heart made upon the boar's body, even as the strong pound began to fade. The last the weasel would feel was the sensation of his guts and organs being slopped out from his own body, the bloody offal disconnected at the windpipe before being allowed to fall out against him. It was an unceremonious end, getting slapped in the face with his own lungs and guts, but the embarrassment quickly faded to black as the last twitches ceased.

A few hours later Chase would return to the barn to find his truck unloaded for him, the fox he had delivered had been taken out long ago. Even though he hadn't seen the death of his weasel companion, he heard every moment of it. It was a worthwhile teaching tool. Rockwell grunted as he lifted the neatly packed cooler up into his truck bed. The side was marked with the contents, 'Weasel, 85 lbs, Dressed.'

"All ready for you, Chase. Alpha Bruno left the delivery instructions in the passenger seat." The boar said with a loud snap as the tailgate closed. But before Chase could say a word the boar turned and pressed his stocky form against his superior. His tone hushed and the butcher growled, "I'm gonna give you a warning now. If you're gonna fuck the meat, don't fuck the incoming stock. Our customers don't take too kindly to finding a load in their dinner, and if this had been a live-roaster, you'd have had some explaining to do." The boar grunted in the colt's face before adding, "...I get it, you've got some raging hormones. Do it in the barn. Understood?" Chase could just nod as the boar, ostensibly his inferior, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and one more on the ass, to send him on his second run of the day.