FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Revenge of the Furries

I

2167:

My name is Wesley Evers II (after my step-father) I'm 33 years old, I am what's called a "smart" Vulpine Furrie. Basically "smart" means that you are now reading this because I wrote it. As for "Vulpine", that's self-explanatory -- I resemble a red fox in my physical characteristics (exception: my sky-blue eyes -- a left-over human trait). While I can stand and even run on my hind legs, that leaves me looking almost straight up, and I get a sore neck from looking ahead for too long, so I prefer to walk on all fours most of the time. As for my appearance, I'm not completely satisfied with it. Too many human characteristics; I wish I looked more like a real fox...

As for what a Furrie is...

Unlike most of history, my story has a definite starting point in time. This would be in the 180th year of the Second Republic: 1956. Now I know what you're thinking, and you'd be correct: there were no Furries so long ago. Allow me to explain, so stay with me here.

This was the year in which one M. King Hubbert published his now infamous "Hubbert Curve". Hubbert was what was once called a "petro-geologist". His area of expertise was the productivity of oil fields. Hubbert was trying to find out just how many oil wells per field would be the optimum. Too few, and too much oil would stay underground. Too many, and each well would steal oil from its neighbors. He found that each well, each field, followed a definite pattern. Phase I would be the beginning of tapping a new field. Few wells meant limited production. As more wells were drilled, production would rise to a peak in Phase II. During Phase III, production declined. Sometimes swiftly, sometimes slowly, until the field became a net energy loser. This would be followed by its becoming economically nonviable and abandoned. The Hubbert Curve followed a Gaussian distribution. He extrapolated his findings over many fields, and ultimately, all of the world. He demonstrated that the world was not only running out of oil, but also how fast. He predicted that the Third Republic would hit peak oil in around 1970. He was right. Just three years later, the Third Republic had its first "oil crisis". Did the stupid humans heed this warning? No they did not! They told themselves that there would be new discoveries of oil when it was needed, that it was just "doomsday nonsense", that new energy sources would be discovered as if by magic, that the "good times" would roll on forever. They could have averted the disaster had they begun making preparations right then.

They did not do this. Instead, their irresponsible leaders told them that nothing was wrong. The one human who tried to tell the truth about oil was vilified and humiliated. No one bothered to try again. Then came the first of the oil wars at the turn of the 21st century. Even this failed to warn these humans. Precious resources that should have been devoted to developing alternatives to oil, which would soon be gone, were used instead to fight over control of the vanishing resource. The leaders promised Moon trips and Mars landings, their version of "Bread and Circuses" to divert the attention of the humans from the looming disaster that they could have prevented. The Second Republic collapsed in its 234th year. Its last foolish leader, and the mad-men that called his policies, failed to consider that one can not build an empire on credit. The revitalized European Union called in its debts, and so did China, and caused a financial collapse of unprecedented proportions.

Here is where spectacularly evil minds went to work. It was obvious that there were simply too many humans. It was decided that two out of every three had to die. The Great Eastern War, involving India, China, Pakistan, Korea, and Japan certainly did its part. You say you never heard of such places? I am not surprised, not after the atomic wars. The Fourth Republic's leaders had plans to evacuate the cities, which would soon become unlivable anyway once the lights went out for the last, and final, time the trucks stopped rolling, and civic society broke down completely. Or use the pretense of a "terrorist" attack to infect millions of humans with diseases while calling it "vaccination". This never happened since an easier way was found: infect all the dogs, and let "man's best friend" spread the infection to their owners and others. Legally required "rabies" vaccination was the means. Of course, all the dogs, foxes, wolves, etc. died off as well. But it worked, the "excess" humans were eliminated, so as not to put a strain on what resources remained. Now the surviving "beautiful people", who engineered the disaster, could live in their luxurious redoubts, supported by a remnant population of economic slaves. What little oil was left could keep them going for another couple of centuries. Of course, they felt that what they'd done was a good thing: they saved "Mother Earth", the rain forests and North American woods needn't be burned to support the surplus population. The air was cleaner, the water purer. There was just one thing missing: companion animals. That's where we Furries come in.

We were created out of their own DNA to serve this purpose. So we were genetically engineered to look like the "cute" critters they had destroyed: foxes, wolves, otters, skunks. The first Furries emerged from the labs in 2092. However humans, being the fuck-ups they are, couldn't get this right. Sure, most Furries have nothing more than mere animal intelligence. However, some Furries had a level of intelligence matching that of their creators. Somewhere, somehow, there remained enough genetic code to cause "run away" growth of cerebral neurons. At first, this was thought to be cute: a baby Furrie whose animal sounds grew more and more like human talk. Kind of like a parrot, or so they thought. Then came the debates: was it really mindless mimicry, or did we really know what we were talking about? Many tried to deny this possibility, however, the truth became all too obvious. Then there was another, nastier, debate: what to do about this. Since we were their creation, it was decided, that they could "morally" use, abuse, and discard us however they pleased. Man is created in the image of the human god, and Furries were created in the image of man, therefore, it was perfectly acceptable. There's just one little detail overlooked: we were never consulted about this. The leaders of the Third Republic passed its Public Order 11011, making it a crime to educate a Furrie. In this manner, they hoped to use us as a more compliant slave. The "beautiful people" were satisfied, now that the burden of the less favored could be lightened, the hoi polloi were happy to have that burden lightened. However, it didn't work out that way. Even a slave, in the course of his work, learns a trick or two.

II

Do not get the idea that I hate all humans, just 999 out of every thousand. Take a couple of exceptions: my step-parents, for example: Wesley and Ariana Evers. Do you think it strange for a Furrie to speak in such terms? Allow me to explain. Wesley's father, David, knew what was coming. Having made a fortune in software in the good times, he bought this land in the farthest reaches of the Second Republic, in a place called "Nevada". Far from the cities, highways, and the notice of the law. Our farm house here in the bad lands is pretty self-sufficient. We raise some chickens and pigs, and have our own bio-gas plant to fuel the generator. There is also solar power, and our own steam-driven farm vehicles. Wes inherited the place, and brought his young bride Ariana to live here. However, they went childless. Perhaps it had something to do with the radiation from the Eastern War? The bio-weapons unleashed on the Continent? Who knows? So they made the trip to what's left of what was once known as Carson City and bought a Furrie kit for companionship. They were in their 50s by this time, and the hope of children was gone forever. It was supposed to be not possible to buy a "smart" Furrie, and so I spent the first days of my life with them as a common pet. I slept in the cellar, so they tell me, until I started saying words when I was about six months old or so. (This, I do not remember at all. My first conscious memory is lying in a kiddie bed, looking up at this mobile with these plastic birds. To this day, I can still see the plastered over hole where it hung. I don't know whatever happened to that: probably ruined it by trying to catch those birds -- fox instincts, you know.) When they realized what they had, I was given the room and all the furniture they had intended for a child. I became the child they never had. Ariana read to me every night, and at first the words made no sense. Then I began to understand. Regardless, I looked forward to "story time". They taught me how to read (a serious crime at the time, as it still is, but they didn't care.) I ate with them, right at the table. Even if it wasn't always the same food, still, I learned manners, to use the silverware, even how to say "Grace" to the human god. They taught me what I know of history, science, mathematics, literature. I am well ahead of most humans in these things.

Still, life with a Furrie has its own peculiarities. For example, when I caught and brought home my first jackrabbit. I rang the doorbell, and mother opens the door, and there I am: wagging my tail proudly, with my catch in my mouth. Needless to say, I wasn't expecting her reaction. Such "boyhood antics", as father called them, aren't something parents of human children get to experience. Still, I got to dine on fresh rabbit that evening. (I don't care what they say, trust me on this: "Furrie Chow" isn't that good.) Nor is it always easy for the Furrie. Do you realize just how bad the stench is within human homes? They positively stink, but they don't seem to realize that. Wes and Ariana wondered why I was always opening all the windows to air the place out. They didn't notice the odors. Also, I have always had a problem with squeaky door hinges. I was always oiling them even though they insisted that they couldn't hear anything. Well, I could, the "Ultrasonics" (to them) make my teeth itch.

They used to dress me in these kiddie clothes. I still have a pic of myself -- I'd guess no more than two or three -- sitting on this little tricycle, wearing this silly blue and white sailor outfit. (I mean really: we're in the middle of a desert.) This is "the cuteness", probably from the Old Times. Anyway, I had my first "identity crisis" when I was ten or so. It was dawning on me that I didn't look the same, and that I was not going to "out grow" my looks. I'd assumed that all human children started out being furry. I'd look at my parents' round eyes, so unlike my fox-eyes, with their narrow, vertical slits for pupils. I was too different to be one of them. For awhile, I stopped referring to my parents as "mom" and "dad". Of course, they were wondering what was up with the moodiness, the sudden emotional distance. Finally I let it out: "You're not my father! I'm not one of you!" Father set me down to explain:

"No you're not 'one of us'. You are a Furrie (first time I heard that term). So what? That's just on the outside. It's what's inside that counts. If you don't start a fight, but you always finish one; if you stand up for the weaker, and don't take any shit from the stronger; if you can do what you say, you ain't braggin'; if your word is your bond, your pawshake good as a contract; you admit your mistakes and take responsibility for them, take and give credit when it's due, you will earn something no one will ever take from you: your self-respect, and my pride in calling you my son.

"And don't you doubt that your mother and I couldn't love you more even if you were our biological child." He was one of the good ones. I still miss him.

Thereafter, I decided to explore my furriness. I looked up information on my "kind" in the family library, reading up on the red fox. Even though I soon discovered the real truth of my origins, I still consider myself to be more Vulpes vulpes than Homo sapiens. OK, I suppose I can compromise: Vulpes sapiens. I made a decision that I would live more like a real fox, that I would not wear human clothing, after all, it's hot enough already, I don't need clothes since my "clothing" is "built-in": my long reddish/orange fur. At least the genetic engineers who created we "Vulpos" got the look right. Nor do I need footwear: my digitigrade feet already come complete with pads. All that remained was to toughen 'em up by going barefoot all the time. Nor was "decency" a consideration as my "equipment" is quite concealed, unless I stick my dick out, just like that of a real fox. This is especially true if I stay on all fours, which I prefer to do most of the time. I also gave in to my residual fox-instincts more than I had. Mother and father allowed me this, and I soon forgot about whatever problems I may have had as for being an adoptee.

This is also the year that they outlawed smart Furries. As I said, we did not make good, compliant slaves. We weren't worth the bother. Nor could they tolerate our existence. Or recognize that that which they'd created was now their equal. Not only was my education a crime, I, my very existence, was a crime. I had to learn the ways of the dumb Furrie, so that I could fake it. The dreaded Department of Animal Regulation and Control was organized to hunt down all smart Furries. Anyone having one was required to turn it in.

One night, there was a disturbance outside, and father killed the generator, grabbed his shotgun and went out to investigate, as we sometimes had trouble with raiders. Instead, he found a frightened Otter Class Furrie trying to hide under the front porch. "Don't shoot me" he pleaded, "Please: I want to live!". He explained that Animal Control was hot on his trial. Father quickly hid him away in the storm shelter (hard enough to see by daylight; virtually impossible on a dark, moonless desert night.). There was no question whatsoever that we would not turn him in. Father managed, with my help, to convince the Animal Control people that the only Furrie around here was me, as I did my "animal act" for them. It was convincing enough that they believed that their prey had gotten away. Even though he was safe, he wouldn't come out until I went down there and called to him with my unmistakable Furrie accent. I held the spotlight I carried over my head so that he could see what I was.

We learned that "Jimmy", as we called him (he never had a real name), was "scheduled for termination". It took awhile for him to trust us despite saving his life. Indeed, it took lots of convincing just to allow me to simply bathe him. Even then, he was not convinced that I would not drown him in the bath tub. I seemed to get along too well with the humans. I had to order him to get in the tub: "I don't want your damn fleas". Yes, he was filthy and full of fleas and lice. Afterwards, we got a hot meal into him. We still had problems: he had never experienced the slightest kindness from humans before. Even though he slept in my room, he could not believe that a Furrie could have a room, or anything else, he could call his own. Nor could he believe that he would not be worked as a slave on the farm, or that I was not a slave, or that he would be welcome to eat at our table. The next night at "story time" (This is how we'd often entertain ourselves, taking turns reading out loud for each other.) No sooner had I picked up the book we were reading, than Jimmy ripped it from my paws, a look of pure terror on his face. Father had to remind him of The Rule: "Furries and humans are equal here". He found it hard to believe that the only requirement was his sessions with Ariana to be taught how to read. (At first, he'd cooperate since it was easier than farm work.) Sometimes, it took quite a lot of convincing to keep him from running away, so great was the cognitive dissonance resulting from a simple show of routine kindness.

