FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Another strange burst of inspiration took upon me, and this came out. Just thought I'd share.

Cheers,

G

*

Greg's conviction that he had to leave his family home was growing to great proportions by the time his uncle George started to talk about how Andrew was too much of a wimp to serve back in 'nam, like all the real men had done back in that time and age. The grizzled tiger had leaned against the mantelpiece of the unlit fireplace, one paw clutching onto a tumbler almost empty of the whiskey that been in it before, and he had his tie loosened up, and generally looked as disheveled as a 68-year-old tiger who had been drinking from a dead man's booze cabinet could be.

"...you'd see even that Martins kid, barely strong enough probably to carry the rifle, line up to the recruitment office, but not our Andy here, not a chance. Always going on about those books."

"George," Martha had called, sitting on the sidelines, a small, dry woman clad in black and an unmatching lipstick all over her muzzle, "George..."

Her beckoning only seemed to fuel Uncle George to even further open up his opinions about his late father.

"Guess he was as slack with Mindy as he was slack with the boy..."

Greg decided that it felt very weird to be talked like that, especially when he was there, right there in the room, sitting on one of the chairs they'd brought over from the dining room, earlier, when the wake had been on, and they needed extra seats at the living room.

"George...but George..."

Greg watched from the sidelines how cousin Brandon just gave his dad a dull-eyed look from behind his own whiskey tumbler, filled with father's favorite.

"It's not like Andy much liked about his only son being a fag either but guess he could've done something about it at least. Take him out to catch some baseballs some more, or whatever to stop all that faggot crap from happening."

Greg couldn't be bothered to fight with anyone who was as pathetic as uncle George, the tiger who had lost almost everything when the bank went under a couple of years back. Greg thought that the big house, the farm, the Mercedes and the holiday home in Hawaii didn't count in the almost, so guess uncle George's investment banker colleagues in the Cayman Islands had something do with the fact that the tiger was still standing there in a brand new suit that probably cost more than Greg made in a month.

"Oh but George..." Martha's diamonds around her thin neck could have funded a small coup in the Middle East, Greg was sure of that.

Uncle George took a swig from his glass and put it down on the mantelpiece and stared at the floral painting above the fireplace, tuff-tipped ears, a family trait Greg shared from his father, ears flicking as he sneered at the painting.

"Maybe if the house wasn't full of this puff crap...all flowers and whatnot."

"It's his house now, anyway" that was cousin Brandon, from his own chair, dad's old, commandeered by the lazy tiger, overweight at thirty, with thick glasses, and capped teeth that gleamed unnaturally white on a predator's maw.

Greg didn't even bother to open his maw to retort.

"Stupid Andy, like he always was. He knows that the boy won't live here. This is too small place for fags."

"It's still his home, George."

Greg could see the quick look Martha gave her, barely lasting a second, her eyes hesitant and lined with too much eye makeup, and soon they were turned back to the standing tiger whose tail swished from side to side nervously.

"What'd he do with it anyway?" the tiger's claws thrummed the stone mantelpiece. "Raise a family here?"

Uncle George laughed at his own declaration and shook his head at the apparent insanity of it all. He rubbed a paw through the unkept furs of his mane, fluffy from not being regularly groomed, huffed, and spat to the empty fireplace.

"Can't fight with a dead man now can you?" uncle George stared at the basket of flowers on the painting that had offended him earlier, "you'll just get haunted by ghosts..."

Uncle George did sound haunted, much to Greg's pleasure, and he opted to simply sit there and watch this charade take on, this extra act to the play that had started in the morning, when they all put on their ties and lined up and went out to bury his dad like a real family.

"It's a good house...five bedrooms and all...nice wallpaper...," Martha offered, giving the stuffy room a quick look as if appreciating its value with professional flair.

"If the boy has any sense in him he'll sell it to Alicia and take the money and do whatever he pleases," Uncle George huffed, his head tipped down to show a distended, tense neck.

Martha sighed.

"It is her home, too, I am sure..."

Uncle George laughed hollowly.

