FSE

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formerly SoFurry search engine

Standard warnings, read the tags, don't be underage, blah blah blah.

I've decided to maybe try and write a "series" of sorts. Or rather 2+ stories that go together under the same banner and are linked together by chapters and such. I'm going to try to do an over-arching story comprised of several short episodes. Who knows where it will go after I get started. Depending on its "reception" will probably depend on what I do with it. I may even make it a "choose your doom" kind of thing if I get enough comments.

For now, this is the prologue. I want to set up the boring descriptions of things before the fun starts as I want start the actual chapters coming in swinging, rather than wasting 30 paragraphs on set up. So yeah, this is where you'll find most of everything that isn't automatically the "fun" stuff. Like setting, character description, and other junk like that. Enjoy.

--Most characters are owned by me unless I have specified elsewhere--

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The first thing that came through was that his face was wet. As the darkness rolled over to the front of his face he sits up in a jolt. A mumble in front of him got his attention as things started to come into focus. Light from dimmed from shut blinds splashed carelessly about in his more than familiar office. He blinks and rubs his eyes a bit as he looks over his secretary with a slow groggy demeanor. A paw to his muzzle wipes away the drool onto his suit sleeve as she repeats herself.

"Sir, those quarterly reports are being requested by the board committee today. Do you want them sent by email or by fax? ...Jack?" The stuffy suited vixen seems particularly impatient today. "Uhg... We already sent those out last week Mrs. Farlaway. I guess send them a second copy by fax and if they ask again, just keep doing it. Sooner or later they'll find it." Jack sighs out with the slightest twinge of annoyance. With a soft curious bow and a "Right away, Mr. Anderson" she was off. Quickly padding out of the office with a soft sway of her hips and tail, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts and the puddle of drool on his desktop from his brief nap.

The average build basset hound spins around in his luxury leather chair slowly, pulling open the blinds behind him and gazes out over the urban landscape before him. Becoming the C.E.O. of this, well, now "his" accounting firm has been less than glamorous. At the top, there just hasn't been anything to really "do". The board handles most decisions; the employed accountants do most of the grudge work. His only job is to keep the board happy, which has been turning out to be a mindless task. He's been more of a concierge than a company president, and it's been getting to him. Scratching the chin of his long floppy muzzle, looking out over the city from the 40th floor, he decides that the view is nice at least. Having the office and the perks of being in the big leagues has been well worth the career climb. The extra money has even been a nice change of pace... if only he had the time to enjoy it.

With another exasperated sigh he flops back into his chair. Working so hard has taken its toll. The basset hound being now in his mid to late 40's standing at about 5'5", which luckily is fairly tall for his species that's notorious for its stumpy limbs. He rubs a paw over his slight pot belly, his species not really known for being skinny. His long floppy ears pass his shoulders and compliment the just as floppy jowls. He sits in his buttoned three piece suit, waiting on his office phone that never rings to do something other than be still.

He opens his P.C. out of boredom and opens his company email. He smiles browsing over the pictures posted of the last company outing over the summer. Him in his swim trunks, his bright white furry coat, splotched in a mix of browns and black patches as he's stuck in time jumping after a volley ball on the beach with his employees. Everyone's having a good time in the still photo.

He flips through several emails, all intercompany employee-employee conversations over non private company channels. Things like "casual Friday do's and don'ts" and "stop eating things out of the brake room fridge". It is nothing but the usual of the usual business emails. There are a few board questions that Jack briefly responds too with nothing out of the ordinary.

"Bling". A new email slips into the top of his half full and mostly read inbox. Green text from an unknown sender scrolls before him. Jack raises his eyebrow as their company's anti-spam/malware/virus software for their emails is rather top of the line and should block anything non-company related. The subject line seems to have been straight out of his thoughts. "Bored?" it questions to seemingly no one in particular, yet out of the entire company list, it was sent only to his account. Since it's not marked spam, what's the harm in just viewing what it has to say?

Clicking the email open reveals a long page full of green text and pictures of dark dance clubs filled with glow sticks and lasers. Other pictures in the email are full of pictures of disk jockey's taking large crowds along pulse pounding adventures that spew forth from gods in the shapes of speakers. "Need time off from boring jobs? Need something 'new' in your life? Are you in 'need' of a life?" the email seems to jest and tease, reading almost like an "extends your maleness" advertisement but for fun instead of magical penis pills. "Radial Flux" it continues "a new club to the central New York City is here for all your entertainment needs. Drinks, dancing, massive VIP sections, everything for your night's desires."

Jack notices a list of dates for large exclusive parties, noting one this evening. Scanning some of the crowds, they aren't all just 20 something kids, he sees a bunch of people more his age in a stock photo laughing at the bar. Making up his mind, he decides to check it out. Scrolling down there seems to be an RSVP hot line to make sure there's room in the club and he's not held at the door.

He gives it a call from his private cell phone getting a soft smooth male's voice over the phone. From the brief "Allo" he rolls his eyes hearing the typical German-ish European club owner accent. Jack holds a brief conversation exchanging pleasantries putting down his reservation for tonight and gets driving instructions from his estate. After he hangs up an email comes through with his reservation confirmation including a specialized Q.R. code for authenticity. The basset hound smiles as he is impressed with the dance hall's professionalism with their logos, customer service, and use of trending technology.