When Jimmy came, I thought that I would finally have a play-mate. Someone to run and play games with, someone to go rabbit hunting, another pair of paws to help out around the farm. How naive I was! I did not count on hearing his chilling tales of the life of the Furrie slave, the terror of the Sunday "Furrie hunts", where packs of synth-o-dogs chased Furries for miles, wearing them down, before tearing them apart. Yeah, that's how humans from the Old Times treated my ancestors in an event called a "Fox Hunt" or simply a "Hunt". Humans can be such disgusting creatures. Made no difference: dumb Furrie or smart Furrie: actually, they seemed to prefer the latter.

Or about the park farther to the west, with the guarded perimeters, miles of chain-link fence topped with razor wire, and armed security guards: all to keep the less favored miles from the place, where the "beautiful people" engage in every imaginable debauchery, including taking young girls and boys from the less favored, who never know what happened to their children, in order to yiff them whether they like it or not. As for what happens to these children, use your imagination. They have this large idol shaped like an owl. They build a fire in its base and stoke it until the flames shoot from the idol's mouth and eyes. They then burn alive a baby Furrie they name: "Care". They sacrifice "Care" before the "festivities" begin in an obscene imitation of a primitive, pagan religious ceremony. (Does their depravity know no bounds? Usually, several humans die there from overdoses.) They got the idea from a group called "Canaanites", I read about them once.

Anyway, I lost a lot of illusions, thanks to Jimmy. I suppose it was to be expected, after all, didn't my grandfather build this place for the express purpose to shutt out the rest of the world? At one time, I had hopes that I could make this a farm that would be productive enough (I have reason to believe that there's a sizable enough underground reservoir to allow for irrigation) to grow the types of crops humans favor, and to raise the rabbits that Furries would like. That way, I could sell to both. Yeah, that's how I saw my future: Wesley: Gentle-furry farmer. Sounds awfully naive, doesn't it? Well, why the HELL should it! What is so wrong with this goddamn world that I can't be allowed to make a good life for myself by making life better for others? Where is the harm in that, I ask you?

Eventually, we were hiding away as many as 35 Furries. Father built an underground dormitory for all of us. This was truly clever on his part: he had one of the largest underground water tanks he could find. This stood in front of the place, a perfectly normal thing to have out in the middle of the desert. All the while, construction of the hiding place went on in plain sight. Once the concrete was ready to pour, the tank was ditched. Anyone would assume that it had been installed. They had no idea, as everything looked perfectly normal.

Late one night, an old, beat-up truck with a couple we'd never seen before pulled up the trail leading to the house. To be sure, we were mighty suspicious. Especially when they explained that they knew all about the secret dorm, and that they were here to deliver a load of "Furrie Chow". Of course, this is a problem we wondered about: why would anyone need all that "Furrie Chow" when they supposedly had just the one Furrie? It was explained that every week, they would come by to make their deliveries. They also impressed upon us that we were to ask no questions, that there would be no idle chit-chat. We got the message that these could be dangerous people. However, we were certainly thankful for the help.

Of course, Ariana conducted classes in reading for our Furries. It seemed that she wanted to be a school teacher at one time. She'd've been good at it.

I had an ear infection when I was 12. I needed to see a healer called a "vetinarian" who specialized in treating animals and Furries. So I put on my collar, lead, and warmed up my animal act. Ariana drove me to the suburbs of "Carson City" in our "special" family van. What we had, was our own design: an external combustion boiler ran a hydraulic pump to some 100psi. This, in turn, increased the pressure of a hydraulic reservoir to some 3000psi, and that drove four independent hydraulic motors for each wheel. Beats hell out of those little, noisy, "hydro-cars" that run on compressed hydrogen and have very limited range. Of course, it does take time for the pressure to come up once you light the boiler.

While I was waiting to see the vet, this Animal Control officer, a man, woman, and a young Skunk Furrie arrived. Ariana quickly and quietly ordered me to get under the bench and cover my eyes. I did as she told, except for the last part. The young Skunk Furrie looked to be about two, maybe three, years old, and was bouncing around all excited-like. Obviously it was an adventure for him. He jumped at the receptionist's desk: "Please, can I have some... Can I have some..." he asked about the candy jar. The receptionist gave him his choice: "I like lemon balls", he said as he popped one into his mouth. The Animal Control guy lead him to the vet's examining table. I saw it all. The vet lifted him up onto the stainless steel table: "Know what a rabies vaccination is, young fella?"

"So's I don't get sick?"

"Right you are. Be a brave lad?"

The Skunk Furrie stuck out his thin right arm, the vet tightly tied a rubber tourniquet around it, and stuck a needle in a vein. After injecting the liquid, he untied the tourniquet and the Skunk Furrie yipped, put his left paw to his chest and collapsed. The look on his face was one of surprise. I never saw a Furrie die before, and I always thought you'd close your eyes. However his were wide open, grotesque and unseeing. The body was put into a plastic container and taken out back. The man was holding the sobbing woman while the Animal Control guy dispassionately filled out some sort of report. It was all over just that fast.

I was called back next, and let me tell you, I was utterly creeped out. Just like nothing had happened, that same vet with me on that same table, with those same murderous hands, casually lifted my tail, stuck a thermometer up my ass, and examined my ear. After saying I had a slight temperature, he wrote a prescription, and dismissed us. Just like that, the Furrie he'd just killed meant nothing to him: just another unwanted animal to put down.

On the way home, mother asked: "You didn't look, like I asked you not to, did you?"

"No, mother" I lied.

In the dorms, I told all about it. I was furious: I screamed. I cried. I broke things. But what could I do?

Finally, Savin, a Wolf Furrie, grabbed me by the forepaws, gave me a good shake, and quite calmly said: "Yeah... that was a terrible thing." Then with that sly, wolfish way of his when he knew something that you didn't: "Wanna pay that f'kin' vet back?" (To this day, I strongly suspect that Savin was no refugee. He was a "plant" in our midst, just looking for an opportunity like this one. He would never admit it, of course.)

"Huh...?"

"You want in or what?"

"Sure", says I, not knowing what I was about to get myself into.

Thus began my introduction to the Underground. Three nights later, Savin and I left the dorms, walked through the desert, to an old trail-road. Right on schedule, the lights of a hydro-car flashed three times, and Savin held up a wooden match and struck it with a flick of a claw. The hydro-car pulled up quickly, Savin shoved me into the rear seat, someone put a black hood over my head: "What the...!"

"Shutup and listen. You will be asked one question: 'Do you know why you are here?' You will answer: 'No'. Then you will say nothing until you are spoken to. Understand?"

"I guess so."

"Don't guess. Do it"

We must have driven into the city center. I was led into a room lit only by a couple of candles on a long table, at which sat four other Furries, their features complete concealed in shadow.

"Wesley: do you know why you are here?"

"No."

"It has been brought to our attention that you are of high intelligence, integrity, and, rare enough, education and erudition? Is this so?"

I said nothing, I was rather frightened by the ordeal.

"You may answer"

"Yes. It is so. My parents have..."

"Enough. If you join us, we will be your new family. We will demand of you your complete loyalty to the Underground. You will speak of this to no one. In exchange, you will have our undivided loyalty. You will not know of us, but we will be there for you in times of need. In this day, we Furries can do nothing else. It's a harsh code, but if we are to survive, it must be so. You will be asked certain favors, you must never deny. Are you up to these duties to Furdom?"

"I am."

"Step forward, extend your right paw."

I stepped up to the lectern, and did as I was asked. Whoever it was doing the talking, took a piece of paper and crumpled it into a loose ball. He placed it in my paw, saying: "This is your life and soul Wesley." As he lit it he said: "Repeat after me: 'If I ever betray the Underground may my soul burn in Hell for all eternity like this paper'". I said the affirmation until the fire in my paw went out, singing my fur and pads. I was congratulated all around. A generator started up; electric lights flickered on, trays of home-cooked food and bottles of home-made wine were brought out. By the time I left, the sky was beginning to lighten. I was now a soldier of the Underground.

Three days later, I did the Underground its first favor. Now this is highly irregular. New recruits are "put through their paces", so to speak, in order to assess their loyalty, competence, and ability to keep a secret and follow orders. Sometimes the first "favor" is not asked for years. One of the things they wanted me for was my skills behind the wheel. Father taught me how to drive (not only useful around the farm, but, according to father, a "rite of passage" for humans during the Old Times) it was a skill few Furries possessed. I also knew how to keep any motor up and running. That afternoon, Savin and I headed out to the ritzy suburbs, arriving at evening time. There was a large party going on at a fancy mansion: the "beautiful people" living it up. We slipped around the back, unnoticed. Don't be fooled: we may be smart, but we have a wealth of good ol' animal instinct. I picked out a fancy petro-car with a fancy grille with an "RR" emblem on it. It was unlocked, and I can hot-wire anything. Within a minute, we were off and running. The tinted glass hid the fact that a Furrie was driving. Just another guest going home early. The valet even waved at us, suspecting nothing, as I waved back. We picked up a couple of other Undergrounders: "Holy shit, Wes! Think you can get a little more ostentatious?". Yeah, that "RR" car was slick: nice leather interior, smooth, powerful petro engine, quiet. Not at all like those little hydro-cars. Anyway, we arrived at the vet's just in time. "Slick" went over by the garbage cans, acting cute with his "innocent" begging routine. When the vet came out, he couldn't resist giving a skritch. As he bent down to do so, Savin cold-cocked him with a leather sheathed lead sap. "Slick" immediately grabbed him to keep him from falling, they signaled and I pulled up in our stolen vehicle. The two of them shoved the unconscious vet in the rear seat, and I headed out for the highway to city center, as the rotten, decaying, lawless, downtown of what was left of Carson City was then known. At what was once a warehouse, "Tommy the Rat" (Skunk Furrie, actually) had a nice, hot fire going. We tied the vet down good and tight, Savin popped an ammonia ampule under his nose, and brought him around. No one said a word, however I knew exactly what was expected of me.

Here's how Furries pay back humans: I heated a length of 1.5cm diameter rebar until it glowed orange, almost white. I held it right in front of the bastard's eyes. All the while he's begging, asking what he did, why this was happening, yada, yada, yada. I blinded him; he wouldn't be putting down any more Furries. Think of it as the Underground "trademark". I can't say I got any pleasure from it, but I wasn't feeling guilty either. We then threw him from the car right in the middle of the shittiest neighborhood we could find. Let him "see" if he can survive that! We ditched the fancy "RR" car on the street, and made our way back to the farm house. Worried about the Security Forces? I doubt that that fancy car survived an hour on those streets. I am not afraid of the city center, after all, it's just another type of forest to me: full of predators, prey, and hiding places. Over the next several months, I learned how to defend myself, and how to kill: with knife, rope, the garrote...

When I was 15, I killed my first human. Let me explain: Furries have other means to deal with humans, so killing is largely off limits. We'd rather take from them that which they value most: their sight. However, when it comes to Animal Control, that's a whole 'nother story. They are most certainly not off-limits so far as lethal retaliation is concerned. There had been a big Animal Control sweep through the out-lands: lots of Furries captured and scheduled for termination. We needed to know where they were being held. Unlike most operations, this one would require the help of more Fur-Syms than is usually the case, and more than I ever felt comfortable working with at any one time. For this operation, I had to relocate.

