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The merchant episode left a strange taste in everyone's mouths, for while the group, including Mort--whose name went from Mort the Helpful to Mort the Mortified for a bit, then changed back--had great guilt and remorse for the whole situation, it did not quite curtail their reckless habits. Though they had sworn off cough medicine, they still drank enough to go through a dizzying amount of diapers per day, leaving off-white, splotched lumps peeking out of the lidded outside garbage can. They shouldered, also, the other unfortunate effects of the drug, such as several indecency calls to the Police, then the PPP, as one or two of them would imbibe too much, and then be flopping around on the front lawn in a full diaper swinging about like the most precarious of pendulums. Fwippity fwap fwap went their flappy briefs.

Kioga summoned up the strange image of an animal ram, whose testes grew to an inordinately large size and swung grotesquely as it walked. It brought the same level of uncomfortable disgust. They were abusing themselves, and the diapers. How dare they.

So now Ceylon and Kioga hung out with the non-arrested four on the front lawn, nodding as each of the gangbangers, who were in various states of clean--Ricky being at the far back with a portentously engorged pouch growing around his legs like a mushroom--reminded each other that the Wetness Inquisitors would be back.

"Yeah, touching base would be good," echoed Duke the deer.

"I'm sorry about last time," said Mort out of nowhere.

The remembered almost-danger of the situation made both the felines' fur prickle. They both looked at him and then Kioga looked at Ceylon. "Well, he tried to stab you, not me."

"Technically you; he didn't know I was there," Cey countered, then took a breath, letting his bright, ice-blue eyes light upon the mortified iguana. "I'll be honest; it's hard to forget the capacity of a person once he's demonstrated certain things. While we're flawed, we do have the capacity, ha-ha, to change, ha-ha."

Ceylon was not wearing a diaper, so instead he grabbed the leg band of Kioga's compulsory onesie and pulled it away from his hip, then let it snap back.

"I only get a half-apology, then?" said Mort. His posture said sad, but his blinged-out spikes rose in defense.

"Is a down-payment on forgiveness okay?" asked Ceylon.

"Fair," said Mort, then his lizard eyes flashed as he caught semi-solid material falling down the back of Ricky's legs. "Jesus Murphy, Ricky; you're gonna get us arrested!" he shouted.

Duke folded his arms and sneered as Mort the Helpful put Ricky's arm behind his back and cop-walked him into the house, shouting at him the entire time.

"Party's over, then; sorry you missed the fireworks," he said to the gryphon.

"I have enough insanity at work; it's fine."

"But hey, if you want more fireworks," said Duke, "to see them or to ... buy some for the bedroom, you two," he said with a wink, "Whyn'cha join us at the Carcer? The gang's got a van."

"Where'd you get the money for a van?" pried Kioga, periscoping his head around the complex to see where the fuck they'd parked it.

The deer gave him a queer smile. "Where do we get the money for anything?"

"Fuck's sake."

Kioga was on his knees on top of the changing table, straddled over a fresh diaper and balls-deep in a supine Ceylon when they heard a horn blast outside of the apartment. The two paused in their indelecto flagrante, the gryphon's taloned feet curled behind the cheetah's head, and Kioga asked his lover, who'd managed to strip to his undershirt before they tackled each other in a whirl of "let's get you changed" and "well actually," "Uhm, you want me to finish?"

"Uh, are you close?" asked Ceylon, rather enjoying the view of his lower half up in the air with a fantastic warm rod deep in his body, spreading his smooth wet walls. There was a certain gratifying beauty of having one's bowels wet, stretched, and filled by lube, pre, effort, and emotion.

"Kinda?"

"Maybe we should tape me up."

"Damn, this time the gangbangers came early. You think we should invite them for...?"

"No!" Ceylon said with a laugh, dismounting and purring as cool air coursed over his dark, slightly-gaped pucker and undertail. "I can enjoy it sloppy, but not that sloppy."

"Yeah, it was mostly a joke."

