Goldenmane Chapter III: I Love the Smell of Scorpions in the Morning
#3 of Goldenmane
While our hero, Secret Agent Stud Colt tries to rapidly clean a flood of his own cum off his boss's office furniture, thanks to the malicous attention of his secretary MIss Honeybadger, he remains blissfully unaware of another sinister organisation meeting somewhere else on Earth. The fate of our hero will intersect with the plans of this organisation, and it's nefarious evil mastermind, Rusty the Doberman, otherwise known as Number One.
Provided Rusty keeps his shit together through a complete meeting for once.
The Doberman sat completely still, his eyes the only part of his body moving. Well, not quite; his nostrils flared, slowly opening with each luxurious inhalation. He loved the smell of this room, it smelt of money, power, naked evil.
And some kick ass personal grooming choices.
They had done themselves proud, his little pack. More expensive scents and shiny bling dripped from his colleagues than an English Premier League starting XI. All that was missing was the small mountain of cocaine and half a dozen Colombian hookers.
They were being saved for dessert.
He chose to wear a decidedly normal scent, much to his colleagues' surprise, even when he could afford the most exquisite scents known to furdom. Even the genital secretions of the rare Bolivian iguanabeast were within the range of his pocket; in fact, personally inviting the entire population of Detroit to dine on every last rare Bolivian iguanabeast and wash it down with Chateaux d'Yquem was within his budget.
He made a mental note to get his assistant to price that, just for fun.
Like countless spotty teenagers across the world though, he had fallen for the advertising and never looked back.
"You know what it's like. You want a real scent...one that says who you are. Not some girly floral scent, you want a scent that screams man, a manly man. You want to walk into that stable and have every mare and filly in heat just from smelling your aftershave...you want...Stallion, by Guy Le Coq-Roche. Stallion...unsheathe yours, today..."
Like a generation of weedy teenage furs, he had bought his first can and sprayed it on hesitantly. He sniffed, bathing in the unsubtle tones of equine musk and imagined himself as The Stallion, the one in the TV ad, ripped, tall, with the kind of abdominal definition only found in the gay porn section of Yifftube, with hot big breasted fillies from a Polish casting agency masturbating his fetlocks like giant dildos. And then he pawed off a mammoth load of spoo.
Once you paw off to a scent it owns you for life. His colleagues, they knew really what it meant, but they were too polite to mention it. And, let's be honest, too scared. He liked that smell even more; that slightly damp goatlike scent of fear. The last of his colleagues to comment on his masculinity had stunk of it as they slowly lowered his cock into that jar of scorpions. He made sure they were in an especially stingy mood too.
Now this tall thin Doberman, runt of his litter and disgusting failure to his parents, controlled more money and power than almost anyone on the planet. At least enough to ensure anyone who dissed him died by cock torture with live scorpions.
Well, everyone has to have a hobby.
He called them his colleagues in his mind, but that was to flatter his sense of nobless oblige. They were his minions, his wild beasts of crime, and he owned them. In turn, they gave him their absolute loyalty. After all, no one really wants their cock envenomed. Even just a little bit...
He made a mental note to find some quality time with a real baby one just to know what it felt like just a little. Everyone has to have at least one mind snapping kink too. It was a law of the universe.
The room suddenly quietened, noticing his eyes roaming over them. They turned from their loud laughing and shouting to rapt attention. Every ear quivered, every tail and whisker. They were his.
His maitre'd rapped his long cane on the exquisite marble floor three times for attention.
"Pray be silent for his most high presence, the Marquis of Mayhem, the Baron of Bastardry, the Ayatollah of Rock'n Rolla, Rusty!"
He had enjoyed flaying his parents alive for giving him that name.
"Welcome my Dogs of War, to the Quarterly Meeting of our little pack."
The shout went up, a long howling sound, one that an outsider might have some trouble understanding. He bathed in it, letting his tail twitch to it's rolling chorus. His cat stirred in his lap as he patted it's head with real fervour.
"MURR!...MURR!....MURR!"
Their battle cry always warmed his soul.
He detected a slight hesitation in the ranks though. Something wasn't right. As usual it was number seventeen who was the epicentre of discontent. He really wished he hadn't taken that bloody stallion into their organisation, but he looked so much like the one in the TV ad, he couldn't resist. He was also an accomplished extortion and kidnapping specialist with at least thirty kills to his name, but that was by the by. Now he had something to say though; he always had something to say. Why couldn't he just be pretty and sociopathic like Justin Bieber? Instead he had to be mouthy like Bieber too. Fuck that fox.
As the chorus of murrs died down, the Doberman focussed on Number Seventeen. The room registered the sudden change, and fell silent.
"You have a problem you would like to share with us Number Seventeen?"
The stallion met his gaze, and the leader gripped his cat a little too tight while he mentally counted to ten to avoid the temptation to order immediate scorpion torture just for the look. Better to draw others into the open...