Allow me to explicate: there is a certain class of human called a "Fur-sym" -- a Furrie Sympathiser or friend to Furries. They come in all shapes and sizes: some are dedicated on principle, others are lead to it by a personal relationship with a Furrie, some are in it for what they can get out of it, some see the hand writing on the wall, and want to be on the "winning side", some want to get even with the power elite for their utterly shitty lives. Anyway, our Animal Control guy, whom I knew only as "Toothy" was an interesting case. A couple of Furries found him one night in an alley behind a liquor store, having already polished-off half a bottle of cheap bourbon. Still wearing his Animal Control outfit, they almost killed him right then and there. Indeed, he actually begged them to do just that. (Which is probably why they didn't.) Instead, they listened and tried to make sense of his drunken blather. It seemed that he was having regrets over what he'd done to the Furries. So they took him along, gave him a place to sleep it off, and a bit of the "hair of the dog" next morning to cut the hangover. Was he still serious? He said he was. There had been much talk of his resigning, would he stay with Animal Control as an insider? He was ecstatic at the prospect. Turned out to be one of our most reliable insiders: he felt he had much to amend.

There was the ultimate question: would he actually betray one of his own? I arrived early on the day for my part in the operation at a bar/strip joint/crack house/shooting gallery/house of prostitution/gambling joint called the "Cat's Ass". (At first, I was rather offended by the sign with the animated dancing cat-girls. It seemed a bad, insulting, misrepresentation of Furries. However, I would learn that it had long been a common motif among human-kind. Long obsessed with the idea of Furries, and yet so unable to deal with the reality of Furries. How do you explain that?) It's in North Las Vegas, even in the Old Times, somewhat of a shithole. These days, it's an absolute shithole. It's where the Beautiful People chuck the hoi polloi whom they don't want defiling their playground: Las Vegas. Deep in center of the city, it was off-limits to the Committee of Public Safety agents, who were only too happy to look the other way so long as the pay-offs kept arriving, and largely too afraid of the denizens of this place: folks of decided criminal inclination with nothing to lose, and no stake in the future. Despite this, there was an unwritten agreement that the Cat's Ass was off-limits. Its services were too highly valued to allow the place to be robbed, or, if they could safely arrive, its patrons to be assaulted, robbed, or rolled. Rival gangs used the club as "neutral ground" where violence was never tolerated. Drugs, stolen goods, and money -- oftentimes lots of it -- changed hands; the independent contractors of both sexes and all persuasions worked the club's main floor and its several bars freely, fearing no vengeful pimps. A regular den of thieves, hustlers, under-cover agents, informers, incognito low-level politicians, hypocritical preachers in government hire to keep the hoi polloi reminded of their place, and the "eternal rewards" for Earthly compliance, and bureaucrats: all pursuing pleasure, all kept in line by an unwritten code of honour while naked men and women danced, men yiffed men, women, sometimes Furries -- in all possible permutations of sex and species -- on the expansive stage, gave lap-dances and blow-jobs to the big spenders. Fortunately, the main supervisor at Animal Control who organized the Furry sweep had a weakness for all the vices the Cat's Ass specialized in, and then some. The Cat's Ass was also owned and operated by an entire family of dedicated Fur-Syms.

Slipping in unseen by way of an old service entrance, the proprietor personally led me to his private office as far away from the main floor as possible, behind the private upstairs salon reserved for both the big-spending elite and the truly influential politicians and criminals (but then, I repeat myself). Already gathered there, were the proprietor's eldest son, a brother, a cousin, and finally, looking completely out of place in more ways than one, the proprietor's youngest child: a ten year old daughter. (I heard of a concept called "childhood innocence" from the Old Times, however, I see damn little evidence of it these days. Human children grow up fast and hard, or not at all. A child of her age would never be seen anywhere near a place like this in saner times. Neither would she be working with the Fur-Syms and Underground.) The girl was about my height at some 160cm and I'd guess 40Kg. She was wearing leather sandals, a white skirt with a bright, bright pink (I'm sure I'm right about this, as that's what I clearly saw. We foxes don't see color so well, so it must've been a bright pink) floral pattern which came not quite half-way to her knees, and was somewhat poofy that it looked even shorter as it didn't hang completely straight, and a pull-over of a pink matching the pattern on the skirt, with white trim at the sleeves, pocket, and bottom, with a white collar. Her brown hair with gold streaks was pulled into a pony-tail that hung slightly below the collar. (How is it that these young females are the only humans to dress in a manner that is both sensible: cool and allowing freedom of movement, and colorful?) I was none too pleased with this, after all, a ten year old human is not as mature as a ten year old Furrie. However, her role in this operation could, if she could pull it off, make our job a lot easier and less dangerous. Right off, she committed her first faux pas. Stepping right up, all bright-eyed, and smiling, she put out her paw, announcing:

"Hi. I'm Cynthia. What's your name?"

My rejection of her show of friendliness brought a quizzical expression to her face. I motioned towards a card table against the far wall, and told her to sit down. Sitting across from her I explained with both gentleness and deadly seriousness:

"For future reference, when you work with Fur-Syms and the Underground, you never ask names, or give yours, or reveal any sort of personal information. Doing so is quite dangerous as you might get taken for an Animal Control or Security agent or informer. This will most likely get you killed. You want other Fur-Syms to know as little about you as possible, and you want to know as little about them. It's for your protection, and theirs. You can't blab to interrogators what you don't know. Secondly, you avoid any personal contact that's not completely necessary. Stray hairs or other fibers can be detected and used to connect you to folks you'd rather not be connected with. Make no mistake about this. It isn't some youthful lark or an adventure. As soon as you were approached for this, by whomever is organizing this operation, you became a full member of the Underground. And became a part of everything that implies. That's how the Underground sees you now; that's how the secret police will see you. The fact that you are a child, and a girl, will not protect you. From now on, you are in extreme danger."

She says right off: "What makes you think that 'Cynthia' is my real name?"

A good sign: she can improvise, and thinks quick. This seems to be a pretty intelligent girl. Nevertheless, aliases are still dangerous. No idea exists in a vacuum, and so I explained: "Bet your favorite group is 'Midnight Commander'. Or your real name is 'Cindy' or 'Samantha'? So which is it?"

"Midnight Commander... How..."

"The group's lead calls herself 'Cynthia'. This is a common thing that people do when giving a false identity. They still give themselves away by choosing some name that somehow means something to them. Now if I were an Animal Control or Security infiltrator, they'd be running a check on all stores selling CDs, and cross-referencing all young female purchasers of Midnight Commander CDs already. You probably bought your own, right? It wouldn't take long to narrow down a list of possibles. You have no idea what you are dealing with here. This is why it is so important that you say nothing to anyone about what you have heard here, who you see here, or even that you know what the inside of the Cat's Ass looks like. And that includes everyone here today. Once this business is done, you don't say a word of it to even your father, brother, or cousin. Do you understand what I'm telling you now?"

"Yes", she says. For her sake, I hope that was true.

Now it was time to get down to business.

"Think carefully about what I'm about to ask." ...

"Have you ever been here before?"...

"Did anyone see you arrive?"...

"Or see you at anytime since?"...

"Can you account for why you aren't where you'd normally be expected?"...

"No. Father and the others were quite careful about everything."

"Do you know what the Cat's Ass is? What they do here?"

"It's father's place of business. He never much talked about it, but from what I've heard, it's some sort of cat-house?"

"True enough, that's pretty much it. Do you know why you, all of you, are here?"

"Only that it has something to do with helping you guys, you know, Furries... other than that, I don't know."

"We need your help for this operation. It's nothing too demanding. Basically you will stand around looking cute. You won't have to say much, nor will you be expected to. It's simple enough, but it won't be easy by any means. Basically, you will be playing the part of a child call-girl. You know what that is?"

"A child or a call-girl?" (Chuckles all around. Humour: another good sign: quick improvisation, good timing, and not excessively nervous.)

"Well?"

"A call-girl's like a 'ho, but works the clubs instead of the streets".

"That's what you will be doing: playing a child prostitute/call-girl working the Cat's Ass. Our mark has a reputation for yiffing young girls such as yourself. This isn't a game we're playing. There is a very real chance that you just might be assaulted. If that happens, understand this: NO ONE will be able to help you. And if you want a chance at staying alive, you'd better make sure that he believes you enjoyed it. Hopefully, that won't happen, but I'd be misleading you if I didn't tell you that there are no guarantees. I'm going to kill that man tonight, and you are going to be the bait. You will have to be convincing, because if you aren't, a lot of other folks could get hurt. I'd like to avoid any recourse to firearms or other 'rough stuff'. If everything goes as planned, none of the other patrons or guests will be any the wiser. With everyone literally knowing nothing, there will be no leads to follow. If you have any problems with that, I want to hear about it right now. I won't hold it against you if you back out. And I'd rather hear about it sooner than later. So I need an answer right now. Can you do exactly what I ask of you, no questions asked?"

"Look... Mr. Fox... I hate those fuckers as much as you do. I'm only too glad to be included." (I had every reason to believe this. Her mother had died two years prior simply because the powers that be decided that saving her would not be cost-effective, as she wasn't one of the "beautiful people" of the power elite.)

"I know you do, however, hate and revenge are dangerous emotions. We're professionals doing a job -- nothing more." I personally didn't like the youthful enthusiasm all that much. I remembered all too clearly just how I got myself involved in this whole business in the first place. No way could this Cynthia -- or anyone -- at any age -- really appreciate what involvement with the Underground would mean.

"OK, let's get started: stand up. Now remove all your jewelry and anything else you brought with you and place it on the table."

She did as asked: a ring, two silver loop ear rings, the band that held her hair into a pony tail.

"That's everything? Nothing missing that you had earlier that you could possibly have lost here in the club?"

"Nothing's missing. I'm certain of that".

I dropped all these items in an envelope, sealed it, and set it aside. These would go back with the proprietor just in case anything might look suspicious if it disappeared.

"Very good". Now came the real test, as I casually leaned back in the chair I said matter-of-factly: "Now what I want you to do is get undressed"

"Huuuuhhhh...?!", eyes widening, this wasn't what she was expecting. Reflexively, she glanced back towards the others.

"What do you mean 'Huh'? Didn't you agree not two minutes ago to do exactly what I asked without question? I want you naked as a jay bird, so shut the mouth and remove the clothes."

I observed the order in which she removed her clothes, and the level of nervousness vary in direct proportion to the number of items on the pile. First she removed the sandals. She reached underneath her skirt, pulled white silk panties off her hips and slipped them down to step out. She pulled her pink shirt over her head, and slipped her arms from the sleeves. Lastly, she unfastened her skirt. She just stood there, holding the skirt in place for several seconds or so, then let it drop to the floor. After laying it on top of her other clothes, Cynthia stood there like a statue as I went through her clothes, looking for any stray items. Satisfied that there were none, I picked up the skirt and cut it apart with my utility knife into one piece of cloth which I laid out on the table-top, and cut off a strip.

"Why'd you ruin my skirt?!" she exclaims. "Now what will I wear?!".

As I rolled the sandals and underwear into the shirt, and rolled that bundle up in the skirt cloth to tie everything into one neat package, I explained: "For the better part of the next 24 hours, you will wear nothing more than a smile. You're a prostitute in a whore house. You yiff men you don't even know for money. Being seen naked in a whore house, where you conduct the business of renting out your pussy, should be the least of your concerns. I watched how you undressed: you took off all the easy items first to keep your pussy concealed up until that final moment you dropped your skirt. What I'm seeing right now is a very uncomfortable young girl. Any one would see that right off. You can't pretend to be a prostitute until you start thinking like one. The mark will know something's quite wrong if the 'prostitute' he's being offered is too embarrassed to be looked at. So you are going to learn to set aside your modesty. Now that you don't have anything to wear, you don't have much choice, do you?

Furthermore, I don't want any evidence that you, of all people, were ever here. There is sure to be an investigation of the Cat's Ass and those involved with it. Any professional investigator would consider you to be the weak link if he had any reason to believe that you were here, that you just might know something. These guys are quite good at extracting information. So I don't want them giving you any attention. When your father and the others say that you have never seen this place, that they have kept the details of what they do for a living from you, there won't be any evidence to contradict that. As far as I'm concerned, you've been leaving too many traces of fibers all over the place already." I handed off the bundle I'd made and told the cousin to ditch it far from the Cat's Ass: ten clicks, at least, and the farther, the better, right now, before this little detail had the chance of being over-looked.

"Cynthia, I want you to step out into the center of the room so we can all get a good look at you." She turned, head down, and with slow tentative steps, did as I asked.