"Uh-huh," he said, folding his arms and smirking. He watched his boyfriend diaper him up, not changing this facial expression.

They came outside, dressed in normal clothes over onesies and diapers with "halfterglow" lifting their smiles. Kioga had upgraded his diaper bag to a large leather messenger bag. The thing was useful, but just like his incontinence, it was another item to constantly keep track of. Definitely the last bag he should forget on long flights. Ceylon and Kioga held hands, and then didn't when Duke cheered at them, leaning out the passenger window and clanking his antlers on the frame.

"Yeah, bitch! Get some!"

"We were!" shouted Kioga. "Then you assholes had to spoil it!"

"Too bad! Either ... get that shit or get off the pot!" the deer said, fumbling an old idiom.

Laughs spilled out from the inside as well as the side door opened, with everyone inside surprisingly with sodas and beef snack sticks. The van didn't even smell like cigarettes or weed, but was a rather clean passenger model with three rows of unblemished bench seats. They got in and Ricky revved the engine, then dropped the van into Drive and peeled out.

Leakguard itself was a poor suburb, but attitudes were positive as Ferris-Chalmpers continued to expand and break off into sub-businesses such as the old-timey pharmacy "Lifestyle and Diaper Hygiene" company Pendrael, Davis, and Co. There were jobs in the Praetorian Guard, there were jobs in the diaper factories, there were ... a hell of a lot of custodial jobs ... and overall the suburbs and their city proper was blooming in the old ideal of "buy and sell, but don't sell out." Shops often sold products of factories small and international side-by-side. Leakguard was still a suburb of cheap products and limited means, but it seemed to be healing in the same humble, aged way of a drug addict coming clean.

Children played in the street and faux gangbangers, dressed in the same saggy-pants regalia as Kioga's neighbors, swaggered down the sidewalk talking shit to each other. Some of the saggy-pants even revealed pleated waistbands ... or entire white rumps. People honked and waved to each other, and even middle fingers thrown someone's way was met with a cheerful insult and two middle fingers back at them. Everyone was having fun, or at least hanging out on a bright sunny day, and Kioga could only realize, with a blush, that perhaps his public plummet into an exorbitant diaper fetish kickstarted something secret within his entire community. Optimism diffused itself like scented baby powder, dusting the air with a strange sense of self-confidence and self-fulfillment which was sometimes bolstered by the confidence that this certain garment lent, and the filling of it thereof.

The bleakness of Kioga's past life, of romances shattered and self-worth distorted, was but a distant memory now, a bad and irrelevant dream, and even the unsavory company he shared now held a strange, positive brotherhood and faith, as flawed and capricious as they were.

"People grow at different rates," Kioga whispered to Ceylon as Beatrice and Mort got into a slap fight. The iguana grabbed at her tits, the rat stabbed at his crotch slit, and then the two laughed, hugged it out, and then started a sloppy makeout session. Now they were grabbing each other's tits and slits out of love, not hate. "We're all children at our fundament, and from there we build different towers of adulthood. Some people are still working on theirs. And there's always one unfinished."

"Is this what American high schoolers are like?"

Kioga popped his lips and chuckled. "Yeah, some. Easily into their thirties."

But even with the newfound, junior prosperity of Leakguard, the city itself was like a blinding chiffon coat. The few skyscrapers of Puerto Panuela, Wyoming gleamed like crystal structures formed into New York towers, the glass sectioned off in beautiful, tesselated grids and the peaks forming proud steeples to prosperity. The cars leapt in price and performance amidst taxis and humbler models tooting away to their janitor jobs, and even though the gangbangers had all put on clean cotton shirts, tanks, and jeans, the price of the pedestrian couture also leapt up. At least Puerto Panuela still had their Walmart, but some of those tank-tops were rather thin.

"Dude, I can see your nips!" Duke the deer had once said to Mark.

"Can, or want to see them?" Mark fired back.

"Look, there's a fine line between bisexuality and faggotry," said Duke.

"But you still want me to stretch your butthole."