He prints off the reservation invitation and pockets it. Work ends as uneventful as it began and the dog heads home. He quickly changes cloths. Getting out of his stuffy suit and into a more comfortable pair of designer jeans and a button up shirt which he leaves open with a nice simple printed shirt underneath. As 10 o'clock swings around, he gets in his mini-cooper and hurries to the directions he was given.

Driving by the aforementioned place, it turns out to be an enormous warehouse looking building. From what he could tell, it looks like a loft company went under and was renovated into a multi-story entertainment facility. He drives into the indicated parking garage, finds a spot and gets out of the black and red vehicle. Even at such a range from the building's entrance he can her the base thump thump thump, nearly vibrating the ground like a concentrated earthquake of house music.

He smiles as he approaches the bouncer at the parking garage entrance. A nice thickly built six foot zebra with a raging mohawk for a mane grants a smile back and holds out a hand asking for the reservation. The smaller hound fumbles a little, slightly intimidated, searching his pockets. After a slight awkward moment produces them and the bouncer scans it and welcomes him to "Radial Flux", stepping aside and waving him in. Jack gives a little nod and a "Thank you, sir." as he steps into the door opened by a typically orange tiger of a hostess.

The music. It nearly flattens the basset hound as it drives its way throughout the floor. The sounds were nothing he's ever herd on the radio, but catchy, full of base, full of beats, full of house, and very danceable. It takes a little while for his eyes to adjust to the sudden black lit room, but he's quite taken aback. It's massive. 100's of furs pulse and bounce, grind and dance, drink and wave about glowing and reflective objects as the dance club celebrates anything and everything at the all same time.

He heads through the massive crowed, bobbing his head with a smirk while making his way to the bar for a bit of booze to kick the night off right. A rather supple lioness in a short skirt and an obscure band T-shirt presses up against him from the dancing masses, grinding on him as he obliges in the moment pushing gently back against her. It takes some time but eventually he makes his pilgrimage to the long awaited bar. A beefy armed mallard takes his order and starts mixing the simple rum and coke for the businessman.

The night continues that way for hours on end. The heavy hitting music, the great drinks, dancing with all sorts of furs, it's almost a little too much for the hound. Jack can't remember the last time he had so much drunken comradery. The owner came down to the bar at some point and Jack pulled up some conversation. The polar bear seemed to enjoy the small talk and Jack bought a round of good faith for the 100+ some furs that all cheered and partied in his honor. It was a blur, but a very good and enjoyable blur.

A loud buzzer screeches its foul demon spawn into his dangling ears. Jack groans as he starts to sit up, pulled away from the fluid dream he was having. He rubs his head full of the post-apocalyptic hangover. Turning off the alarm he realizes he's still in his jeans and club wear, though covered in a ton of glow bracelets and necklaces that have long lost their party moods. He leans over onto the other side of the bed as he holds his throbbing head, remembering the absolutely wonderful night he just had. His hand lands on something more crinkly than bed sheets drawing his attention to a strange paper gift wrapped box. It sports the colors of the club, black paper trimmed with bright neon blue and white ribbon.

He stares at the package with confusion and a little apprehension of what might be inside. With unwavering curiosity he fumbles at the package lid and pulls it open revealing a large hand written letter, with near perfect and well-practiced penmanship, contained within.

"Dear Mr. Anderson,

On behalf of all of us at Radial Flux, we would like to extend our appreciation to your more than generous patronage. The evening was a superb success, much to the wonderful donation. We would like to throw a party in your honor to welcome you to gold V.I.P. status. Our conversation last night had convinced me and the rest of the club that you would be a wonderful addition to our private club within "Radial Flux". As we discussed Radial has several levels of V.I.P. status. Starting at singular V.I.P. followed by bronze, silver, gold, platinum, and a few more private levels above those.

With your Gold V.I.P. status, you are entitled to the following perks:

• unlimited club access
• V.I.P. lounge access
• personal chauffeur to and from clubs and events
• back stage passes and meet and greets with bands and club events
• Unlimited access to the club's private harem
• and much much more

There is also the responsibility of secrecy and privacy that comes with such a high V.I.P. status. As far as anyone else is concerned, there's no such thing as V.I.P. levels. Much of the perks and material that come with Silver levels and above are sensitive and private. Violating the secrecy of your status will deem you ineligible for any Radial Flux clubs or affiliates.

I would like you to know that we had called a cab for you on your behalf to make sure you got home safely. Inside this gift box is the directions to your vehicle and a waiver for cab fare.

Welcome to the Radial Flux family, Mr. Anderson

Sincerely,

Mr. Cooper

Radial Flux Owner"

That next to last bullet raised some confusion in the basset hound. What was the "club's private harem" and how did he get access to it? He rubs his temples realizing that he remembered talking with the polar bear owner...Grant...might have been his name...maybe... But poor Jack couldn't quite remember "what" he talked about with him. He knows the polar bear was quite taken with him, but what about?

Rifling through the package peanut stuffed box was the cab waiver and list of directions as well as a gilded metal tin. Inside was a thick and weighty plastic black key card with a smooth hole bored in one end, lined with bright neon blue. The top of the card had a gold circuit board along its slender face, looking like some strange miniature monolith.

Even hung over, he smiles as he showers and puts back on his suit, heading out the door to return to work. Maybe some time over the weekend, he'll come back to the club and check what all this V.I.P. business is about. If anything the dog needs to call that RSVP line again and see who he needs to contact about that "party in his honor". That sounds like quite a lot of fun if it's anything like the previous night.

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To Be Continued