I joined the others over at the proprietor's desk, and asked them to take a good, long look at the naked girl now on display. I'd never seen what a human, male or female, looks like underneath all the clothing. This one was certainly remarkably fur-free. It's no wonder that they wear so much covering. Granted, she was no vixen, still, she seemed quite fit. Her stomach was flat, no trace of the puffiness that's all too common with human cubs, the so-called "baby fat", either around her middle or her face. Her hips widened somewhat below the waist; she had the visible beginnings of those udders that the humans call: "breasts", or "tits" and except for the lack of fully developed "tits", her shape was that of a mature human female. I didn't know if this was a plus or a minus. Does one that likes yiffing kids want one that looks more like a kid? "How do you rate her appearance?", I asked. The consensus was that Cynthia was quite yiffy for her age.

Still, something wasn't quite right: "Cynthia, what are you doing with your paws?" She was holding both in front of her genital region. "Get your paws down; let's see your pussy." She sighed, rolled her eyes, and put both paws at her side (she knew this was coming). I was expecting at least some fur -- even the youngest kits have at least some -- but... nothing! "Try to look less stiff, will you? Relax, stand with your foot-paws wider, and try to look more natural." We all stared at her for I'd guess a good half-hour or more. I occasionally cracked wise about mounting her and giving her 15cm of hard vulpine cock, and other such comments about her new "career" in the sex-biz, all to break down the embarrassment. Finally, she showed the faintest trace of a smile, so I knew we were making progress.

"How long do I have to stand here?", finally, she asks. Boredom: a good sign.

"Let's try something else. Everyone: out in the hall". We all stood in the hall, outside the office. "Now I want you to walk up and down the hall." So off she goes, up and back.

"Cynthia, that's not walking, that's plodding. Know what you were doing?" I did my best imitation of what I'd seen: head down, the slow, stiff, unnatural steps. "Keep your head up, and walk like you normally do every day. Now try it again." Better. "Pick up the pace a bit, and try to loosen up, and show some confidence. You're a very pretty girl, take pride in showing off what you got. And try smiling." A dozen trips later, off she goes, striding in a natural manner. I had her try it a few more times, just to be sure. She was overcoming her modesty at last. Time for the next lesson.

Next: running through the entire act. We started in the "yiff room" where she would be waiting for the signal buzzer that alerted the working girls that a client was waiting out in the bar. Thus alerted, she would take with her all the essentials: the mirror, a silver vial of the supervisor's favorite white powder, a gold snuffer, all carried on a low, small stand. In the bar, she would place the stand at the far end of the table, facing the mark as she measured out the powder, then come around to the opposite side as she bent over to prepare lines. Place the mirror and gold snuffer in front of him, then subtly back out of reach as he was distracted, yet positioning herself so as to keep her genital region in his line of sight at all times while running a finger tip up and down her genital slit. Then leading him to the private "yiff room" where he would be expecting his "special treat". This involved her walking fast enough to keep him behind her, yet neither so fast as to give the impression of running away, nor too slowly as to suggest reluctance. Either could lead to his yiffing her in the hallway, and ruin my chance at a clean kill. She had to suggest eagerness to keep him following her. Of course, she would have to improvise as there was no way to guarantee exactly what his actions would be, but I had confidence that she could do that just fine. As for his choosing the wrong room, we made certain that only the door to hers was unlocked.

Indeed, Cynthia was a quick study, and learned the whole routine ahead of schedule, so we spent the spare time playing video games (damn, she beat me every time) until we heard the main sound system come on with a feedback squeal. The evening's festivities were about to begin, so our mark would be arriving soon. I left Cynthia and the others in the salon bar, telling them that the hardest part of any operation was now at hand: the sitting and the waiting. I headed on up to the cat-walk overlooking the main floor. Patrons were beginning to drift in by ones and twos, the band started playing, the naked dancers took the stage to begin their performances, the MC announcing each act. Larger crowds started arriving, and, finally, I spotted Toothy and his fat, ugly, supervisor, and a few of Toothy's co-workers. I got down off the cat-walk.

"They're here. So it won't be too much longer. Let's go Cynthia" As I escorted her to her "yiff room", I explained: "He's every bit as bad as our friend described, so be extra careful not to show any sign of revulsion. Regardless of what you see, or the impression it makes, keep smiling. And one last bit of advice: stay close, but out of reach unless you want him groping you." We entered the "yiff room"; as I took my place behind the curtains, I noticed that Cynthia was pacing all around the room. Anticipation is a terrible thing, so I offered one last suggestion: "You might want to paw off. It'll help cut the tension of waiting, and get you into a yiffy mood". Behind the curtains, I gave my equipment a final check. Cynthia stepped over to the lounge, perched on the edge, spread her legs wide, and began caressing her labs and genital slit. She did this right in my line of sight, was that deliberate? No time to wonder about it then, but I would find out later...

Toothy had suggested bringing the supervisor here to celebrate the great "victory" over the out-land Furries. The staff had received instructions to treat him extra-special nice, although not for the reasons they were told. Other contingents of Fur-Syms (unknown to each other) had been strategically placed at the near-by tables for their part in the operation, although they had no need to know any of the particulars, only that they were to treat the mark with the deference a "true hero" deserved.

That's how the Animal Control super was treated: like the conquering hero. Drinks and lap-dances: on the house. Rapt attention as he spun his tales of derring-do. Subtle little questions to further puff up his ego, draw more information out of him, and ultimately seal his fate. It didn't take nearly as long, nor was this nearly as difficult, as anticipated. The guy was singing like a canary, spilling lots of useful information concerning investigative techniques, names of informers, and finally, what we were really after: the location where the 300 or so Furries were being held, pending termination, and when that was scheduled -- all with no concern for whomever might overhear the conversation. That's when the Fur-Syms began drifting away, unnoticed, to report their findings to their handlers. Our proprietor finally paid a visit to their table, introducing himself, offering his personal congratulations, the observation that the Cat's Ass wasn't often graced by such an august personage, and would he like to come on up to the exclusive private VIP salon for some truly unique and kinky action? Of course he would!

So the son poured him a drink; he, the cousin and the proprietor spent time glad-handing him; casually mentioned that they just happened to have something quite special available for his special occasion: a brand-new, prepubescent call-girl working the club lately. By all means, send for her! That's when we heard the buzzer sound in Cynthia's room. I watch as she picked up the little stand with the mirror, the silver vial, this time filled with the special powder -- guaranteed pure -- and not the practice powdered sugar, the little gold snuffer, and razor blade. So far, just as we'd rehearsed it so many times that afternoon.

Obviously, Cynthia had done everything right, as I heard the door not ten minutes later. He followed her just like a puppy and she lay down on the smooth, satin sheet covering the lounge, and seductively spread her legs wide, and gave him just the right "come-hither" look. First, he pulled off the wide utility belt, snapped it with a loud crack, and ordered the girl to get up and bend over. So that's the bastard's idea of yiffage: beating the hell out of a young, defenseless call-girl. (How many times had he done this before? What other atrocities was he capable of?) This had me worried: what would she do? Interestingly enough, and with no trace of a reaction, she did just that. She got up off the lounge, walked past the mark, and standing facing the wall opposite my hiding place, she leaned into the wall, footpaws spread slightly, head down. In order to whip her, he was out of any possible line of sight. He ran a paw up and down her ass, all the while he's telling her how he's going to give her a whippin' for being such a "bad girl". It was a disgusting performance, and I could really feel the hate rising. As he raised the belt to beat her ass raw, I swiftly, silently made my move. He brought the belt down hard, a sharp crack of heavy leather meeting bare skin that left a reddish-pink blotch across the middle of her ass. She let out a sharp yelp from the swat, as the thin stainless steel wire went around his neck. Simultaneously, I put all my strength into it and ordered: "Cynthia! Get out of here!". She ran out the door. I had him like a fish on a line. Even though he was a good deal bigger, the fight went out of him quickly. His face turned purple as the wire dug into his fat neck until it literally disappeared. If you do it right, it doesn't take too long. The idea being that you not only cut off his air, but also the flow of blood to the brain. As he was dying, he messed himself, and I had to take care not to slip in it as I went down to the floor with him. Through the taut wire, I felt the life go right out of him. In about three minutes or so, it was all over. I rolled him over onto his back, unbuttoned the shirt of his uniform, took his badge and ID card, keys, and a semi-automatic pistol. I checked the magazine -- it was loaded -- and racked the bolt to chamber a round. I safed the weapon. I then put on his shirt, even though it was way too big, but that wouldn't matter. As for the mess I'd made, well, cleaning that up wasn't my problem. I had another job to do that was more urgent.

As I left, Cynthia was waiting in the hall, rubbing a welted butt-cheek, and I had to stop her from going back to see.

"You saw what he did to me?(!) So I want to see..."

"No, you don't. I think you've seen quite enough already Young Lady. A smack on the ass is NBD. Don't make this personal; we're just professionals doing our respective jobs. Any other attitude will get you dead in a hurry. Your job now is to come along with me." OK, I admit it: I broke the rules, letting her take my paw in hers. We needed to go out by way of that old service entrance, unseen. Not necessarily a sure thing, now that the club was filled with patrons.

The Animal Control petro-van had been parked behind the club, in an area far from any lights. After making sure that no one was looking, we moved swiftly to the van, I taking the driver's seat, and Cynthia climbing in the passenger side. I took the super's hat off the dash-board, stuffed my ears beneath it and pulled the visor low over my eyes. Cynthia was sitting in the passenger seat, so I told her to get down on the floor-boards. Not so comfortable, but necessary. I unsafed the pistol and placed it within easy reach on the passenger seat.

This was some tricky business: driving the van far from the Cat's Ass to ditch it. Hopefully, there wouldn't be any radio dispatches to this unit -- if there were, I couldn't answer it, not with my accent. Neither could Cynthia, even if she didn't sound like a Furrie, she sure didn't sound like that supervisor either. There was always the possibility that some jackass would involve the van in an accident. I might just drive off, but accidents attract unwanted attention. Or that some other Animal Control or Security officer would want to get sociable, and pull the van over. Be real damn difficult explaining how a Furrie and a naked girl happened to be driving such a vehicle. That's what the pistol was for. In case of a pull-over here was the routine: Cynthia would quickly take the driver's seat, as I slipped out the back. The distraction of seeing what he'd never expect in his wildest imaginings as he opened the driver's door would give me an excellent opportunity to come around the back of the van and get off a clean shot. As for being recognized, that was the least of my concerns. By now, it was quite dark, I sat higher than the other vehicles, and no one would be expecting to see a Furrie driving an Animal Control petro-van. Luckily, none of the things that could go wrong did go wrong. When seeing how unrecognizable we were, I allowed Cynthia to get off the floor and return to the passenger seat, even if I shouldn't have. She sat there, sort of sideways, right foot-paw tucked under the left knee, elbow propped on against the door and window, just staring off into the distance, lost in thought. Finally, she changed positions, sitting up straight in the seat. Whatever it was, she'd evidently made her decision.

"What are we doing now?"

"First of all, we're going to ditch this van, so that hopefully, it won't be connected to the Cat's Ass. We have Toothy and the other Fur-Syms who'll say that they saw the van leave the Cat's Ass. Hopefully, this will look like a crime of opportunity. Secondly, we have to get you cleaned up so thoroughly that no trace of where you've been remains on your person, and get you back home. There are other Fur-Syms expecting us, but it's not going to be all that easy."

"I suppose we've been through quite a lot?" she asks, raising her right leg slightly. "I mean, I do like you and if you wanted... you know... for real... I wouldn't mind." She says, drawing a finger along the inside of her thigh, back and forth, close to her genital region. This was an open (pardon the terminology) invitation, for sure.

"Cynthia, I appreciate the thought, really I do. I quite understand the feelings of being comrades-in-arms, the soldierly brotherhood, the sense of 'mission accomplished'. I can even appreciate that you are at that age where you are experiencing your first yiffy feelings. However, I can't do that, much as I'd like to. And for quite a few reasons, but, first and foremost, is the immediacy of the situation. I'm not the type to take advantage of an emotionally charged situation for my own selfish gratification. That's the attitude that got the world into this mess in the first place. Nor am I willing to use you to pleasure myself. Hell, in a couple of days, you'll probably be asking yourself: 'How could I have come on to that fur-ball?'"

"I mean, if they catch us, I'll never... And I'd really like it if you were my first..."