"Because it feels good, yes."

Mort cleared his throat, wiped his lips of Beatrice spit, and tugged at his shirt.

Kioga clapped his paw on the iguana's shoulder. "Hey, bud, maybe you'll make it, too. Just gotta shit yourself at the right time, right place. The wrong movement in the right place can make all the difference in the world."

"I know that's Half-Life, bitch," said Mort, brushing the cheetah's paw off. "Don't gimme trickle-down leakonomics."

Kioga snorted. "What do you do for a living?"

"Gettin' that paper, and my paychecks are at a hunnit percent."

"Do you ... ever do your taxes?" asked Ceylon.

"Ain't got taxable income, hehe!" said Mort.

Kioga inhaled through his nose. "Just don't let them Al Capone you."

"Not finna kill people," said Mort. "Y'all ready know how bad I am at that."

They chuckled. "So I suppose you do not want to make it to the top," said Kioga.

"Just do be careful," said Ceylon. "I suppose you know about the wiretapped apartments?"

"The what?!" screamed Mort.

"The stings run by Our Lady of Chastity," said Ricky from the front.

"You saying you're a snitch, Ricky?"

"Against the gangs that kill people, sure," said King Scatfag, following a black Awoodi.

Kioga recognized the enormous triangle ears bent against the roof. "Fuck, that's Kyrie; honk at her!"

The mongoose blasted the horn. They were stopped at a traffic light and the window promptly rolled down. A fennec popped her head out of the window, immediately doubling the total height of the car as she leaned her lean, post-pregnancy body out, and she shouted at them, pointed at the light, and flipped them off. Kioga rushed to the front and crawled over Ricky's lap to lean out the window.

"Heeeey, bitch!" he shouted, waving at her.

"Oh, you bitch! Fuck you, too!" she laughed, her frown immediately turning into a smile. Her tits were still huge from the pregnancy, and hung decadently from a straining white collared shirt, a heroic button holding the two flaps together like Hercules. That cleavage was deep enough to go balls-deep in, and he knew she was wearing little nipple-diapers in her bra from the lactation. Kioga loved the male body, loved his boyfriend, but that woman also had a real nice thing going on.

Sex good.

His fur prickled and he blushed as he realized the mongoose was squeezing up his backside, his fingers prodding through jean, onesie, and diaper for where his asshole was, however leaky it might be.

Damn, buttsex and diapers saved Ricky, as well.

"Quit it; that's larceny," said Kioga.

"Aw, damn," said Ricky, hesitating to remove his paw, then the light turned green while Kyrie was still shouting fun insults at them. The mongoose lay on the horn again and Kyrie rushed to get back in the car, smacking the back of her head on the frame. She rubbed it while the gangsters and Kioga laughed, then gave them one last middle finger before speeding off.

Kioga crawled to the back seat and smacked Mort's paw when he tried the same stunt. Mort rubbed his paw, then started fiddling with it. "Maybe we should talk to somebody. Cause maybe the cops like what we're doing now, snitching on the bad guys, but they got our cash bidness as blackmail, you know? I'oanna go to jail. We feed this dragon, only a matter of time before it turns on us."

"Ferris-Chalmpers has a small business consulting firm!" chirped Kioga. "Get under the dragon's graces."

"Of course they do," sighed Ricky. "But then Ferris-Chalmpers decides on a more progressive--well let's just say popular, since it's all only about public opinion anyway--and they start sniping the dirties in society. Is we, the Neighborhood Watch Mafia, homeopathic--"

"Homophobic," corrected Duke.

"Or homeopathic; you don't know what the next social wave is! We is homieopathic, though. Bros for life," he said, extending his fist for Duke to bump it. "Ride dirty, ride or die."

"You always ride dirty, Scatfag," said Duke, bumping fists, "Though I do wonder: if the bootyhole is a prison pocket, then--"

"A diaper's a prison backpack!" chimed Mort.

"Jesus Christ," laugh-growled Beatrice. Men and their dumb jokes.

