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And I'm back again with YET ANOTHER shortie. This entire story came out of about 45 minutes of constant writing and one SERIOUS inspirational buzz. And now without a further delay nor another side-squeezed fart which I hope no one heard *Fans it out the window*. ANYWHO. Here we go with a story of complete neglagence and utter disregard. Enjoy everyone. (And yes I know I'm kinda lazy because I didn't seperate the paragraphs but I'm pressed for time on this upload. I promise I'll make the next story far less of a wall of text) Here we go...

Driven to excel and pushed far beyond his limits he stove toward the finish. His board creaked under him like a whining child. It was as if he had beaten the wood and hammered the wheels with a murderous intent. His eyes stretched wide at the sight of the finish line. Every last patch of fur on his mangy hide stood on end with grueling desire. He could taste the end; savor victory. Even last year he could taste it. He started almost ten months ago. His skateboard back then looked like a beat up dump truck, pot holes and all. The deck graphic was nowhere in sight, the bearings screamed like a dieing feral and the tail was nearly non existent. What more could be said? His board told of his life to that point. Shunned by his friends at twelve and abandoned by his mother at thirteenth. His queerness was only the tip of his catastrophic iceberg. With a bad attitude, no social graces to speak of, nothing good to wear, a busted board as his only treasured possession and his psychotic death-wish, he was a walking disaster to the whole of society. And, as he put it on several occasions, "He got high for a living not giving a fuck." He lived by that Crazy Town motto. A ripped body and failing mind left him with only a singular passion. He wanted to skate. No. He needed to skate. He lived on the adrenaline, lulled to sleep at night by the elixerous thought of waking the next afternoon to do it all over again. With no commitments and nothing to worry about but himself, he was free to live by the code of the pavement. It was more than a mere sport; nay, a religion. He worshiped the ride and prayed to the non-existent god of skate. His prayers involved swearing and drinking. Drugs were only a doorway to finer balance. He could miraculously maintain better balance high then when sober. It was a near heartbreak to anyone who observed him. That same old decrepit story of a trashy outcast drinking "shooting-up" his way to the inevitable failed ending. They would scoff, complain and breath heavily at his very presence in a room. Shunned was too kind a word for the kind of treatment he received. And with his attitude, he couldn't care less. In his eyes they were small minded, egotistical and immoral beasts. To not revere the board was a bit of sin in his book. He would scoff at THEIR presence. How would they care? They didn't know his would and to hell be damned if they had even the thought of trying to truly understand. They were content slamming his existence into the mud within their own minds and HE was content letting them. Nothing could hurt him, nothing could phase him, nothing could touch him, and NO ONE could tell him otherwise. Resistance was beyond his scope, left too far behind in the dust of his blatant disrespect for societal norms. Most man either feared or had intense disdain for him. He would rape and burn at will. No one could find him when he hid. And so his antics would go about unchecked. He had had more than his share of unwitting young males, even a few reluctant older men. Each conquest in bed fell before him, just the same as any on the board or the street. He would take as he pleased and go on about his life. He wouldn't give, only take. From food, to boards, to money, to drugs, to men. He had whatever he set his sights on. To stand in his way was nearly fatal and was, at the very least, always detrimental. He didn't play play by the polite society rules. If someone didn't think he'd kidnap or rape to gain leverage on a person, then they should consider themselves doomed at his coming. Those who were willing to fight him couldn't because they had rules. Enough, however, at his description. The story here, is to show how he achieved a goal greater than the ones he held for sole personal gain. He was driven, by fear, as most men, to do something he wouldn't have dremt possible. A visit to his dealer, who doubled as his doctor, showed his heart would fail within a few months. It couldn't stand against the skating and drugs which were his most sacred constant. He had no choice, or so it seemed. Would he give up his only leverage for something that meant so much? Of course not. Never. But that's when something, possibly divine, occurred for this almost forsaken soul. A deal signed in blood and bound in insecurity. He was approached by the man who supplied his dealer. He came with a soul-binding promise. He could continue to skate for as long as he'd like and never have to worry about his heart but he'd have to do something for them. Never a compromising individual, he agreed. The plan was simple. He would skate. That's all. But he would not skate as he had in the past. He would have one shot at a speed skating competition. If he skated for these men and their sponsors, they would repair his ailing heart. He knew he didn't have a chance otherwise so he agreed. It was ten months away and he would need to sober up for the entire time, move to another town, remain off the radar and keep his "other" conquests to an absolute minimum. He could barely stomach the restrictions but again he agreed. The men that he skated for would sponsor his true sponsors, an obscure heart foundation with a promising yet up and coming career. He didn't bother with the politics, only going with the minimum. The night before the race he left his new apartment one last time before the big day. He hadn't had anything to quench his undying thirst for fornication and he needed an unwitting victim. He stalked a lithe male from atop a nearby roof. As the boy turned a dark corner his entire night changed. For hours he had his way with the boy. The sobbing through duct-taped lips piercing no one's ears until the final moment when he released him. He'd never change, he had no intention of it. Back in his apartment and laying down for bed he sighed a bit with malice befitting his ragged soul. The next day he took his spot at the starting line and bolted on the announcer's command. Within minutes he had crossed the illustrious finish line. The fame and trophy meant nothing to him, only the promised operation. Within a week he received a call from his contact and the meeting was arranged. The operation went off without a hitch and his heart as good as new. He spared no politeness for the job done for him and he left without a kind word. Some people you cannot change. This fur was one of them. A bit pessimistic is the world. Remember that not all are happy endings... Ever.

-Lokor Kitsune