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There are very specific rules involved in working for Gazelle.

These rules don't apply so much to technicians or assorted roadies, unless you do something wrong and draw attention to yourself. It is best to follow the rules regardless, just in case you do.

The rules apply very specifically to her dancers. There are always four of them: T.C., Jaime, Fang, and Julius are the current lineup. They are so alike most people have trouble telling them apart: all are towering, muscular tigers in slashed, fur-tight, sparkling outfits. They are all within an inch of eight feet in height and thanks to two hours a day, minimum, of dancing practice are quick on their feet, flexible and sleek.

As for the rules, they are these: no alcohol the day of a performance. If you showed up drunk for practice, or if she caught you working on set drunk, out you went. No drugs whatsoever, ever, unless prescribed by a doctor. She viewed her dancers as professional athletes and the rules spilled over to the crew.

Gazelle pays very well and her current staff has no issues with the rules. Various roadies and even tiger dancers have come and gone who couldn't follow them, but she's been with her current crew for years.

There are other benefits to working for her as closely as the tigers do. Their secondary job is to act as her bodyguards, and for several hours before each show two of the four guard the private entrances to the arena. Most of the people who show up there have tickets, but not all. This is where the benefits appear, which is why they rotate who is on that duty.

When a tiger is guarding an entrance he is allowed, at his discretion, to let in as many as four people through without tickets. How that happens depends on the tiger.

T.C., the most straight-laced of the crew, sometimes lets in relatives, close friends, or friends of friends. T.C.'s only kink, if you could call it that, is that his steady girlfriend is a skunk who barely comes up to his knee. Big cats aren't hung particularly well for their size but the couple still attracts astonished looks. The mechanics of their sex life inspire much speculation but no details can be pried out of the tiger, and his girlfriend just smiles and fluffs her trail when the subject comes up.

Jaime and Fang accept "gate payments" which often cost more than an actual ticket, what with every single one of Gazelle's concerts selling out. It is a last resort way to get in, if you manage to get to the gate before they've let four people through.

Julius, youngest by a year and by far the horniest, lets people in who perform "special services" on his person. Jaime and Fang aren't above this sort of thing either, but more of Julius's cum has ended up inside show-goers than both of theirs put together. Julius has no type, no species or specific gender he is interested in; if he is in the mood, and he usually is, you can get into the show with a long suck and a gulp. Everything from an elephant to a porcupine has, at one time or another, gotten in that way and the only reason the smallest sorts are ruled out is what he calls "the fit issue."

Much of this is of questionable legality, but all these things are an expected part of the party atmosphere associated with rock stars. The lack of drug use by the staff and T.C.'s lack of interest in capitalizing on his position still make Gazelle's shows the cleanest shows around.

The tigers are another another reason why they are so clean. Whether or not they'd otherwise let in a particular person, there are certain things they won't let into a show.

"Hey," a sleek snow leopard complained when the hand of a tiger three times her size plucked her purse away.

No drugs allowed in," growled Julius, who had of course waited until she swallowed to raise the issue. "You leave these here or you don't get in."

(All four of the tigers have finely honed senses of smell and know the scent of every imaginable narcotic, plus a few unimaginable ones.)

"Fine," she hissed with her tail frizzed up. She'd hoped to make quite a killing selling her assortment of pills in the crowd. Instead she snatched the purse back and left.

"That one doesn't count, then," Julius murmured. Five blowjobs in one night is even better than four. He considered the tube mouth of the anteater next in line and smiled. That one didn't have a ticket either. He'd have to take him aside for a special search, just as he had the snowmeow. Maybe something could be arranged.

The confiscated drugs end up in a drop box and at the end of the evening the ZPD sends someone by to pick it up. Other show runners maintain that Gazelle is crazy for insisting on this, as it could be sold backstage, but other shows get raided by the cops. Gazelle's never did.

At the other entrance, T.C. encountered a bigger problem.

"No," he growled. The pig had just shown him his ticket and stepped past, only to have a huge four-fingered tiger hand grab him by the backpack. Packs were always the subject of scrutiny by gate wardens and T.C. smelled someone bad in this one.