"Homeopathy, though, not really," said Kioga, "Ferris-Chalmpers and Pendrael, Davis & Co. do dabble in the placebo side of that, since self-care, self-assurance, and slotting out peaceful time can have healing effects, facilitated by diap--"

"And you missed the metaphor!" snapped Ricky.

"What's a metaphor?" asked Mort.

"DON'T!" gasped Ceylon.

Ricky grinned. "For cows to graze in, retard. Anyway, we already see the power of the corpo-capitalist state in the form of the PPPPP PMCs."

"The fucking what?" asked Duke.

Ricky took a breath. "Pendrael's Polypropylene Puerto Panuela Praetorian Private Military Corps."

"That's why they didn't print that on their jeeps," said Kioga.

"Y'know, speaking of wiretaps," said Ricky, the mongoose's eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror. Duke's paw seemed to drift toward the glove compartment, but it was more of magnetism than it was consciousness. "And I just want to clear the air."

Kioga's spots seemed to become sweat glands, and a lump formed in his throat as he realized that the iguana was between him and the sliding door. A warm blush of urine flushed across the crotch of his concealed diaper and his lap swelled.

"We gotta clear the air with your butthole-stretching dumps," Mort said. "Though ironically, almost smells better when you use your, whatd'ja call it last weekend, 'gangster pants.'"

There wasn't the normal jostling among the group. Ricky managed a sardonic smirk. "Kind of sad to think that gang color diaper prints would be the best and worst idea. Everybody having shootouts in their comfy baby briefs."

"Maybe a squirt gun fight."

And this brought a sad, sincere smile to the mongoose's face. He leaned back in the driver's seat, luxuriating. "Ah, only the world could have more of that peaceful joy of parodic boy's play," waxed Ricky. "Cowboys and Indians, forgetting the more vicious game of Government vs. Indians." Duke's paw was still hovering near the glove box like a nervous boy over his girlfriend's breast.

"How did you get so smart all of a sudden?" asked Mort. "You been doing book learning behind our backs?"

Ricky glared at Mort through the mirror. "Sometimes you do some thinking," he snapped. "You could do some, too, cough medicine."

"Dude, fuck you," said Mort, wilting like a scolded toddler.

"And you, Kogari Darvish," said Ricky, "You're connected with Ferris-Chalmpers who runs the capitalist arm of the law. Ain't government-corporate collusion called fascism?"

"That's probably why their uniforms are so nice," said Mort with a chuckle.

Ricky didn't scold him for that.

Kioga folded his arms, getting both electric chills and the hot wetness normally reserved for his loins. "The Nazi argument, then?" he asked.

"Here goes his conspiracies, again," sighed Beatrice.

Ricky waved his paw. "Nah, not necessarily. We don't have to jump to conclusions, but hey if the jackboot fits. That is one of my concerns: we feed the dragon but then we worry, as you said, Mort, what happens if the wrong party gets the reins. And hey, it's acceptable that a giant dragon doesn't listen too much to itty-bitty reins, but that don't stop it from trampling some houses. And I know, I know, that your precious Pendrael seems to be a merciful, all-knowing alien, as far as the rumors go, but you wonder what happens when a god gets bored? Ever use those cheat codes in SimCity to blow up your town?"

"Sure," said Kioga.

"And let's take it a step further. What about the other case, where God is merely the creator of man and free will?"

"Jesus, Ricky, how much thinking did you do?" asked Mort.

Ricky's knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. His luxuriating was gone. "Just about as much cough medicine as you do."

"Geez, kick a man when he's down."

"Just so we make sure we burn it out of you. Anyway, if God's the creator of man, and that's it, then how much free will is He going to allow?"

This snapped across Kioga like an arctic breeze. "Oh," the cheetah said.

"Exactly," said Ricky. "You get it!" he said, reaching back with a fist.

Kioga bumped it, nervous at the fortuitous olive branch. "What you're saying is, now that Pendrael has given us paradise and knowledge, it's up to us to fuck it up."