"Get that thought out of your head right now. We've taken more precautions than you -- or even I -- know, and the Underground has resources that you can't imagine. Even though we're Furries, we take care of our own regardless of species. And you are one of our own now. If we were living in saner times, it would be different. If Furries lived free, if selfish elites didn't keep the humans enslaved, it would be different. I'm not even suppose to be alive, you know that don't you? Personally, I like you a lot. You're pretty, you're bright, you think well beyond your years, you handled yourself with extraordinary common sense back there, you overcame some great difficulties and did so faster than I ever thought you would. You did us all a great service, and a lot of Furries will get another shot at life, due to your contribution. How can I not possibly have definite feelings for you?" I gently placed a paw on her thigh. "Even though you are not a vixen, I would like nothing better than to mount you for some hot vulpine lovin' under a clear desert sky. And I do mean loving, not just yiffing. But there is not thing one that you, me, or anyone else can do about that. This whole fucked-up mess of a world just doesn't seem to have any place left for love, or honest friendship, or any other sort of goodness. Once I've completed my mission, I will never see you again, I will never have any further dealings with your family, I will never be allowed anywhere near the Cat's Ass. This is the way it must work. So do yourself a big favor and shutup and start working on forgetting all about me."

"You really think I'm pretty? You aren't just saying that?"

"I've said a helluva lot more than I should have already, but, no, I'm not just saying that. I figure you deserve at least that much, considering what I've put you through."

About twenty miles out (the instrument panel was calibrated in that old-time system) I found the old, abandoned rest plaza that served travelers in the times before the oil ran out, and cars freely zipped from one end of the continent to the other. The gate had been taken down some unknown time prior, by some unknown Fur-Syms, for reasons they were never told. I told Cynthia to not get out, so as not to cut her foot-paws and leave behind DNA evidence. I took the items I got from the super: the badge, ID card, keys, and wrapped them up in the shirt with a big, rotting, smelly carp. Another Furrie calling card: sleeping with the fishes. Now I had another problem: a cross-desert trip to our rendezvous point three clicks or so away. That would mean carrying the girl all the way, as her foot-paws had no pads. I could make better time on four legs than she could ever do on two. So I opened the passenger door, put one fore-leg under her knees, the other under her arms,, and lifted her from the van. Once beyond the broken concrete, glass, bits of metal, etc. I told her to climb on my back and rode her "horsey style" all the way to the pick-up point.

Firing off a miniature flare in the darkness brought the flash of the headlamps of a hydro-car. The Fur-Sym behind the wheel couldn't suppress his surprised look when he pulled up. We must've been quite a sight. Cynthia took the front passenger seat as I came around to the driver's side and ordered him into the rear seat. He was surprised at that: Furries don't drive, and he asked what that was all about. "Fox eyes: I can see in the dark better than you", I explained. Of course, identification wasn't necessary. How many other Furries were out in the Mojave, accompanied by a naked human girl? He knew better than to ask either of us questions. He had no need to know. I drove, lights off, navigating by nothing more than starlight, along a service road for an electrical transmission line. Deeper, deeper, deeper into the desert, a long, sixty-five click circuitous route back to the back-roads to just south of Henderson. There was little difficulty, except after making the turn-off to the back roads. Here, the trial all but disappeared. We almost got stuck going around a sharp bend while climbing a steep hill. Fortunately, the wheels caught just enough traction in the loose sand to make it up the incline. Once on real road (or what was left of it) it was clear all the way to the fringe of Las Vegas. In what was left of a parking lot for what may have been a restaurant, we met up with the other Fur-Syms who were expecting us, and Cynthia and I parted ways. But not until we exchanged a farewell kiss. Bad form, I know, but, I really liked her, and figured that it was the least I could do. So, her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist, a paw under each butt-cheek to support her weight, I gave her a big, old, sloppy canid kiss. It was the damnedest thing. She buried her face in my fur. When she looked at me again, tears were streaming down her cheeks: "I'll never forget you", she said. Yeah, my eyes were a bit misty too.

I arrived back my territory for a de-briefing.

Usually, we never learn how an operation concludes. However a raid that frees over 300 Furries from under the very noses of Animal Control is news that's very hard to suppress. Even by the system. As for Cynthia, her family, the Cat's Ass, I heard not a word. All I could do was hope for the best. No news is the only good news I heard.

We did lose some good Fur-syms and Furries. How many, I don't know, but one was one too many...

It began with an absolute mockery of a legal proceeding. This was held before the Court of Expedited Judgment. In more civilized times, the accused had their day in court. It was up to the state to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. This applied, even if it was obvious the defendant did it. These days, they don't bother. The Court of Expedited Judgment decides whether there is any reasonable doubt, then goes straight to the sentencing. I didn't know what went on then, though I would later find out.

All I knew is we were watching the visi-vox to learn that this girl had been sentenced to death for having been accused of giving material support to the Furries who carried out the raid. I highly doubted this, but most of the sheeple will believe anything they are told and don't ask too many questions. The few who do keep their mouths shut.

There's this facility called the Youth Offender Correctional Facility; it's some 200 kilometers north-east of Vegas. It sounds like what used to be called a "reform school" for bad boys and girls. It's not. It used to be an extensive estate built on a ranch whose owners had done very well. As you approach the main gate, the whole place looks quite nice indeed. I some ways, it is. Time at Youth Offender is considered "soft time" as the food is pretty good, there are educational opportunities, and plenty of activities. The inmates avoid fights and mistreating each other, nor do they fuck with the staff, as no one wants to be sent to a hard core facility, such as the security forces run. There is a much darker side that the casual visitor, or the routine minimum security inmate, is unlikely to see.

They really do kill kids up there, as young as ten years old. This is shown on the visi-vox, to entertain the Beautiful People. I've heard all about their execution parties, complete with wagering on how the victims will behave. I'd never seen one before, as I don't care to watch another.

I had decidedly mixed feelings about this. Yes, the girl was going to die. Would it be better had she been sent to one of the "party parks" to serve as a living sex toy? I've heard about what becomes of these kids, and it ain't pretty. Once their looks fade, they are disposed of, either turned out to survive as street prostitutes -- these are the "lucky" ones -- and often not for very long, either falling into the hands of violent, sadistic johns, or finally succumbing to drink and/or drugs, or some nasty STDs, or... just use your imagination. Would that really be better? I don't know how to answer that question.

Her name was Lorelei Hobs and she was an honour student at this high school in nearby Green Valley. She was also a baton twirling majorette with the band. Lots of pontificating about a promising life gone bad because of misplaced sympathy for Furries. This included accusations of her having yiffed a fox fur. That was one of the charges: gross sexual immorality. Predictably, loads of accusations against the Fur-Syms for using such an innocent young life.

That morning, the Court of Expedited Judgment announced its findings. They ruled that there was no possibility that she was not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. The Court found Lorrie guilty on all charges: Giving aid and comfort to the enemy, accessory before and after the fact of murder of officers of the court, creating/distributing misinformation, and gross sexual immorality. The sentence was death, to be carried out with expedience. The execution was scheduled for 7:00PM.

It was a total media circus. The Ben and Jerry Show was doing the coverage, claiming it was the media event of the year. They were bantering back and forth, speculating on how Lorrie would act, how much she would cry and plead, whether she'd piss herself, and so forth. They talked about how this was the first girl execution in three years, the last being this gang girl: "Malignant Mary", convicted of a nasty multiple murder, a gang hit. Lorrie wasn't some street kid, no, she was one of the "elite" - a Middle Class girl. They pontificated the ultimate futility of teen rebellion against authority.

They showed clips from Mary's hanging: she was strapped to a carry board, all the while screaming, crying, begging for her life. She messed herself both ways as she was being carried up to the gallows. If a hardened street kid was like that, they wondered how a "princess", a "hot house flower" would behave.

Then they announced they were going live to the Youth Offender Facility's execution unit. The facility was concrete, painted some off white (Ivory, I think?) colour. Folding chairs were waiting for the official witnesses, who were being led in through wood double doors. To the left of the entrance, the area for the official witnesses. Off to the right, a platform elevated some three or four meters above the floor. Above the center, hung a noose supported by a couple of pulleys with the far end knotted to a cleat attached to a wood support post. There was no guard rail along the front of the cantilevered, self supporting platform. Behind the platform, the viewing area for the prisoner's personal witnesses. They would watch behind unbreakable glass windows.

Once the official witnesses, each wearing an ID badge, were seated, the Commandant gave a speech, reminding them that they were to say nothing, make no contact with the prisoner. He reminded them that this was a young girl and to expect a very emotional display. He said that anyone who didn't feel up to witnessing this was free to leave. Two stood and walked out.

Lorrie's witnesses were filing in to the gallery. I would learn that these were: Ted and Megan Hobs: her parents. Elaine Radik and her parents, Charlus Neesome, maternal grandfather. There was also another man in a black suit I would later discover was Father Mike: a friend of the family and pastor of the Reformed Episcopal Church - an unofficial, not-government licensed or approved, church. Next, live feed from Lorrie's cell. The cell was quite well furnished, and this was standard for the girls' death row cells. There was a visi-vox for in house programming, a dinette, love seat, a bed just below high, narrow windows spanning the length of the wall.

Lorrie was sitting on the love seat, feet flat on the floor, hands in her lap. She was looking our way as she obviously heard.

"Stand up, Miss Hobs", one guard said.

She stood before the guards, hands at her sides. She was completely naked; her majorette costume neatly folded on the dinette table top, with her boots and underwear. She was quite a pretty girl: brown, shoulder length hair with golden streaks, brown eyes, apple-sized milkers, her genital region freshly shaved of every trace of hair. Her figure trim and athletic, gently widening hips.

"Are you going to co-operate, or will we need to strap you to this?", he indicated a carry board one guard brought along just in case.

"That won't be necessary", she said.

"I see you saved us the bother of stripping you naked".

Two guards entered while two remained out in the hall.

"Step out into the hall".

Lorrie stepped into the hall. The four guards encircled her, the one still with the carry board in case she freaked out.

"Let's go", as he pointed the way down the hall.

The guard in the back slapped her right ass cheek: "Get going", he ordered.

"I was!", she protested.

The chaplain opened the Bible he carried and began to read: "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...".

"Wait!", Lorrie called out. At first, the guards wondered if co-operation was over.

She pointed: "Don't... you dare pray over me. You don't mean it and we both damn well know it". Turning to the lead guard: "Can you do me a favour? Tell the hypocrite to kindly fuck off?"

He paused to consider: having the chaplain was good optics, and the audience would be expecting some show of last minute getting religion on the prisoner's part. He decided, and nodded at the chaplain: "Your services are no longer required".

"Fine", he slammed the Bible closed, "I'll pray for you".

"And a 'Fuck you' to you too", she shot back at his retreating back.

"Shall we?", the lead guard continued leading the way down the hall and around a corner. Lorrie chuckled at the sight of a sign stand: "No prisoners beyond this point". Farther down the hall another guard held a door open that led to a spiral staircase. There was a window high up the right hand wall. Lorrie looked that way, perhaps wondering if there was some escape, but there wasn't.

They went down single file, down to a half landing, then the full landing onto the second floor, and down to the third landing. The door held open, and into a corridor that led to the execution unit, the double doors open and waiting. They sensed her increasing fear, and one guard held her by the shoulders. Lorrie willed herself to keep up, not pull back or try to break free. Through the double doors that were closed and locked behind her, she looked all around. Her expression seemed... somehow blank. She was led to stand before the witnesses, hands at her sides.

"Wait here", she was told, "someone requested a word". She was looking over the heads of the witnesses, especially the males who were ogling her pussy. She turned to look when she heard someone approaching.

Some lumpy-looking man well into middle age in a cheap, shit-brown, ill-fitting suit, came over. (I would later learn this was the State Security interrogator who interviewed her for a week.)

"So, Lorrie, looks like the end of the line for you", he said.

"Looks like", she agreed.

He leaned back, arms crossed in front of him: "You not only throw away a promising future, but your entire life. Tell me: do you still think those animals were worth it?"

"I always knew there was a chance... I might... that... Ineverthoughtitwouldbethissoon".

He stalked off.

"Lorrie", one guard behind her called out. She turned: "Come here", he ordered.

She did so; there was one of those plastic dinette chairs waiting.

"Bend over the back of the chair", he ordered.

