FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Hey gang! Welcome to part 3 of a little novella I've been finding myself cooking up. It will have a total of 3 arcs broken into sections for your convenience. :) Ahh, yes... now things get interesting. Cookies to anyone who knows the artists and songs I'm referring to in this one!

Now for the obligatory warnings: This part of the story contains a lot of drinking, perkigoths (Oh no, not that!), your friendly local undead Bobcat, and actually is kind of tame. Why am I even bothering warning you? Still, if these sort of things bother you, you may want to read something else.

Still here? Cool. Enjoy the reading. :)

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It's another cellar bar, but this one looks different from Mike's. A bull's skull, complete with horns, rests attached to the doorframe as willow branches twist and curve through it, intertwined with red Christmas lights. A sign lit up in neon says "The Bull Branch." I look closely at the skull; yep, that's someone's head. A small metal plaque by the skull says "Godard, Mark." Someone actually donated their head to art? Still, it does have an odd echoing beauty to it. I shrug and open the heavy black door with a tug of its brass handle.

The music of the bar flows out to greet me immediately as I open the door, the words floating across the beat, "I put a Spell on you... because... you're mine. I can't stand the things that you do... no... no... you know I ain't lyin'..." I know this song, but that's definitely not the original artist. The beat is steady and thumping like a boot dropping on the floor as an empty sounding guitar whines overtop. The room is dimly lit by candles and Christmas lights. A dark wooden bar is across from me, tended by a white-furred chinchilla wearing a wine red corset, billowing black skirt and nothing more that I can see. A few tables with wine purple tablecloths and dark wood chairs are scattered to my right near the bar and, up a couple steps, I see a couple couches by the wall and an open spot where the tables have been moved aside. Skulls of assorted species decorate the black walls, each marked by a plaque, as willow branches and Christmas lights, all in wine red and deep purple, weave their way through. My eyes light on a bright red and black sign, "Down with love! Happy massacre day!" and I can't help but smile.

The song continues, "...I don't care if you want me.... 'cause I'm yours... yours... yours.... anyhow! I am yours... yours.... yoooourrrs..." Sounds like a coyote singing this version as I close the door behind me, and wander up to the bar, taking a seat on one of its plush black leather chairs. The chinchilla smiles at me; small fangs rest unnaturally in the upper half of her teeth.

"Welcome, stranger; you're a new face. Nice contacts.", she says sweetly, leaning in. I can smell her perfume, a heavy mix of Opium and Tuber Rose, and I also am treated to a nice view of that downy white breast. "I'm Amelia. What can I get you? Want a menu?"

I really appreciate the view, but why isn't she scared? "Whisky on the rocks... second thought, hold the rocks and make it a double."

I rest my arm on the bar and look at the other people here. There's a couple of kids in the corner, I'd say most of them under 21. No, not drinking, unless that's a jack and coke and not just a cola. There seems to be an overabundance of black and red here and not just in the décor. There's a Persian with striped grey fur wearing flowing black velvet underneath a black corset with red trim, a young wolf in black fishnets and black leather pants held together with buckled straps from the looks of it and a raccoon that has dyed himself entirely black except for a red streak down the top of his head, hair rising up in uneven clumps of spikes.

"Keeping it simple or just getting warmed up?", the Chinchilla asks as she pours my drink. It's top shelf and smells good from here.

"I just usually keep things simple." I say patiently, taking off my cowboy hat, laying it to rest on the bar. She rests my glass next to my hat.

"Well, that's not fun. Hey, if you want me to make you a Vulcan Mind Meld, a Flaming Jesus or a Barnabas Collins, just say and I'll fix you up!", she says with a wink as the door opens and a strangely dressed couple enters the bar.

It's a tiger in button-down black finery, the kind I was used to seeing back in my breathing days, complete with hat and cane. A mink with blue fur hangs off his arm, folded parasol hanging from her arm, as her floor-length gown drifts over the dark wood floor like a vision of faded flower petals.

"Aimee! Ruckven! Hiiii!!", the Chinchilla cheerily calls to them, waiving.

"Amelia!", the tiger calls back, waving and smiling as the pair walk over to the bar, "Nice fangs. Where did you get them done?"

"Doctor Laurence. He cut me a deal as I know his granddaughter.", the Chinchilla said, showing her fangs off with a broad and slightly openmouthed grin.

"Really? They're beautiful. I was thinking of getting a pair done myself... hey, does it hurt?", the mink asked, reaching out to touch Amelia's fangs.

I turn my back to the bar bewildered. These people are strange. I look into my drink and just let the music wash other me. Isn't anything normal anymore?

The door opens once more with a "click" and in walk a possum wearing neon pink and green . Her wild eyeshadow expanding to create a neon butterfly centered on her eyes in almost garish green and pink. Sparkles glisten in her blonde ponytails, each held up by matching neon pink and green children's barrettes shaped like candies and small fruits. Behind her stomps along a cheetah wearing a gas mask and black rubber wader boots, her torn black cotton shirt ending somewhere just below her spotted breasts with a patched-together jean skirt held up by a string of bullets as a belt around her waist covering her young loins. Quickly following with an arm around her shoulders is her boyfriend; a green snake wearing thick goggles, torn jeans and a battered army jacket with band patches sewn on.

These are just the start of a seemingly endless parade of the bizarre and I'd say more than just a little eccentric. Slowly but surely the bar fills with strange and colorful individuals, drinking, chattering, smoking the occasional clove cigarette and laughing. For once I seem to fit in. Well, almost, anyhow. If anything, I'm dressed conservatively in comparison to all the oddballs around me. The strangest part of all is that none of them at all seem afraid of me. If anything they keep saying "That Bobcat has the best contacts." and keep asking me where to buy some like this. I just reply that they don't want to pay as much as I did to have eyes like these and that just barely shuts them up.