"What does she do with an old dump like this when she has a house in Los Angeles?" the derisive tiger snorted.

"But she grew up here, George, I'm sure..."

Uncle George shrugged and waved his paws in the air, almost knocking out a photo frame from the mantle piece. Greg's graduation photo, showing the narrow-muzzled smiling tiger in his robe and a mortar board, looking at the camera with a hopeful expression, circa 1990. He gave it a quick glance and didn't bother with it any further.

"I'm sure all she wants to take from here fits in a single box, if she really has anything left here. The boy can have the rest. Maybe he'll get a few bucks off it at the flea market or something."

Uncle George drank from his glass again, this time finishing it down to the last dark drop, which le then proceeded to lick clean from his lips. Aunt Martha 's paws clutched her small handbag, and Greg could see her knuckles.

"All the memories..."

"Memories are cheap," uncle George grunted, sounding like he held the opinion that they should contain some sort of a tax on them to make them more valuable.

"But still..."

"It's a mess anyway," uncle George continued his monologue that had been going on for half an hour now, only interrupted by Martha's soft interjections and uncle George filling his glass, three times, "nobody's been taking care of the place in a year while the geezer was in and out of hospital. I'm surprised that the roof hasn't come down."

"It sure smells damp upstairs," cousin Brandon offered, "the attic's probably busted already."

"It'll cost some money to fix the roof," Martha noted.

Uncle George snorted and passed his eyes quickly past the tiger sitting out on the far corner of the room.

"He's got money now, he can hire someone to do it."

Sure he could, Greg thought, keeping his face expressionless so that he wasn't accidentally giving them more ammunition to be used against him.

"Well that's nice," Martha commented.

"Unless he spends it all on rents boys," Uncle George chuffed.

Cousin Brandon laughed and drank from his own whiskey, and Martha was about to say something, but they were both interrupted by the sound of the door being opened, followed by steps and the appearance of Alicia. The tall, slim tiger wore a body-hugging black dress that could have as well been made out of Spandex, so tightly it clung to the female's well-cultivated form that bore no signs of giving birth to her two cubs, nor the years spent working at the law firm, day and night, before she had cleared the way up to the top.

The room fell silent for a moment as she entered, walking past cousin Brandon on her way, before she stopped by the couch. Alicia stood behind the couch, near the spot where mother used to sit knitting while watching Days of Our Lives and waiting for the dinner to cook before father came back home. Her paw rested against the worn back.

"Mrs. Masters just left, I paid her for the catering service and for cleaning up the kitchen," she spoke in a low, almost masculine tone.

Greg could remember the time when she still had a clear, nasal, female feline voice, the one she still had during the time when that photograph of her on the mantelpiece had been taken. It was the picture next to his graduation photo, the one where Alicia sat on the hood of a ridiculous 1980's sports car, wearing some sun glasses and posing in a neon-colored outfit. Dad used to like that photo, while mother wasn't so sure whether it was a fitting on to display of their daughter whom now dwelled in the most prestigious company head offices.

"Hope you send the bill to the boy," Uncle George waved a paw in Greg's direction.

Alicia gave her brother a glance, her muzzle held tight, and flicked her ears at her uncle, quickly.

"He paid for the church hall and the mortuary, you got the coffin, and I paid for the catering," she replied, stern and composed, as only someone very practiced in such could be. "Exactly as we agreed on."

Uncle George grunted.

"Silk upholstery and best mahogany you could buy in this place, and stainless steel handles," he recited. "It cost me six thousand dollars!"

"Such a nice gesture," Martha spoke proudly, "and the flowers at the hall were so nice, too..."

"The boy's got the eyes for that kind of stuff," Uncle George chuffed. "Queer eye."

Alicia gave a quick look to her brother before she cleared her throat.

"Everyone has carried their part of the deal, so I think it is most fine now," she stroked her paw over the smooth flower-patterned cloth of the old couch and then tilted it up so that she could look at her small wristwatch.

"I think I have to leave now, I still have to catch the plane tonight," she noted matter-of-factly.