Lorrie bent over, hands flat on the seat. Bending over sculpted her buttocks into two silky smooth, symmetrical ovals. He ran a hand over her butt cheeks.

"Tell me: have you had a good spanking lately?"

"No"

"Maybe you should have been spanked more often, then you wouldn't be such a bad girl... Did you fuck your way through the football team?"

"I'm not like that..."

"You're a cheerleader..."

"... No, I'm a majorette with the band..."

"Same difference, all the sluts become cheerleaders or majorettes to be the first to spread their legs for the players. Not a high school boy alive who doesn't know that".

"Then they don't know very much. I didn't..."

"So you're saying you're still a virgin?"

"Nunya business..."

"... Or is it that you prefer fucking animals to boys?"

She said nothing. "No answer? I'll take that as a 'Yes'".

He took out a heavy leather paddle that was obviously designed to hurt. He laid it across her ass for the fit, tapped her butt a couple of times to get the aim just right. He swung hard, a crack of leather meeting bare skin. Lorrie yelped and tried standing up, to be forced back down.

"Stay bent over; let them get a good look at your ass".

The paddle left a reddish streak across her ass that matched the shape of the paddle. Across her ass were white letters against the reddish background; "SLUT".

He let her stand up as she rubbed her burning butt as he showed her what was written across the face of the paddle.

"You can rub that out, but you'll never change what you really are. You'd better get going".

Lorrie walked over to a concrete staircase leading up to the platform above. There was no banister and the steps were steep. She hesitated, looked up, twelve steps, then down.

"You can do this", she told herself.

She put her right foot on the first step, and slowly climbed, the creases under her butt cheeks alternating back and forth with every step. As she stood on the platform, she gave a subtle wave to her witnesses. There was a square of polished wood, four planks across, under the noose. She stepped over and stood on it. She faced her witnesses. They were silently mouthing "I love you".

The Commandant stepped around her, hands on her shoulders: "You understand there will be no last minute clemency and that the sentence will be carried out?"

"I knew you were gonna say that... I knew it all along".

"Would you like to take this opportunity to confess your wrong doing, to leave this life with a clear conscience?"

"I admit it; I did it, everything they said".

The Commandant stepped aside; hangman stood before her: "Are you going to co-operate?", he asked.

"Yes".

He buckled a wide leather belt around her waist and she held her arms out.

"Hands by your side", he requested.

The belt had straps attached that held her arms to her sides. He buckled these around her arms.

"Turn around".

She was facing the official witnesses again. He put his hands on her shoulders to adjust her position: "Move this way", as he made sure she was standing at the center of the trap door. He took out a pair of leather bands that were joined with a couple of chain links. She watched the leg restraints being put on. He wrapped one set of bands around her left mid-thigh as he stood off to the side. He pulled the tongue snug, buckling it at the third hole.

"Stand with your feet together", he said.

Lorrie placed one foot next to the other, toes even. He buckled the other set of bands around her right thigh. He offered her a hood, but she shook her head. Her eyes followed his movements as he reached for the noose. This noose wasn't like the old fashioned hangman's knot, but rather with a quick release clamp. Pressing a lever allowed the rope to slide freely as he enlarged the loop. She looked straight ahead at nothing in particular as he placed the loop over her head. He snugged it up a bit, brushed her hair out from under the loop, and finished snugging it around her neck.

"Goodbye... Good... bye", she called out.

"It'll be all over before you know it".

"It... you mean... my life"

"Yes, Lorrie"

For the first time, Lorrie was blinking back tears.

"Dammit", she said, "I promised not to cry..."

Lorrie began to sing:

_This is the last song

I'll never sing it again

The bandstand's gone silent

The stage lights are turning dim

This is the laaaast song..._

... Something, something, something...

"I don't recall the rest of it", she said. She looked down at her feet.

She took a deep breathe: "I'm ready".

Her executioner pressed a button that energized the solenoid that released the latch. Powerful coil springs made sure the trap dropped from under her feet with minimal sideways deflection. She dropped straight down. Some of the official witnesses gasped. Lorrie dropped below the platform, the rope speeding through the pulleys until the slack ran out. Her descent ended as abruptly as it began. Her eyes were still open.

And that was that.

No flashes of light, no celestial trumpets, no angelic choirs. If there were, it wouldn't've made it any more obvious the loving daughter, the honour student, the baton twirling majorette was no longer here. The way her feet dangled from her ankles, legs from hips, the slow trickle of urine as gravity emptied her bladder showed her neck snapped, paralyzing her body which swayed gently, but enough to make the taught rope vibrate. Her witnesses knew: Elaine was bent over, hands over her face as she wept while her parents hugged and held her. Her father was holding onto his wife to keep her from sliding to the floor as she'd fainted. Her grandfather looked on, jaw tight, face ashen, eyes glaring with fury and, what? Pride in how his granddaughter faced her death? Father Mike, hands clasped, was praying. They knew Lorrie was dead. The witnesses were led out, now that it was all over. The body recovery team was arriving with a gurney. The executioner was coming down the stairs.

Next, back to the talk show. They were discussing how strange it was. Lorrie was the first female prisoner to take her final walk naked. I was doing the slow burn. right side of the screen showed a pretty teen in a dark green, silk, majorette's costume with an angelic smile, looking like she didn't have a care in the world. The left showed Lorrie's body hanging by the neck. It was obviously the same girl in both photos. Along the bottom of the screen:

"Lorelei Victoria Hobs: 2134 - 2149"

"SHE WAS FIFTEEN! MY AGE!" , the slow burn became an explosion.

There was going to be more, but we never got a chance to see the rest. I picked up the closest heavy object and threw it will all my force at the visi-vox.

"WES!", Savin called out.

"THOSE FUCKERS! HOW COULD THEY?!"

Savin had to literally sit on me to keep me from destroying who knows what else.

"GET THE FUCK OFF ME!"

"Wes, we really need to do something about that temper of yours", he said calmly.

He let me up after the storm passed.

"What's gotten into you?", he asked.

"I dunnow... what came over me..."

But I did know. Over the next days and weeks, I felt... what... totally empty inside. Everything I believed came crashing down. Did any species that would do that to one of its best and brightest really deserve to survive? I thought I hated them all. Fur-syms were useful, that was all. The slightly best of a bad breed, I thought, but I really didn't care about them.

Yet, I watched a sweet, pretty, intelligent girl my age walk up those steps without a complaint even though she knew every step brought her closer to death. She did it for others not of her own kind. Had the roles been reversed, I had to ask myself if I would have done the same. I had to admit it: I would not. How did we screw up? How could we let that happen? We could have hit that kiddie prison hard and fast. We rescued over 300 furries so how difficult to rescue one girl? Was it that all too many of us just didn't care enough to fully consider the consequences? Did all too many think Fur-syms were just useful, and who cares what happens to them? Yes, we've gotten little more than cruelty from humans, yes, we have good reasons to hate them. I thought we were better; I thought we could do better. Could I have been wrong? About everything? About... myself?

I had a big gun and an even worse attitude. What made me different from any thug in the nastiest inner cities? I had to admit that there was precious little difference. That is what separates the warrior from the thug: honor. I had precious little of that. I resolved to rediscover the conscience I thought I discarded, to always be guided by honor. I will soon be making decisions that will send hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Furries and humans alike to their deaths. I hope I do so with honor, that I am doing the right thing, that I am not needlessly sacrificing innocent life. No Lorrie: you didn't die for nothing.

I was left to stew over this for weeks. I knew what I had to do, even though it would be the hardest thing I ever did. I tracked down Lorrie's parents: Ted and Megan. Late one night, I slipped a window (I'd gotten very good at B&E). They didn't notice until I entered the room.

"Whothehellareyouwhatdoyouwant? GET OUT OF OUR HOUSE!"

"I'm Wesley Evers, sorry for the unannounced intrusion - it's not like I can just ring the doorbell.

"I wanted to talk about your daughter..."

"Our daughter's dead", Ted said flatly.

"I know, and I'm so sorry..."

"Take your sorry, shove it up your ass and get the FUCK out of our home!! You and your Fursyms promised she wouldn't be involved! You got what you wanted; you got those furries out, and all it cost was my daughter's life! We're going to have to move out of the city, change our names, or be known from now on as the parents of the traitor. We won't ever be able to visit her grave".

"I thought you'd want to talk about her..."

"Not with you!"

"It's like... Like I'm all broken up inside..."

"Don't.. talk to me... Don't you dare! Have you ever had to bury a child? Have you watched while they put a rope around her neck and there's nothing> you can do for her? > HAVE YOU?!"

"No, but..."

"There are no 'buts' here. If you want to be forgiven, tell it to a priest. I'm not in the forgiving business. You say you feel broken inside? I hope to God you live with that for the rest of your life. I know_we_ will.

"I have half a mind to call Animal Control right now. I suggest you get the fuck out of my house before I change my mind".

With that, he grabbed handfuls of fur and dragged me to the front door.

"I used to hate all humans until I saw what Lorrie did for us, and I know I wouldn't have..."

"Ted...", Megan started.

"WHAT?!"

"I... think we should let him see it".

"You... can't be serious?"

"I can't explain it... I think Lorrie would want him to see it".

Ted relented at hearing this.

Megan led me to the family room.

"Sit", she offered a seat in front of the visi-vox. I wondered what this was all about as she loaded a DVD. Lorrie appeared on screen. She was wearing a dark green, silk majorette's dress with a high hemline that barely covered her ass. It was sleeveless, with gold accents. From the collar, the front ran left, down to just below her arm. Five brass buttons ran diagonally to the front. The material outlined with a stripe of gold, gold around the collar. A gold band encircled the dress a few centimeters above the hem. An elastic waist band made for a fit that accentuated her figure. She wore tasseled, leather boots that came half way up to the knee.

Mom, Dad, since outside contact isn't allowed, this video is the best I can do. I don't know when you'll see this...

After breakfast and roll call this morning, I was told to report to the Commandant's office. He asked me to sit down, and told me the Court of

Expedited Judgment sentenced me to death. They're gonna... do it... sometime after 7:00 this evening. I was kind'a expecting that: nobody who's taken to HS headquarters ever leaves alive. Still, hearing it, was like a kick in the gut. I begged him to at least let me see you one last time, to say "Goodbye". He insisted he couldn't do that. I asked and asked if there wasn't anything he could do.

He said that, if I had a spiritual adviser, he could bend the rules to the breaking point to allow a personal visit, so he could prepare me. I told him about Father Mike. Even though he isn't legal, his church unlicensed, the Commandant said he'd overlook that little detail.

I just got done talking with Father Mike. He told me that you knew all along, that I was going to... die ever since the day after I was picked up. I had no idea, and thought I was the first to know. I can't imagine how it must've been for everyone. He said Grandpa Charlus is making the... arrangements.

I couldn't understand it at first. I never did anything to die for. I was informed by reliable sources that my death is your punishment for your Fur-Sym activities. They said you were involved providing logistical support for the furries' raid. They knew it, but can't prove it. When they were interrogating me, they had that essay I did for English last year. I didn't think it was all that inflammatory or subversive, just asking wouldn't it be better to deal more fairly with the furries? They had some stuff from my computer. They asked if I knew what my parents were up to. Did I see any meetings with people I didn't know and about whom they wouldn't talk? Did they go out without saying they were leaving or what they did when they came back? I didn't know anything about that, and wouldn't mention it if I had.

Everything I said, they twisted into what they wanted to believe. They had a confession. The first day I arrived at HS headquarters, a boy, he was seventeen, I guess, was dragged past my cell. I stood by the door. He was crying and pleading. The guard said: "He should have picked his friends more wisely". Later, I heard the screams coming up from the lower level. They make you kneel before this concrete trough. Then they slit your throat and the trough collects all the blood.

I told them nothing of any real consequence, either because I didn't know or wouldn't say. That's when the interrogator decided I needed additional "persuasion" (finger quotes) . I was lead to this room especially for women and girls. I was told to undress. I will spare you the details but it wasn't too long until I would do anything to make it stop. They wanted the password to unlock my HD, and I gave it to them.

The next day, I was taken to see the interrogator. He showed me two forms: "I sign this and you go to the basement right now".

I subconsciously put my hand to my throat.