"Yes Number One. Dogs of War...in case you hadn't noticed, none of us are canines except you. We had a discussion, and well...we thought it wasn't very respectful."
He cringed a little as the leader stayed absolutely quiet, the only sign of life a plaintive meowling from his cat.
"What I mean is...well, our organisation, we rely on mutual respect right? So, how about we all get acknowledged properly?"
"And what do you have in mind?" the Doberman forced himself to remain calm.
"Well, we thought, Furs of War."
"We?"
The Stallion gulped once, his eyes darting to the now decidedly pissed off looking tiger to his left. Number Sixteen began backing off slowly, as if distance equalled safety. He had seen enough executions in these meetings to know differently though.
"So...'we', by which you mean, you and your colleague Number Sixteen discussed it and decided to make a decision for me. Is that it?"
The stallion gulped but ploughed on. He had to give the silly pony some credit for courage.
"Well, I mean, I get there is some, you know, cultural context to the term."
"Riiiiight"
"Yes, I mean, number one, we understand also there may be a certain irony intended. You know, calling us Dogs and all...when, well..." the tiger wasn't making things better. His equine friend seemed to realise and jumped in to save him, blissfully unaware of the scorpions at this very moment preparing to sting his horsehood.
"But, well, we thought, inclusive language is all the more powerful, even more powerful than the irony of calling us Dogs of War. And, after all, in this world of postmodern irony, is irony really ironic any more?"
"Really, you astound me. Where did you two get this bizarre idea from?"
The two looked at each other with an air of puzzlement.
"Um...I dunno..it just seemed, right, ironically..."
"Yeah, like, you know, the way Alanis Morisette sings, isn't it Ironic and..."
The Doberman had enough, terminating their babbling with a snarl.
"Alanis Morisette? Ironic? She knows about as much about it as you two. Did you know of the things she described as ironic in that stupid fucking song, not one was actually ironic?"
"Hey! Now that must be irony..."
It was the stallion's final mistake. The Doberman screamed one word, but it was all that was needed.
"Scorpions!"
His maitre'd was ready, and frankly wondered why it took so long. He reached for a console by the side of the head table, pressing a single shining button marked '17'.
Metal arms suddenly sprung from the chair, trapping the helpless stallion against his seat. He had time for one last look at the Doberman before a pair of minions came to haul him away.
"Take him to...the room."
The stallion was too terrified even to scream, and the Doberman noticed with satisfaction nobody came to his aid. His hooves scraped along the marble, as the stallion, chair and all, was rolled towards his doom. Every eye watched him go, with a little glint of malice, until the doors closed shut.
Then they gazed on their leader again, and this time the fear was back. This was when he loved to be his most magnanimous. It made them even jumpier.
"My dear colleagues. You know I am a gracious host, and a fair but firm leader. I am more than tolerant of dissent, and if you have a genuine concern, feel free to raise it and you will find no more receptive ear than mine. However, there is one thing all of you should know better than to try."
"If anyone wants to fuck up standard English concepts like Irony or worse, use half assed emo Canadian singers as examples in argument, they know their cock is having a date with some scorpions. This is not fucking news."
Many heads nodded, and several quailed a little inside. Most had been there for the great Celine Dion controversy of 2011, which had claimed many of their number. The screams still lingered in everyone's memory.
"Now, while that stallion is being re-educated in the ways of our little band, can we have a report from Number Eleven on our next operation. My poor kitty here needs some calming pats and a saucer of milk."
The room relaxed a little now, even sharing the joke with a few openly laughing. Number One did pat his cat too, the feline putting up with the attention stoically, though his frustration was displayed in a prominent set of extended claws.
The bull known only as Number Eleven rose to his hooves, and began to discuss the progress of his section. They had been integrating the operations of the newly acquired biomolecular engineering company purchased via a holding company in Lichtenstein. It was supposed to be curing cancer; they had found a way to use it for something altogether more enjoyable.
It was the badger, Number Six, who first got the significance.
"Number One! Do you mean to say, we now have the capability to deploy this as a weapon?"
The Doberman smiled, stroking his cat's head slowly with sheer joy at the pure evil of what he had done.
"Yes Number Six. We have the capability to release a virus that will infect any unimmunised subject within twenty four hours, and can spread across the planet in a matter of days. It's special neurotoxic effect will induce not death, not illness in the traditional sense, but a drastically reduced intellect. In short, we have the capacity to reduce the entire planet to the level of reality TV contestants and Tea Party supporters in days, unless the governments of the world pay us what we want."
The room sat stunned, immobilised by the sheer magnitude of what they could do. And the amount of hookers and blow they would all be able to buy.
"So my Dogs of War...Let's all drink a toast."
The minor flunkies were already circulating, pouring out the Louis Roederer into Baccarat crystal. At a nod from Number One, the maitre'd tapped his staff calling for attention, while the Doberman rose to his paws.
"Gentlefurs, I give you a toast. To Operation Kardashian!"