"And bring in the Diapered Reich."

"And Pendrael would just leave ..."

"And we'd be waiting for his second coming."

"Jesus," said Kioga.

"It's why I want to respect you, dawg," said Ricky, "Because I don't know what kind of force powers and lightsaber you're currently wielding, and you seem like a straight guy. And furthermore, I like your diapers. Your company makes a great product."

"You've mostly been buying American Apogee, but yes, our company does great commercials which leads to great distribution and awareness of the ABDL paradigm."

"Not culture or kink?"

"Eh, 'culture' seems to be worshiped and 'kink' seems to be a dirty little secret," said Kioga. "I consider the recreational use of diapers just as pleasurable and valid as the other version of watersport. If, of course, a little more private."

He caught Duke and Mort nodding in agreement. Duke's arm was back on the armrest, paw hanging limp.

"So yeah, I guess my main concern is, of course, as far as Ferris-Chalmpers goes, is that the company exists with the consent of the people. A business as a person, which means it has a right to exist as long as it doesn't violate the rights of others."

"And who's to enforce that boundary?" asked Ceylon.

"The laws in place, though obviously you hope that the laws, written by man, go along the same lines. You know I have a problem with speech and drug laws."

"I think most of us do," said Kioga. "But you'd need some really strong fucking warning labels for opiates."

"Think it's just Darwinism at that point," said Duke, stretching in his seat. "But ideally, of course, you'd hope your local Walmart has it behind glass and has an ID check, just for lawsuits. Make sure you're distributing to people that can handle it."

"Shit, just like us alleged drug dealers, allegedly," said Ricky, chuckling.

"I'll think about it. Let's just say I deliver 'gifts' and they give me cash gifts," said Duke.

"Tale as old as time," chuckled Kioga. "At least you're supporting the Praetorians with your generous purchases."

"Yeah, yeah; shaddup," said Mort. He shifted in his seat, and of course, there was a gratifying rustle.

"But back to the important part," said Ricky, "and call me a conspiracy theorist if you will."

The conversation already had Kioga on high alert, and his eyes kept flicking to that glovebox and Duke. It was starting to feel like a mobster movie. "Oookay; give me your best shot." Kioga wore regular trousers most of the time and it showed: his crotch was starting to rise and round out from excess, intermittent urine. Emotions flowed out of him like waste, and though from an external view, his anus wasn't gaped unless it had succeeded a vigorous lovemaking session, or a fairly futile effort to enjoy a buttplug, it sure felt like it to the incontinent cheetah. Flatus and fecal excretions felt the same; it just depended on the subsequent texture and warmth.

Kioga shifted in his seat so he could check his seat. It was strictly moist, for now.

"Yannow," Ricky said, trying to wave his paw in a friendly manner, "just like the present and concerningly casual Padridgegate, where our apartments are actively tapped and monitored by the Feds--"

"Not Feds," said Kioga. "The Mayor made it expressly clear that Puerto Panuela wants to handle it personally; even the Sheriffs are kept at arm's length."

"Well okay," said Ricky, "at least some bureaucrats are kept out of the kitchen. But it makes me concerned, with your connections, that this could lead to a short circuit, if you know what I'm saying."

Kioga got his meaning immediately, the knowledge bomb dropping a moment before his body decided to drop a loaf into the back of his diaper. Mort heard the trademark gristle of a moist turd and stared at the cheetah's ass for a good while, looking for a bulge. "Let me assure you that my business is strictly private," Kioga answered. "My purpose in life is to bring freedom and pleasure to the people."

"Let other people do the dirty work?"

Kioga sighed, leaning back in his seat and putting an arm around Ceylon for support. "And attempt the incredibly difficult business of proper restitution toward society, while shouldering also the burden of what 'society' specifically is. Who is the public, if not everyone? What are the rules within a network of disparate, distinct individuals, so on and soforth."

"Well, we'll see how well the Praetorians have set it up; see if they're fair or merely tyrants in pretty onesies."