"Yes, that's right: your throat will be cut"

"I sign this", he showed me the other form, "and you get transferred to the Youth Offender Correctional Facility. Which one do I sign?", he asked as he handed me a "confession", all filled out already.

I signed the 'confession'. Then I was taken to the facility.

The football team was on the practice field, as were the cheerleaders and the band when the goons from Homeland Security came to arrest me. All of a sudden, they all got real interested in anything and everything besides what was really going on. Those footballers could easily have overwhelmed these agents. I heard about these people, red necks, they were called, who would have stood up for me. It looks like that kind of courage has gone extinct. That's so sad.

The Commandant said I can have my own witnesses to my execution. I would appreciate it if you could come, and Elaine and Grandpa Charlus. I don't want to die alone. I want to see at least one friendly face. I know I'm asking a lot, and it won't be easy. I'm so sorry for all the grief I'm causing. If you can't, I'll understand. The Commandant sent for a councilor who specializes in end of life issues. At least I won't have to wait alone.

They will come for me in a few hours. I know what I have to do. I will not cry, plead for mercy, scream. Plead for mercy from the merciless? I don't think so. I won't fight them. I hope I have the strength. I hope Father Mike is right, and I'll be waiting for you on the other side. He said I was going where there were no more tears, no more sorrow. If all there is is nothing after the lights go out, he's right either way.

The councilor who's been spending the day with me said that we may never know how many lives we touch, and how.

After we prayed, he asked what I wanted to wear for the funeral. He showed me some gowns Grandad picked out. I said none of them, not my style that I wanted to wear my vixen costume. I also want it to look like I'm just sleeping. I know Grandpa Charlus probably won't approve, but that's what I want. Father said Grandpa had Roo-Roo restored, and wanted him to be with me. I haven't thought of Roo-Roo in years. He said he wanted Roo-Roo with me so I wouldn't be lonely. He said he would pass the word along.

I know some will be watching because they've been told I'm a traitor and criminal and they think justice is being served, some want to see me naked, some want to watch a school girl hanged to death. My only hope is that my death will touch a conscience, make someone stop and think about what this country's become. I hope some good comes from it even if I'm not there to see it. Please don't blame the furries; keep up with your work. I know you couldn't tell me any of the details, but I'm proud that you did, that you stood up for them. I wish you would have done more to include me. If I'm to hang for being a Fur-sym, at least I could actually earn it. It was the right thing to do, and I wouldn't change a thing even if I could.

After they do it, I would like for you to invite Elaine over. I have some jewelry she's long admired. I'm sure she'll be wanting a memento or two. She can have it all, if she wants. Carla from down the street is my size, so give her her pick of my clothes. Same for my collection of figurines, see who in the neighborhood wants them. I would rather my things go to those I know instead of complete strangers.

After I'm gone, remember all the good times we had. I hope you stay together, and I hope you keep doing whatever it is you do for the furries. If you don't, they win. Please don't forget me; remember how I lived.

I hope the beast will be satisfied after it devours me.

That's all I have, good-bye. Your daughter, Lorrie.

Megan started: "After the blackest days of our lives, I wondered what Lorrie meant... about anything good coming from... About touching a conscience. It would seem Lorrie touched yours.

"I don't know you, Wesley, I don't know what you've done... are doing; I don't need to know. I do know this: The good Lorrie mentioned is now in your hands. Maybe it was Fate that brought you to us, maybe it was an act of God. If there's any meaning in her death, help us find it".

"I will do my best, I can promise you that".

"Come with me".

I followed as Megan led me to Lorrie's bedroom. She shuddered after flicking on the lights, knowing Lorrie wouldn't be coming back, ever. The room was typical of young girls, lacy curtains over the window, frilly bed spread, unfinished school work on her desk. She went over to a display case on the dresser. It had a mirror back, glass shelves for knick-knacks. She opened the door and took out a ceramic figurine of a red fox.

"I would like for you to have this..."

"I couldn't...", I held out both paws.

"I insist, it was one of her favourites, and I'd like for you to have it. Let it remind you of Lorrie's hope for good".

"Hope for good", I accepted the gift.

After leaving Lorrie's parents, I knew it wasn't our fault. Lorrie died because of a rotten, corrupt shitstem made by an Elite who destroyed the entire Old World. How many lives did that cost? What's one more teen girl who happened to get in the way?

Lorrie, you died a Furrie soldier, and I swear that one day there will be a memorial. You didn't die for nothing, and you will be remembered so long as there are Furries to remember.

That charge of gross sexual immorality? Lorrie wrote a story. In it, she was in the woods wearing her vixen costume when a fox boy mistook her for a vixen, and spirited her off to his den. Even though he realized his mistake, he ravished her anyway. She went into great detail about how they yiffed. It was just a story, the kind that lots of kids her age write for their own amusement. That's all it was: a young girl's bodice ripper fantasy. It never happened because she got so many details wrong. Our mating season is December, not summer. The fox boy wouldn't have been able to do what she said he did, and furthermore, wouldn't think of it anyway.

Accusations of "Disinformation? She wrote a paper for English Composition last year. She didn't say any more other than why couldn't we give the furries a fair chance? If treated fairly, couldn't they contribute to the economy? How would it be a bad thing to have them attending school like the human kids? It was hardly the anti-government screed the "news" was describing.

Lorrie's funeral was held two days after she died. That wiley wolfie, Savin, got this vid to me several months later. Who made it and for what purpose, he could not or would not say. He knew it was something I needed to see.

This was at Father Mike's unofficial, non-government sanctioned "church" - not a real church. These days, preachers are all licensed, they all toe the party line to keep the sheeple in line with empty promises of heavenly rewards for earthly obedience. They also spy on their congregations. When you confess your sins, anything you say can and will be used against you. Unlicensed preachers and churches are barely tolerated, and closely watched at all times.

Lorrie lay in a white casket decorated with blue and pink butterflies. There was a banner of a butterfly above and behind the casket. Between the red dye in the formaldehyde that filled her veins, and the make-up, she looked like she was simply asleep. She was wearing her vixen costume, a crown of daisies encircled her head.

The outfit she wore was reddish-orange material suggesting a red fox. This as a dress with a hem coming to her wrists. Faux fur trimmed the hem line and the cuffs of the long sleeves. She wore this with leggings of faux fur to suggest paws. A hood with fox ears attached. And a tail. There were also hand-paws. I don't know why she would make something like that, as it would be dangerous to be seen wearing it, as little else could scream "Fur-Sym" louder. Yet there were photographs of her on display, and that was one of them: Lorrie's playing in that costume out in the woods somewhere.

Her hands clasped to her chest the kangaroo plushie that had been a favourite childhood toy, and imaginary friend: Roo-roo. She probably hadn't slept with Roo-roo in ten years at least. This was the grandfather's idea to include Roo-roo so's she wouldn't be lonely. Lorrie's parents, grandfather, Elaine and her parents, a scattering of other relatives were attending. Also included what looked to be a boyfriend and his parents. Lorrie mentioned she and Elaine were good friends ever since first grade.

Father Mike stood at the lectern:

"My predecessor welcomed Lorrie into this world in Baptism. It seems like yesterday that I was giving her first communion. I expected to be presiding over Lorrie's wedding in a few short years, not her funeral. At times like this, it's natural to ask 'Why?' Sometimes there are no answers and all we can do is turn to God in faith to ask for healing..." He went on like that.

The final insult? Lorrie was buried in an unmarked grave.

Fursyms weren't the only ones listening in; Father Mike spoke in very guarded terms. He made it sound like the girl had simply died. Just shit happening. No. God didn't call her home. A shitstem that is utterly corrupt sent her there. What's one more "example" to be made? One more score to settle once and for all before the revenge of the Furries can be complete. I vowed to do what I must to eliminate every last one of them. I vowed that, one day, there will be a proper memorial for Lorrie, for all Furries and Fur-syms. I can't make it right, but I can do what I must.

Five years to the day of Lorrie's death, a dapper older man walked into an Office of Animal Control. At first, no one took notice, just another official or businessman. That was until he pulled out an old Colt 1911A .45 semiauto and opened fire, shooting officials at random. He was cut down in a hail of bullets. He never stood a chance. He didn't mean to. He had two items on his person: an ID card in the name of Charlus Neesome, and a lock of brownish golden hair.

Investigators arrived at his house to conduct a search. They paid no attention to the antique clock with a fancy looking stone set below the face. It was so old tech, no laser beams, no radio signals, no ultrasonics. Just a lens focusing the light onto four photodiodes. These were connected to comparators. If the signals varied, motion had been detected. A countdown had begun.

They hadn't searched the basement, but if they had, it's unlikely they would have thought anything strange about the gas pipe running some six feet from the meter to the furnace. Maybe they would have wondered why there were two valves at each end, the one closest to the meter closed. They wouldn't have noticed the rags plugging the draft. Or that the pilot light was out, or that the air conditioner was cross connected to the gas valve.

Thirty minutes later, the air conditioner turned on, and the gas valve opened. From the heat exchanger, and into the air intake poured a very old discovery, a 300 year old discovery of one of the first organic compounds, made by a Sir Humphrey Davy -- a byproduct into his research to determine if chlorine was an element or compound

By the time the agents noticed the scent of freshly mown grass, it was too late.

The officers heard a strangled sound coming from their handy talkies. More officers rushed into the house, only to be greeted by a scene straight from Dante's Inferno. One officer was lying on the floor, foam pouring from mouth and nose. He tried to say something, but could not. Others lay where they fell. They would soon have company. One officer, suspecting gas, smashed out a plate glass window. This sent an invisible cloud of the heavier than air substance rolling across the front yard towards the remaining officers. Some of whom would take a week to die.

That pipe in the basement? It wasn't filled with gas, but with a substance so deadly, but so easily made, that it was one of the first of the war gases. Conveniently, it condenses at a higher temperature than water freezes.

Carbonyl chloride, phosgene, is some nasty shit indeed.

Later, investigators finally found the carefully hidden message that was Charlus Neesome's final testament

Dear Animal Control Fucks:

You took from me my precious granddaughter, Lorelei Victoria Hobs. I don't suppose you will remember her name. I watched how, because of you, she was stripped naked, and her life taken from her. I couldn't save her, but I can take a lot of you with me.

Contemptfully Yours,

Charlus Neesome, Lorrie's Grandpa

P.S. I'll be waiting for you in Hell.

I did some free lancing. First on my list was that executioner. One day, he came home, calling out: "Honey, I'm home". There I was, sitting behind his desk, reading his journal.

"Honey? I'm genuinely touched", I said as I leveled the antique Barreta .380 ACP semiauto pistol at his gut.

"Whoareyouwhatdoyouwantwhere'smywife?"/p>

"Honey's been delayed, an accident or something..."

"Whathaveyoudone?!"

"She's all right... too bad I can't say the same for you...

"Your journal is most enlightening", as I went through the journal. "Ummmm... Emily Webber, age: 10; 157.5 centimeters, 40 kilograms. You killed a little girl..."

"Look, you, it's not up to me. The court sentences them, and I carry out the court orders. That's the law. Don't like it? Then change it. Until then, they're gonna die anyway, so better to see it's done right. I have never botched a hanging and none of them suffered".

"Just doing your job? Just following orders?"

"Yes!"

"It never occurred to you that some may be innocent? Ummmm... How about this one? Lorrie V. Hobs..."

"So this is what this is all about? Something to do with the Hobs girl? You're obviously not a relative".

"It never occurred to you just how absurd those charges were? A fifteen year old girl runs an operation like the one that freed over 300 furries? Really?"

"The court sentenced her. If they made a mistake, that's on the judges. That's not my responsibility. The only questions I ask are how much does the prisoner weigh, how tall, what's the physique like, to get the rope and the drop right. That's all I need to know. I don't care about their back stories".

"Your curiosity underwhelms me".

"Afterwards, I personally take charge of washing the bodies, to make them ready for either a respectful, dignified burial, or to turn the bodies over to the families in a condition fit for a nice funeral. They already paid the price for their mistakes, so I treat them with respect and dignity..."

"... When it doesn't make any difference.

"And you think that makes it alright? You really do get off on it, don't you? You squeed your britches over every one of these kids you murdered, didn't you? The thought of you touching Lorrie's body turns my stomach. You are a total piece of shit".

"You're one to talk. I have the law on my side. All you are is a murderous hypocrite".