"Next in line," said the wolf who was T.C.'s backup. He handled the gate as the tiger dragged the pig backpack-first out of sight. T.C. reappeared a moment later, shaking his head, and put the pack in not the lockbox but a heavy safe bolted to the floor out of sight of the public.

"Problem?" said the wolf. T.C. pulled shreds of cloth out of his claws. From the look of things he stripped the pig bare before shoving him out of the stadium.

"Later," T.C. purred, and went back to watchman duty without another word.

He went backstage soon after. For an hour he and his "brothers" did a last minute practice of the routines they did to back up Gazelle. T.C. liked to say he couldn't sing a note; Gazelle paid him for his body. That was accurate, though it made people jump to wrong conclusions. T.C. just smiled and let them jump.

Fifty thousand people officially attended the concert that night, as many as the fire Marshall allowed, plus fifty or so backstage pass fans and eight more who were either friends of T.C. or had bellies full of tiger semen. However they got in, they got in, and everyone had a wonderful time. A small amount of party drugs got snuck in, as always, and the concession sold a vast quantity of food and alcohol. There were a few fights, a few people got sick, and there was one non-fatal O.D. By concert standards, it was the most uneventful of nights. At the end a kaleidoscope of fur colors and clothing hues headed for the train station, taxis and parking lots.

While that was happening Gazelle bowed to the roadies the way she always did, announced bonuses for good performance, fired one rigger who was very clearly under the influence, and met with the tigers briefly.

"Good job tonight," she said, with a smile and another bow. Gazelle kept things clean right up until the end of the show. Jaime and Fang would accompany her back to her room as security and, the others knew, do decidedly non-security things with her. Gazelle had needs like any animal, and over the years a succession of tiger dancers helped her satisfy them. Sometimes all they did was escort a handsome concert-goer to her room, but none had caught her interest tonight, so the tigers themselves would scratch her itch. With their raspy tongues, a raspy something else and plenty of practice they were quite good at it.

"I'm sorry about this, ma'am," T.C. said before she departed, "but I'm going to miss tomorrow's practice. A family matter has come up. I'll be at the rainforest arena day after tomorrow, though."

"See you there," Gazelle said, and let herself be all but carried off by two tigers each five times her size.

The other tigers each caught his eye and he nodded fractionally when Gazelle wasn't looking. They knew what was going on. Gazelle didn't and never would, if they had anything to say about it.

Back at the entrance he'd watched over earlier, locked now for the night, T.C. used his staff key to let in a plain-clothes ZPD officer.

Officer Rikk was no taller than T.C.'s girlfriend, an inconspicuous little brown mammal in an inconspicuous brown jacket. His pointed muzzle, sideways oval pupils and brindled fur showed he was a mongoose, a common enough creature. He blended in well and attracted little attention, like all the best undercover cops.

He collected the confiscated drugs and heard about the backpack from T.C. "Show me," Rikk said without preamble, and T.C. unlocked the safe.

"I didn't smell explosives," the tiger said, for the mongoose was sniffing intently. "But gun oil, smokeless powder, that was enough to grab the bag. I glanced inside and it was what I thought."

The mongoose had the backpack open and nodded. Firearms are strictly forbidden except at shooting ranges in Zootopia. A century of public education programs reduced them in most people's minds just objects meant to entertain. The ZPD brought them out only on the rarest of occasions, relying on tranquilizer darts and physical force. There was a reason so many ZPD officers are big, powerful mammals. There was a place for small officers like Rikk or the famous bunny and fox, but when push came to shove the ZPD relied on big, strong, well trained officers.

"Disassembled sub-machine gun," the mongoose said as he looked in the backpack. "Ten magazines. Two pistols and ammo. There's no reason to bring all this to a concert."

"There's one reason," T.C. growled, and the mongoose nodded. The little mongoose zipped up the backpack and shouldered it. It was much too large for his little body but he was stronger than he looked.