Greg snuffled.

"Can't wait to get back to the mansion?" Uncle George snapped up and laughed offensively afterwards.

"I have several meetings on Monday, George, actually, and I still have to review the material for them before that. Besides, there's only one flight from to the West Coast on a Saturday evening."

"Send my hello to the children," Martha smiled earnestly, her ears sagging under the weight of platinum on them, or so it seemed for Greg.

"Whatever," George grunted.

"Are you leaving tomorrow as well?" Alicia spoke to the trio of tigers occupying the fireplace side of the living room.

"On our car, like normal furs do," Uncle George's tail slashed. "Twelve-hour drive."

"Mum's driving," cousin Brandon added with a chuckle that made it sound like the most ridiculous suggestion that had been heard in a while.

Greg suspected that Uncle George would not be able to drive for quite some time yet, and it was the best that Martha would take the wheel, certainly.

"When are you leaving, Gregory?" Alicia's gaze was now trained at the brother tiger seated in his regal solitude on the chair next to the table that still had the old white tablecloth on it, that had held the salmon and the coffee cups in neat rows, for the funeral guests.

"I'm flying on Tuesday," Greg finally spoke up after being quiet for the past hour or so of family fun and games that had been enjoyed by Mr. George Bantam, Mrs. George Bantam and Brandon Bantam, while Gregory Bantam kept out of the way like a good boy.

Alicia Bantam-Roberts gave a curt nod.

"Do you have everything in order, Gregory?"

"Yep," Gregory grunted.

Uncle George snuffled, but Alicia gave another nod, flicker her ears, and gave the room a final, lingering look, as if trying to remember every single detail of the old wallpapers, or the mantelpiece.

"Well, my cab is here very soon," Alicia continued. "There are leftovers in the fridge, so there is plenty to eat, when you want to."

"How nice," Martha spoke.

"I've had enough of sandwiches for one day thank you," cousin Brandon snorted from his corner, "but maybe I could have some of the filet yet...any of that left?"

His cousin didn't seem too much in the know about the actual contents of the fridge, and simply shrugged.

"I think I need to find my coat," Alicia spoke, to move things forward.

The small congregation of tigers lost one of its members briefly, as she went down to the hall, one Bantam family plus one outcast, sharing each other's space but not company. The sound of a car horn was heard after a minute, and soon Alicia appeared on the doorway again, between the half-open sliding doors, now wearing a long coat over her dress. She had a leather suitcase in one of her paws.

"I must go now, it takes some time to get to the airport," she explained to her non-captive audience.

"Take care, sis," Greg called out, leaning against the back of the chair on which he sat on, the wrong way, simply because he could.

"You too, Gregory."

"Bye, Alicia," Greg continued.

"George, Martha, Brandon."

"Good night," Martha replied.

Uncle George harrumphed.

Cousin Brandon waved a paw and grinned his pearly smile again.

The car horn blared again.

"I must be going now. Goodnight."

Alicia pulled the sliding doors shut as disappeared from the view. A dark silence fell over the living room, only punctuated by Uncle George's drunken breathing, louder than usual. Martha dapped her forehead with a small cloth handkerchief, and cousin Brandon got up to get a top-up on his whiskey from the small table containing an assortment of bottles. Greg could hear the car pulling out.

"Prissy bitch," Uncle George declared, turning around so fast that his tie flapped around his neck, uselessly.

"She always sends such a nice Christmas card and a gift basket," Martha noted with a smile, happily.

Uncle George laughed.

"Two cans of foie gras and a bottle of overpriced wine hardly makes up for all she did."

"You still like the food dad!" cousin Brandon declared cheerfully.

Uncle George's head turned around, fast as a twitch, and he bared his sneering teeth at his only son, hissing so that a little cloud of spittle flew from his muzzle in an obscene spray.

"Fuck off," Uncle George snorted at his prized son.

Cousin Brandon didn't do much besides snuffling derisively in return.