The music begins to pick up in tempo as the night wears on, still holding that dark sound, slow, empty and thumping like the pounding of a storm door in the rain. Breaking from the teeming masses dancing in the cleared space up by the couch, the possum bounces up to me and begins to try to make conversation. She sounds like she's on something, but assures me with a giggle she just comes this way. I narrowly resist looking away and shaking my head. She tugs my sleeve, "C'mon! Let's dance! Whoo-hoo!"

I look upstairs and most of people by the couches are swaying to the music, their hands and bodies making strange flowing motions. It half feels like they're all in slow motion as I watch them moving in the dim- is this what she's expecting me to do?

"I... err... can't dance...", I say, an eyebrow quirked.

"C'mon, it's not hard! Even if all you know is the straightjacket or Grab the Bat it's cool; just move with the music!", she said, hopping up and down in place like a nervous puppy, voice almost whining, eyes begging like a small child.

I sigh. Maybe just this once... "I guess I'll try..."

"SQUEE!!!!", and the possum is hugging me. Her fur is soft and warm, and she smells distinctly of cherry bubblegum, spilled soda and cheap perfume. I blink a couple times, patting her head. She lets go of me, "see you on the floor!", and she bounces up the stairs to join the others.

I turn to the bartender, "Amelia, watch my stuff. I'll kill anyone who touches my hat." I say as I put my hat, coat and gun on the bar.

Amelia looks at the gun, eyes wide and small ears perked in shock, then looks back at me, "Sure. I'll do it... Wow; so you're not just playing cowboy. Got a license for that?"

"It's an heirloom." I say and she nods and puts everything beneath the bar as I turn and walk up the stairs. I hear the click of the door opening again, but don't look back; for now I have an overly perky opossum to appease.

The music is thumping even harder up here; it's like I can feel it as well as hear it. I watch a few of the guys in more old-style clothing move. One appears to be struggling to slowly free himself from something... a straightjacket? Another just sways. I take the second one's cue and just try to find the beat. I feel so silly up here; please don't let anyone be staring. Luckily, everyone seems to be more into the music than watching me. "God Money's not looking for the cure. God Money's not concerned with the sick among the pure..." , a few of them are even mouthing the words as they play to the rhythm. Luckily, the beat seems easy enough to catch and I continue watching the others looking for moves I can easily copy.

I think I see what "grab the bat" is as a vixen in black vinyl pretends to reach out, catch something midair, cradling it briefly before stomping it to the floor. She then pretends to pick something up, cradle it, and let it go free. Somehow this style seems to work for me and I manage to time it well enough to the lyrics as suddenly almost everyone starts to sing, "Bow down before the one you serve; you're going to get what you deserve. Bow down before the one you serve; you're going to get what you deserve...."

There's an eerie venom in their young voices, all raised at once. It's haunting and I just get caught up in it myself, not even knowing the song but still singing it. My voice gurgles and cracks, but nobody cares. I don't know how long I was up there, I didn't bother checking my watch, but quite a few songs play and, slowly, the pace falls back down. Furs are filtering out one by one, some in pairs, some alone, a few in clusters, laughing and hanging off each other. I turn back towards the bar and there's that black cat from the train station, looking at me with mismatched copper eyes that seem to peer into my soul.

She grins a sharp toothed grin, "Having fun?" she purrs, her voice carrying over the sounds of an ocean as another song begins.

I'm frozen in place, ears perked and eyes wide. She slowly stands up and walks over to me, laying a warm paw on my arm as the song continues.... " Only love... can bring the rain... the way the beach is kissed by the sea.... "

She leans in and whispers in my ear and I can see a white blaze on her nose, "It's Ok, Calib. I'm no ghost. I know all about you; I've been dreaming about this... I knew where you were on the roof, but I didn't expect to find you here."

"Who... who are you?" I asked, half in confusion and half in fear. What a time to have left my gun at the bar!

"I have many names; it doesn't matter. Come with me.", she purrs, those copper eyes burning. I don't smell any alcohol on her, she's obviously not drunk.

I hesitate, pulling back. I try to speak but no sound comes.

"It will be OK...", she says gently, "Come..."

"Will you at least tell me how old you are? Or maybe where're your from?" I ask, my voice a nervous whine instead of a rumble.

"I'm older than today and younger than tomorrow and where you're from isn't as important as where you're headed." she says with a slight laugh. "Besides, I know that look you've had all night; you need someone."

"You're crazy. Besides, I lost what I wanted long ago." I say, unsure how much of my own words I believe. I hate to admit it, but she's reading me like a book.

"Oh? And you'd know? You don't know me yet... and I can be surprising.", she says with a wink, her strange copper eyes hold a gentle look that kind of melts me a little. Damnit, am I going soft?

I'm not angry, though it sure is damned weird to be heard and understood by a complete stranger. But how could she know me so well? I don't believe in predictions and God knows I cover my tracks. In this nearly empty bar the music crashes like the sea, wrapping around my confusion and the faint perfume of roses and lavender trailing from her breast. "Only love... can bring the rain... Like the sweat of lovers... laying in the fields...."

Should I stay or should I go?

I guess she's reading me again. She grabs my wrist and leads me down the stairs. We pause by the bar to get my stuff and pay off my tab, and then it's out the door and into the night...

((To be continued in part 4: Meet Spooky))