"Found abandoned outside the stadium during a security check," he said distinctly, looking T.C. in the eye.

"Yes, officer," T.C. growled. "I saw it on my way out the door. When I picked it up I heard a clank and since I knew an officer would arrive shortly to collect the drugs I put it in the safe."

Officer Rikk nodded. That would neatly explain why T.C.'s paw prints were on the bag. "No sign of the owner?" Again he met T.C.'s eye.

"No, sir." There would be a followup investigation at the stadium. He would eventually be called in to repeat what he knew, which wasn't very much. He found the package, and as it was almost time for the officer to show up to confiscate the drugs, he stayed to report it. There would be worried discussions at the ZPD but it would all be kept out of the public eye. No need to cause a panic when nothing developed from the situation.

Officer Rikk nodded and left. T.C. collected the long coat he used when it was raining and draped it over the safe. He didn't mind being wet but some people thought wet tigers smelled like wet wolves, which is to say, bad.

There was still one loose end. T.C. took care of it.

"I've been in here for hours!" snapped the pig when T.C. opened the door. All concert venues have small, secure rooms that are used to store valuables as needed. Most often this is something the performing act brings, like extra instruments too valuable to risk being pilfered. A few are essentially small apartments and worked equally well as prison cells. This one even had an attached bathroom, which is why he left the pig there. The wolf thought he ejected the pig, but T.C. knew the stadium better than he did.

T.C. shut the door behind him. The pig was as high as his breastbone, about five feet tall and rotund. He probably weighed two hundred pounds, quite a lot of it fat. T.C. was a tiger and was over five hundred pounds of well-toned muscle. When he pinned the pig to the wall there was a squeal of fear but very little resistance.

"I want a lawyer!" The pig squealed, and then his head was in T.C.'s mouth. He would not see a lawyer. T.C. worked his jaws over the pig's head, careful not to so much as scrape the skin lest a drop of blood be left as evidence. The muffled squealing diminished still more as the shooter's snout slipped past his back teeth into a slick chute of gullet. T.C. pushed his raspy tongue back under the pig's chin and swallowed. The last faint squeal was cut off as the pig's entire head slipped into his throat.

He'd stripped the pig earlier and thrown the clothing scraps into a bin which had since been emptied. The backpack and guns were in ZPD custody. The wolf thought the pig simply went on his way. The only item of evidence left to show what might have happened here would soon be in his stomach. It was not the first time one of Gazelle's tigers helped the ZPD prevent a public panic. It would not be the last.

T.C. worked his jaws methodically over the pig's upper body, helped by the slope shouldered, semi-feral build common to Zootopia animals. Most shooters were smaller than this, in his experience. When he caught the rabbit with a pistol as big as it was, one gulp and the shooter was gone. There hadn't even been a bulge to show he'd eaten.

This time there would be a bulge. He felt the pig trying to open his muzzle inside his gullet, probably screaming for help. Who would help someone who showed up at a concert with a bag full of guns?

Not T.C. With a lurch of his muzzle half the pig was gone and it tried desperately to kick him with its cloven hooves. It could bruise or even cut him, which he'd have to explain, so he grabbed its thighs and pushed its legs up. One great gulp and the pig was sliding into his maw, legs now held straight by his jaws.

A massive bulge tightened his neckfur as the pig's hips disappeared. He felt the impressively large balls roll over his tongue then they were gone, too. His weren't a quarter that large. On the other hand, his wouldn't be part of a tiger's bowel movement tomorrow.

T.C. swallowed and the legs protruding from his jaws grew shorter and shorter. Kicking trotters approached his fangs and he yawned to his full gape to let them slip past. Before the pig could blindly find a target and crack one of his teeth the hooves were on his tongue and T.C. swallowed them down.

But not all the way down. T.C. pushed a palm against his belly where the pig's head lay. He felt the desperate squirming as digestive juices ate into his dinner. If he took away his hand and swallowed the whole pig would slide into his stomach. That was where the shooter belonged, but not yet.