"I happily would if I wasn't stuck in this shithole," the tiger smacked his tail against the floor, loudly, almost making Martha jump from the sudden sound in the otherwise quiet room.¨

"Brandon," the mother opened her muzzle to chastise her son, only to be interrupted by the father.

"Don't call it a shithole, the boy might get ideas," his eyes passed over the tiger in the corner as if he was just another chair, piled on top of another.

"George..."

The uncle tiger picked his glass from the mantelpiece and observed it for a moment, holding it up to eye level, and snorted the glass with a layer of tiger-made fog.

"I need a drink."

"So do I," Greg spoke as he got up, back to his sitting-stiffened paws, tail flicking up from its coiled position, for balance, and to stretch it after such a long moment of sedentary observation of the travesty play.

All three tigers turned to look at the fourth one, one pair of eyes dazed, one watery, one filled with nothingness, followed by a baring of his yellow teeth.

"Well it's your house, it's your booze," Uncle George snorted. "Hell, you could torch the place if you wanted for all I care, it's yours."

Greg smiled lopsidedly as he walked across the room.

"You need a place to sleep until tomorrow, so I'll hold back on that," the tiger spoke softly, stopping by the sliding doors to look back into the room and the assembled felines within.

Uncle George's ears twitched.

"You talking back to me faggot?" the drunken cat huffed.

"It'd be much too late for that, Uncle George," Greg didn't even need to smile. "I'll be out now, you try not to torch the place down."

"Don't tempt me," the Uncle grunted and smirked viciously.

Martha slapped her paw against her maw, and Cousin Brandon snorted heavily, but didn't make a move nor said a thing, simply slumped down in his chair, as passive as ever.

"Good night, I'll be out now."

"You're too out," Uncle George seemed to receive at least some form of sick satisfaction from his verbal retaliation.

"Bye, you all."

The sliding doors opened with the familiar metallic sound of the badly oiled rails moving, allowing the tiger to pass them and into the hall. The air was cooler there, and didn't smell so much of alcohol, but a musk permeated, a mixture of all the coats from all the furs who had visited today, a lingering reminder of their brief presence to remember the dearly departed.

"Proud tail lifter," Uncle George's voice echoed from beyond, at the edge of Greg's hearing, as he opened the front door and simply walked out of the house, not bothering to pick up his coat.

Greg walked down the curb swiftly, tail swishing slowly about as he passed houses, the very same ones that he would have passed every day, going to school and coming back on the yellow bus. He could still see many familiar names on the mailboxes - the traditional kind with the little red flags on them - and see trees that used to be small but were now tall, proud and towering decorations to houses that likely held more than grizzled long-term occupants. They were the names of furs that used to come over for coffee and cheesecake at home, Greg mused, walking past Rodrick's white-painted two-storey home, Mrs. Rodrick who always brought some freshly fried chicken "for the little ones", as she used to call the two picture perfect children of the local attorney. Alicia, in her little, neat dress that had the frill on the hem, and cute, perky-eared Gregory, nose in a book, or looking decisively guilty after getting his knees scratched while climbing up to a tree.

Greg wondered idly how Mrs. Rodrick would react to the knowledge that the cute cub next door had turned out a total queer in the end. The tiger continued on his way, feeling slightly chilly for the lack of a coat, but he had his dress jacket, and his furs to keep the worst cold away. Besides, he was walking, and even though his breath came out as puff of vapor, he knew there would not be headlines about "FORMER LOCAL BOY, CURRENT HOMOSEXUAL FOUND FROZEN TO DEATH" on The Village Pump, the ever so delightful local paper. They'd put a black and white photograph of his frozen body right next to an announcement of a sausage sale at the supermarket. Two pounds for a dollar, good locally produced Bratwurst. The sheriff would call it an unfortunate accident that someone should simply slump down to the ground and freeze to death like that, even when it was only as little below zero.

Greg was glad that dad had died during the autumn, because it seemed to be wasteful to die in the summer, when the greatest trouble anyone should have would be whether the air conditioning could take the extra strain, and did I look fat in this dress?

No, baby, if you put on those pumps and accessorize with a smart scarf, honey.

*