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Gareth

By Strega

Gareth Goldmane was not a happy lion.

He should have been. He had a good job as a bouncer, free food and lodging, even the occasional free drink from a bartender thankful he had stifled some conflict before it broke into a full fight. He was handsome as only a lion could be, great-maned, broad across the shoulder and narrow of waist, six and a half feet tall and all muscle under his tan fur coat, his tufted tail swaying behind him as he walked. He worked at the Ziggurat, a magical place that granted its employees functional immortality.

In two years working as a bouncer he had learned all the tricks and there wasn't a night went by that some woman, or usually more than one, urgently wondered what the handsome lion was doing after work. He never had to resort to his own hand or tongue to slake his lust; there were always eager volunteers.

If the mood struck him mid-shift he would take a woman to one of the private meeting rooms that adjoined the bar and show her a good time. His ample supply of barbed lion-man cock never failed to please and though it was strictly against the rules to do it during his shift, who would ever know as long as she swallowed it all? He just had to make sure he was deep into whatever orifice he was using when he came and sneak her back to her table afterward.

Sometimes he paid them for the privilege but more often they paid him, because he was always in demand. When not working as a bouncer he attended private parties wearing little more than his fur and women threw money at him, literally, to dance and strip. He'd fuck a few of them and go home to his room with a smug and accurate sense of his own worth. By all rights he should go through the day with a smile on his muzzle.

And so he had until a certain kzin had showed up. He'd seen that race before often enough, hulking feline brutes, but thought they might snarl at an imagined insult they rarely did more than that. They were just background noise in an already noisy bar, and since they didn't cause trouble and he didn't want to fuck them - as far as he could tell they were all male - he just went on with his business.

Even when one hired on as a bouncer he simply shrugged and ignored him. The new guy was named Yellowstripe and as far as Gareth could tell he was a humorless slab of a creature. He never drank alcohol, never laughed, rarely smiled, and if he sometimes cast a covetous glance at a female - usually the large, furry sorts like that bear-race from Ulru - that was all he did. He was at least competent and worked hard, and since he wasn't poaching any of Gareth's females he too became part of the background noise.

That lasted until they both signed on for gladiatorial training. Gareth found it easy to spend money, even given his extra income from stripping, and after a bad series of nights in the gambling rooms he needed a bit more income. Lion men had fought in the arena before and Gareth was sure that a handsome, heroic lion was just what the crowd wanted and needed.

Unfortunately the very first time he was called up to fight a fill-in match he had to share the spotlight with a short, ugly blue creature with horns, an equally unsavory hyena-man from a world much like his own, and worst of all the boring kzin bouncer. Somehow the big tiger-man had the favor of the arena masters and they dressed him in a black shaggy costume to mimic a well-loved arena monster. Fine, let him play a monster; Gareth knew how to deal with those, and in true heroic fashion he climbed bloodied to his feet and dealt the disguised kzin a mortal blow.

Somehow the beast had clung to life long enough to grapple with Gareth and to his horror the lion found himself being swallowed whole. The slimy confines of Yellowstripe's gullet and stomach were not at all to his liking and the only consolation had been that the kzin would soon cough him back up. That, and the audience had gotten a terrific show.

He felt and heard the lengthy belch as the wounded kzin staggered, and as he swayed in the tiger-thing's swollen belly he waited impatiently to be regurgitated. And waited, as digestive juices burned his nose and lips, and waited as they soaked into his hide. He kicked and squirmed, but the burning continued. In the gurgling dark he could no longer fight and he succumbed to the heat and stomach juices, wondering what had gone wrong.

An unguessable amount of time later his eyes snapped open and he stared in horror at the ceiling. Gareth sat up in the little empty room and felt at his own fur. He was perfectly intact, even the cuts from the kzin's claws and fangs healed, and on a hook hung his personal harness and pouches. All seemed well... but his fangs showed as he snarled. He knew what had happened.

Somewhere, probably already absorbed by the Ziggurat's sewage system, was two hundred and fifty-plus pounds of kzinti shit that used to be him.

Being a bouncer is not a safe occupation, but Gareth had gone to great lengths to keep himself safe and handsome. He'd avoided the bloodiest bar fights while not looking like he was, wore a light breastplate under the standard-issue chainmail tunic, trained to protect himself, and frequented expensive, private healers to avoid scars from wounds - despite receiving free care from Ziggurat healers. He had worked at this job for two years without losing his life or scarring his handsome muzzle. Now that precious body was lost and though his new one might as well be the original, down to the slight asymmetry of his nosepad that always bothered him and the tiny scar on his right footpad, it was not the same. The old Gareth was gone, digested.