It wasn't easy to breathe around a set of hooves but he managed. T.C. opened the door and flipped the raincoat over his shoulders one-handed. With the coat draped over him and the pig stretched out in his gullet instead of bulging out his belly his appearance was practically normal and the security guard in the parking lot just nodded as he went past. Nothing to see here, officer.

T.C. got into his car, a late-model Panther with enough headroom for even a tiger, and smiled and waved at the gate guard as he drove away. He slipped into the slow lane on the expressway and only then let himself swallow.

What a relief! For him, anyway. His belly swelled as two hundred pounds of living pig slid into his stomach. The shooter squirmed and kicked but it was much too late for any of that.

T.C. belched contentedly and steered for home. He was a tiger, the shooter was a pig. What would happen now is only natural. Natural anywhere but Zootopia, anyway. It was a half hour drive home. The struggle in his belly stopped before five minutes of that passed.

Tempting though it was to swallow air, because anyone who would bring a bag of guns to a concert deserved a torturous digestive death, he instead burped it up and was rewarded with a last kick just after he got on the expressway. The pig hardly had any time to digest at all before he suffocated. Too bad, really. It was Friday night. His girlfriend should be at work, but he'd better be sure.

"Zoogle, call Mary."

"Calling Mary," said his phone. A moment later she picked up. "Hi honey." Her voice always made him smile. Such a sweet voice out of such a sweet little skunk lady. It didn't matter that she weighed forty pounds and he weighed five hundred. Love is blind.

"Just heading home from the concert," T.C. purred. "I'll see you in the morning unless something changed."

"Nothing's changed, dear. I get off at sunrise. We nocturnals get all the night shifts, you know." "I know. I'd be working them myself if concerts weren't in the evening."

"Sleep well, honey, I'll see you then."

It was nearly midnight. He pulled into the parking slot in his duplex and was pleased to see all the lights were out in the other half of the house. One thing that might go wrong is neighbors seeing the great bulge in his belly. He couldn't keep the pig in his throat forever. Luckily no one was up and about and he was through the side door in moments.

Somehow, throughout half an hour of driving, he'd kept a bubble of air in his gut. T.C. belched and rubbed the bulge in his middle. Maybe the air from the pig's lungs? What he probably should have done is called his girlfriend from the concert, say he had to stay overnight for some reason, and crashed in the same room he put the pig. He didn't think of it because he'd never eaten a shooter this big before. He could have told the stadium he stayed in case the police wanted to follow up on the backpack he found.

How many would-be shooters was this now, three? The other tigers had eaten their share, too. And the occasional stalker, a couple of too-aggressive paparazzi. Most of them had the good grace to be small and quickly digested. The only problems were from bad judgement, as when Stripes was on the crew and didn't think to search the paparrazi he ate. Passing a bulky camera will learn you to search your meals real quick.

Next time he ate a big one he'd stay at work. That was the plan. T.C. stripped out of his sparkly jumpsuit, yawned, and flopped onto the bed. His swollen belly was already softening to the touch as a carnivore's stomach acids attacked the pig.

When Mary got home the shooter would be a sloshing mass with no incriminating shapes pointing to a swallowed Zootopian. He'd say Gazelle bought them all a huge dinner, which she sometimes did. And by the time he showed up for practice in the rainforest district day after tomorrow, or got called in to repeat how he found the backpack, there'd be nothing left but some new fat on his frame. He'd burn that right back off dancing.

Maybe he should feel guilty, but he didn't. It was one thing when some asshole stalker or paparrazi made such a nuisance of himself they got a trip through a tiger. He might feel a little bad about that right about the time they stopped wriggling inside him. But a shooter? Even the police looked the other way when one of them got eaten. Officer Rikk knew exactly what would happen when he left without asking who T.C. got the backpack from. He as much as signed a permission slip. "This man is of more use to society after a trip through an intestinal tract than before - Officer R."

His stomach let out a long gurgle and T.C. rested his cheek on his forearm as he settled down to sleep off his meal. Tomorrow morning he'd head into the bathroom, squat over the floor toilet, lift his tail, and not feel guilty at all.