"Correction: you operate under the colour of the law. In saner times, that meant doing wrong while conforming to the letter of the law all the while violating the spirit of the law, but I don't suppose you'd understand the concept".

I stood, and ordered him to get moving. At the top of the stairs, I tripped and shoved him down the stairs all the way. He wasn't dead yet, just knocked out. One quick twist took care of that.

The paddle happy guard? He went to his car to drive to work one morning. I suppose they buried what was left of him in a shoe box. IEDs aren't that difficult to prepare if you know what you're doing. A shaped charge under the driver's seat, a little do it yourself electrical work, hit the starter and BOOM! The lead guard? Tragic accident, ran off the highway between the Youth Offender Facility and Las Vegas. At 70MPH when wheels leave hard pavement and hit soft sand, a roll-over is guaranteed. I guess he should have been more careful (wink, wink).

As for Mr. Lumpy, electrocuted in his shower.

I eventually got them all, everyone involved in Lorrie's execution. A string of tragic "accidents" and pseudocides.

As for that commandant, an unusual case indeed. I tracked him and his son to Tahoe: a fishing cabin in the woods, some father/son quality time. I got the drop on the son real easy, he wasn't expecting a thing.

He left a pan of frying fish on the stove, and that's when I slipped into the kitchen. I turned the fire on full. Pretty soon, the oil was smoking, the fish turning into charcoal. The son comes running back to turn off the heat.

"What the...", he begins, but is interrupted by that most attention-getting and horrifying sounds: the click-click of the hammers of a double barrel, sawed off shotgun being cocked.

I motion with the gun towards the table: "Sit down", I order.

"What're you..."

"Shut up!"

I took out a glass, poured some water, and added a few drops from a small bottle.

"Drink that".

"What..."

"I said 'drink', either you can drink it, or I'll decorate the wall behind you with your brains. Your choice. You have five seconds"

He drank. I helped him into the nearest bed: "Sleep tight, Sweet Prince", I said.

The Commandant opened the door...

"You burned our lunch?!", he waited for the response that never came. "Rod?", he called out.

He had fishing rods in one hand, and a stringer full of just caught fish in the other. He took one look at me and the sawed-off aimed right at his gut. His face fell: "You're here because of Lorrie"

Not a question, but a statement.

"So you remembered her name?"

"As much as I'd like, I can't forget"

He sat on the sofa next to the door: "What have you done with my son?", he asked.

"Sleeping off some 500 milligrams of chloral hydrate", I said, pointing, "back there but otherwise unharmed. He'll be out of it for the next twelve hours or so".

"Just promise me you won't harm him and get it over with".

"What you say in the next ten seconds determines whether you live or die".

"What do you expect me to say? I did what I had to do and I won't apologize to you or anyone else for that. I've presided over many an execution where the perp got what he deserved".

"So far, you're not making a favourable impression. Go on".

"I knew it was all political, Lorrie's whole case, and she didn't do anything to deserve it... unless you think she made a wrong choice in parents. I really hate these political cases. Sending these hardened killers to a well deserved early grave never bothered me. I at least tried my best to make it easier for her...

"You never thought to do something about that?"

"Like what?"

"If you weren't so gutless, there are certain individuals. If you wanted to, you could find them, or they could find you. There are those who're trying to make a difference".

"You don't think I don't know that? And don't you know they're watching me like a hawk? I took some pretty big chances already. You know Lorrie was forbidden any outside contact? Were you aware that I arranged it so she could meet face-to-face with this preacher friend of hers? I brought in a councilor who specialized in end of life matters so she wouldn't have to sit up there, alone, hour after hour, stewing over her execution. That was very much against regulations. I helped her to make a video for her folks and saw that they got it. Then there was this gal-pal..."

"Elaine", I added.

"... Elaine: she shouldn't've been there, even if her parents escorted her. She was very insistent, saying that they had been friends ever since kindergarten, that she needed to be there for Lorrie, even if they couldn't talk. It was against regulations for her to be in the witness' gallery because she was just sixteen. I would have gone to prison myself for that. I risked much more with the video Lorrie made for her parents".

"Yes, I'm very much aware. Even though I still think you're a cowardly piece of shit who could have - should have - done more, even if I think you deserve to have your innards turned inside out, it was something Lorrie's Mom once told me. I will take my leave. However, I'd strongly suggest that you stay away from the windows for the next twenty minutes". I melted into the woods.

III

I moved up the ranks quickly. First: Capo de Regime of a small regime that handled minor enforcement jobs, low-level assassinations, and controlled the center city drug trade. For the latter, I insisted on quality. I pulled an ancient book on organic chemistry from the family library and insisted that it be read. Those who could read would read it to the illiterates. No more half-assed equipment and sloppy lab techniques either. The quality of meth, psychedelics, and other "happy stuff" with which the "Beautiful People" destroy themselves went way up, and explosions went way down. Soon, we had the best stuff in all of the city center. Speaking of city center, I made an effort to clean it up, and make it clear to the gangs and thugs that they'd be better off finding somewhere else to operate. This brought in even more of the "Beautiful People", now that they no longer had to fear assaults and robberies. Pay offs to the cops had to increase, but so did the profits.

Next, a promotion to a bigger regime that was behind the drug trade for the ritzy suburbs farther to the West, all the way to what was once the "San-san" megalopolis. This was the territory of the elite's elite, even going back to the "old times". (I liked that: the fat-cats ultimately financing the instrument of their own destruction because they couldn't control themselves. Little did they know that the very Furries they were trying to eliminate were supplying them their "happy-stuff".) Higher level assassinations of politicians, not just the occasional thug who tried to put one over. I ran a tight regime, kept our drugs high quality with fair prices and no cuts. We also ran the gambling (I insisted on clean games at all times -- crooked dealers found themselves having a hard time even holding a deck of cards, let alone able to deal seconds). I kept our hookers and call girls clean, and saw to it that they were never cheated, I set up college and educational funds for them so that they could leave that life, the independent operators were put under our protection, so no more greedy, abusive pimps to deal with, even if it cut into our profit margins. That brought the elite from their lairs, looking for our special brands of depravity.

Then, in a few years, I made Consigliore. Yes, I was now second only to the Big Boss Furrie. The BBF was smart, had good strategic sense and an excellent feel for personnel needs. He was a total illiterate, and so I did all the reading for him he required. He wouldn't be bothered to learn. In this capacity, I passed along orders to the Capos. If an unreliable Capo needed to be "retired", I had a paw in that decision. I can't say that I'm proud of some of the things I had to do, but it's a survival thing for us Furries.

This wouldn't be complete unless I told you about the worst day of my life. That was when Father died. It started out like any other, as I was helping him coax a little more life from our old generator. Wesley had a massive coronary. I tried CPR, but it was no good. Mother and I held a funeral on the ridge overlooking the property. All our Furries insisted on attending, despite the great danger of being out in the open during daylight. I said a few words, for mother's sake, even though I can't believe in the human god. (How can I? If Man was created in the image of god, then what of we Furries? This just offends my sensibilities, especially as this is frequently used an an excuse for our abuse.) There were 36 pairs of Furrie eyes there, not a one dry, and all surrounded by tear-matted fur. One-by-one, they all gave mother and me a hug, when we needed it the most. None of them could say words; they substituted animal sounds instead. I worried about mother, but she had more strength to go on than I suspected. So we went on, teaching our Furries their lessons the very next day. Let me say again, I still miss my father, especially now. I could really use his council... especially ... now...

IV

I regret that Mother will live to see this... Even though she says she's 86, I believe she's really older. I left her a few hours ago. I'd dropped by to say my farewells, and explain the arrangements I made with the Fur-Syms to try to protect her. It was not easy, explaining the entourage of petro-fuelled military vehicles, the weapons, the uniforms, the deference and saluting of the other Furrie soldiers. It was not easy explaining that I could no longer simply live on the farm with her, as if I had no greater obligations to the outside world -- or to my kind. I explained that she had prepared me for this moment all my life, and that Father would expect nothing less from me. She's afraid... It was not easy...

"What is that you're wearing? You haven't wanted to wear clothes since you were a boy"

I sat next to her, taking her hand in my paw, to explain as gently as I could:

"It's not 'clothes'. It's a military uniform. There's a war coming..."

"Does the Commander think it wise..."

"Soldier! This is my mother. She has the right to know"

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

"War? What war? Wesley?"

"We're fighting for our lives, for our right to exist. The system as it stands needs to go, and we are going to tear it apart. I hope we can build something better in its place. You and Dad prepared me for this moment all our lives. Would you expect anything less of me?"

I'm afraid this will probably kill her.

My final promotion: Commander. In a few more hours, the war of our liberation begins: to let no one say we can't live because we're "too smart", to educate our minds, to enjoy that which we earn with the labor of our minds and our paws, so that we can say the word: "Furrie" with the pride of the free instead of the shame of the slave. Even now, more Furries are arriving to join our efforts. Hopefully, it will be our last. I'm not sure how much abuse this old world of ours can take. I'd say our chances are pretty good. Don't dismiss our "rag-tag" little army. Where ever there are Furries, Furrie armies are gathering. Such forces have prevailed before: Yorktown comes to mind here. As for the opposition, well, even in the final decades of the Third Republic, they were so decadent that they let the lower classes do all their fighting. In places like Vietnam, Kuwait, the Oil Wars: the "beautiful people" couldn't be bothered to dirty their paws. They've had over a century to indulge their pleasures, to grow even softer. Will slaves fight for them? Furrie slaves: almost none left. Human slaves? Whence their loyalties?

Don't deceive yourself. There's literally tons of tech lying out there in the desert, most from old, forgotten Third Republic military bases. Indeed, we have six nuclear-capable cruise missiles, two functional thermonuclear warheads, and another possibly functional by week's end. RPGs, small arms, ammunition: we've got it. We have a field piece, a mobile cannon called a "Paladin Howitzer", aimed right at the regional Animal Control Headquarters. Our forward spotters are already in place if we need to adjust the aim. The morning shift begins at 0800 hours. By 0900 hours, the building should be full.

(The elderly human who's sighting this gun has, I admit, gotten a bit exasperated with my asking how's it going: "With all due respect, Commander, I've spent half the night checking and rechecking the aim. If this antique doesn't malfunction, we'll drop a shell right in the Superintendent's lap. And if it does, there won't be enough of our asses left for you to chew out".)

Then the big gun barks, the Furrie War begins. Granted, it's not a strategically important target, but it's a damn satisfying one. When I think back on all the atrocities they caused, how I had to spend my entire life running and hiding from these people, well no, I won't feel the least bit bad about giving that order. Those Animal Control assholes made their choice, and they're gonna pay for it. Hell, most of them probably will never know what hit them. It's way better than they deserve.

What will become of our world? I don't know. However, can we Furries possibly do any worse? Look at this fucked-up mess of a world and ask yourself that. Then check back with me in a couple or three centuries and we'll talk about it. Make no mistake: regardless of the final outcome, the reign of the power elite is through. Either we are victorious, or Planet Earth joins the other eight as a lifeless ball of rock circling an average star at the outer fringes of an average galaxy.

"We have, or soon will have, exhausted the necessary physical prerequisites so far as this planet is concerned. With coal gone, oil gone, high-grade metallic ores gone, no species, however competent, can make the long climb from primitive conditions to high-level technology. This is a one-shot affair. If we fail, the planetary system fails so far as intelligence is concerned. The same is true of other planetary systems. On each of them there will be one chance, and one chance only."

-- Sir Fred Hoyle, 1964

Smart human, that Sir Fred. Is it true? I don't know, and I can't really say I give a damn. I can dig a den, and make it as cozy for myself, a mate, and our kits, as my old childhood home (hopefully, it will still be standing, but if it isn't, nothing more than a sentimental loss). I guess we'll find out soon enough. I hope I haven't bored you silly with my ramblings. I hope that I have given you some insight as to what has led us Furries to these extremes. I hope you learned something.

V

To Whom it May Concern:

Consider this the last Will and Testament of Wesley Evers II, of sound body and (reasonably) sound mind. If you're reading this, then you have also discovered the library of the Evers family. To you, I bequeath its knowledge, more precious than gold or silver. It is yours, for better... or worse. That's strictly up to you, whomever you may be.

P.S. I have been waiting for you... or Eternity.