FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"I know what ya'll come to see! You wanted to see my ass, didn't you," howled and screeched a delirious Jim Morrison from the center of the small, rocking stage in the booming, bewitched airplane hangar, as his band mates, Ray, John, and Robby, put their hearts, sweat and blood on their abused instruments, playing a maddening "The End" to a very raucous, young crowd, hallucinating like mad in the LSD-25, and marijuana-induced claustrophobic environment.

"I know! You're all dead, aren't you? Well, FUCK YOU!" Thirty thousand youths howled back, many responding "FUCK YOU!" while everybody, every tail, discrimination not allowed, all raccoons, lions, lionesses, vixens, foxes, fliers, kangaroos, rabbits, bunnies, honey badgers, elephants, cows, pigs, snakes, butterflies, even hornets, and dolphins swimming in the large tanks near the back of the hangar, beaded with an amazing sweat, reverberating a strange occult energy that both was matched and intensified by the five-foot-eleven, 170 pound tranced-out gray wolf above, swaying, like a God, like Dionysus, with his followers ready to kill, love, release, dangle, anything.

"THIS IS THE END, BEAUTIFUL FRIEND! THIS IS THE END, MY ONLY FRIEND, THE END, OF OUR ELABORATE PLANS, OF EVERYTHING THAT STANDS, NO SAFETY OR SURPRISE, THE END, I'LL NEVER LOOK INTO YOUR EYES AGAIN!! IN A, A DESPERATE LAND, MOTHERFUCKERS!! YEAH!!!!"

Morrison was no longer singing; he was pounding. The audience was his, and The Doors, and the jazz-rock ride that was being pushed onwards by Ray's sweet, and so sad, classical-trained keyboard sounds, while Robby rode the guitar frets with his paws like a snake, and John, carrying on solid with that steady ride cymbal-rimshot combination.

The four band members were not the ones on stage working the real magic, however; there were many other attendees using energies from heaven, and hell, and all the planets surrounding, Venus, "Venus in Furs," and Jupiter. Through the wolf's eyes, Aurora Spencer could be seen forming from apparent nothingness, while large groups of native Americans, regaling in their bright reds and yellows, feathers and headdresses, wolves, and dogs, and snakes, moving around Jim in a wide circle, that spread from the borders of the stage, out above the ocean-like audience, and rising to meet, and perhaps, to escape the man-made, evil thing, this hangar.

"Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain, and all the children are INSANE, C'MON, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS, WHAT D' YOU WANT, HEY, YEAH!" bellowed the wolf-God, naked except for his pair of tight black leather pants. His piercing blue eyes glowed otherworld knowledge, and in the magic rhythm of the song's trance, he had created this, this wonderful chaos.

"The Blue BUS is calling US, The Blue BUS is calling US, The Blue BUS is calling US," barked Morrison onto the audience, like a wild cosmic tear.

"The killer awoke before dawn, and he put his boots on. He took a face from the ancient gallery, and he walked on down the hall. He went into the room where his sister lived, and then he, he paid a visit to his brother, and he walked on DOWN THE HALL, and he came to a DOOR, AND HE LOOKED INSIDE, FATHER, YES SON, I WANT TO KILL YOU, MOTHER, I WANT TO FUCK YOU, YEAH! FUCK, FUCK the MOTHER!"

This set the young audience off even more, and it seemed that, from every surface within the hangar, a voice, a multitude of them, commanded the participants of the performance to fuck, to kill, to kill all the demons and sacrifice them to the next stage of living, to being born-again. Soon, many in the audience did commence to copulate, and the entire audience, the Doors, and their music, became secondary in nature as the raw and pale beasts of life, and of death, both so interconnected with each other, that how can the action of death commence without life first emerging. Henceforth, how can life be wonderful and appreciated without a taste of death, not final in a corporal sense with absoluteness, but letting go of something?

Seeing that the mood in the hangar had changed, The Doors cut in through the middle of "The End", and plugged right away into "Soul Kitchen", a grinding, thumping pulse of love so funky and cool and true that its life could not be missed, kissing death, all death, away for the time being. Soon, more and more elephants, monkeys, lions, lionesses, vixens, butterflies, and even the honey badgers were forming into so many couples and groups, cocks and vaginas melting, the heavy smell of unbearable musk overtaking any American decency that may have been present. The drifting of sweet marijuana smoke increased, and tequila, beer, vodka, everything just poured all over, and a palace of decadence transcended all temporal knowledge in the sick, sad world that we do live in.

The wolf-God leaped into the glowing throng, landing on the head of a gray elephant female, who was being fucked heavy and hot by an eight-foot jaguar wearing blue-and-green tinted sunglasses, adorning long wavy brown and blond hair which covered the top of him like a glorious waterfall shining.

"Hey, BABY!" crooned Jim, to the seductive creature on which he had landed. She was not really all lucid, being upped on God knew how many joints and tabs of acid to this point, but she knew Jim was in her grasp, and with a careful yet excited tear with her hands, off came his black leathers, and out popped an amazing five-inch long cock with a three-inch base. "GODDAMN, HONEY, WOOIEEEE!!!" hollered Jim, the omniscient wolf-God. "Would you like a hit, baby?" offered the six foot elephant, clad in a sweaty, purple tank top with LED ZEPPELIN in heavy black, block letters across, her sweatshorts down around her ankles, and her purple and pink mascara and eyeliner melting across her face. "HEY, JIMMY, GIVE JIMMY A HIT, BABY!" cried out the elephant, whose breasts heaved, and dripped creamy milk onto Jim's wild, shaggy head.

"WHEW, BABY, GODDAMN!" responded Jim. "Oh, YEAH, BABY, I just HAD a BABY! Would you like SOME MILK?" crooned the young elephant girl, no older than eighteen, and her jaguar lover, no older than nineteen, or twenty, at the most. "YEAH!"

It was no easy task, but Jim Morrison's tiny wolfish lips found one of the grand gray nipples, and latched on, sucking with a furious frenzy, a tempo at which the mother's baby would be envious of. Milk flew everywhere, covering Jim's lips and cheeks, and falling on the floor. "You're making such a MESS, JIMMY!" laughed and cried the girl. Jim joined her, and started to thrust his flaming, pre-cumming cock into her massive bosom. Holding onto her neck tight with his beautiful legs around hers and her pounding lover's, who was now coming deep within her luscious womb, where perhaps more crossed offspring would occur, Morrison continued to fuck not just his fan, but his cosmic sister, and the heat and the near-total darkness combined with the starlit lights, and of course, the sweet present music, now "The Crystal Ship," a slower, more tranquil, but nonetheless, erotic, sensual and true hymn to the new lovers of the free land, became the mating song.

"WOOOOO!!!!" cried out the shaking wolf-God, as his own jerking dick spurted yummy cum shots over everywhere, onto the elephant girl's long blond hair, purple tank top, over her onto Jimmy, onto himself . . and then the magic ended. Aurora Spencer fled, and the Native Americans disappeared. "Jim Morrison, you're under arrest for public indecency, and sexual lewdness," spoke a six-foot-five lion with a thin black mane and a paunchy gut, not well-hidden by his blue police officer's suit.

"Oh, HEY, MAN, DON'T YOU WANT IN?" inquired Jim, with a coy smile, his eyebrows lifting up in a childlike way, as if to say "Who, me?", and his dimples round and rosy like fresh Macintosh apples in bloom.

The lights to the hangar bellowed a morbid, white reality, where before, a blackness had been being filled by love, love, love.

For Jim, for now, and for the rest of the Doors, the show was over.