In a rage he pulled on his harness with its leather straps and only slightly exaggerated codpiece - he did not need to boast there - and stomped off to the arena manager's offices.

"He was supposed to cough me up," he shouted at the chief trainer. "I was promised he would. I know gladiator work is dangerous but I didn't go in there to be lunch for your pet monster!"

"Gareth," Raedic said, calm and composed, "Yellowstripe wanted to cough you up. I had to physically stop him from doing so."

"What? Why?!" The lion ignored the gladiators, half into their outfits for a match, who were watching the confrontation with some interest.

"Because he was dying," Raedic said. "It was everything we could do to stop the bleeding. You cut him below the mane, when you could easily have hit him where he was armored. Then you almost took his head off."

"It's the job of a gladiator to fight! It's risky. I know it and he knew it going in!"

"It is the job of a gladiator to entertain," Raedic said. "Blood is good. Wounds, broken bones are good. Death is not good, in most matches. It takes fighters out of circulation until the Ziggurat brings them back. They lose money, we lose potential fighters. You did not need to wound him that heavily to entertain. He was so badly hurt I am astonished he managed to swallow you but he knew the crowd would like it and they did. By the time we managed to stop his bleeding you were already dead and it was pointless to make him struggle to regurgitate you. And he needed food to recover. Congratulations, that was you.

"Yes, we could have cut you out and saved you when he came in, but that would have killed Yellowstripe," Raedic said, and jabbed a finger at Gareth's chest. "He wasn't the one to fuck up. He could have killed you or the others with one swipe but he held back. Now get out. We'll be in touch if we need you."

Gareth wanted very badly to lunge across the table like his feral ancestors and rip Raedic's throat out with his fangs. He had never been so angry, but he felt the eyes of the two gladiators on his back and his furry ear swiveled around at the sound of a shortsword being loosened in its scabbard. With a frustrated snarl he spun on his heel and stormed out the door.

What he found at his quarters did not improve his mood. A box a little bigger than his head sat on the doorstep with a note. Impatiently he flicked the paper aside and lifted the lid. There was a horrible damp golden mass inside, regurgitated manefur mixed with bits of metal armor detached from its now digested leather rigging. Gareth gagged at the sight of what used to be him and slammed the lid shut. The motion sent the note sailing and it took three attempts to pluck it out of the air.

"Let's say we are even," he read, with a capital Y at the end. The kzin's huge three-fingered hands gave him an awkward, angular writing style that Gareth recognized from the bar.

"I don't think so," Gareth growled. "Not even at all."

He spent the evening drinking in one of the little hole in the walls bars and unaccountably found he wasn't interested in the woman sitting next to him, even when her hand drifted into his lap and caressed his sheath through his shorts. Never in his life had he not sprung to attention when that happened but he was engrossed in what the other bar-goers were discussing.

Some of them had seen the spectacularly bloody fight Blackfur had fought and the lion who had nearly killed the beast. It was regarded as the best fight in weeks and there was already word that the four-minute battle had been recorded and would soon be available for viewing in various entertainment rooms. The Ziggurat staff did this sort of thing from time to time to improve arena ticket sales.

There would have been satisfaction in the fact that it had been such a popular fight, especially after the master trainer told him he had screwed up. Unfortunately, someone recognized him.

"Hey," a drunken human said, and prodded a nearby furred creature in the shoulder. Half drunk himself Gareth didn't recognize the species but what the human said next caused heads to turn.

"It's that lion Blackfur swallowed."

An even drunker man boggled at Gareth and slurred, "Shouldn't you be shit right now?"

There was more, and most of it just friendly banter, but the jokes grated on his nerves and in the end the lion stood panting in the midst of a heap of bruised and battered bodies. He grunted at the team of bouncers who showed up late to the party and the lead creature, a hulking rhino-like alien of indeterminate gender, blinked deepset little eyes at him.

"Oh, Gareth. It's you. Broke up a fight, eh?"

He just nodded and pushed past. Who were they going to believe, the barflies or him?

The next morning he was finally back at work, having determined that he had missed three entire days of work. Revival time from death at the Ziggurat varied for unknown reasons but it had been discovered that someone that was eaten usually did not reappear until their predator was done digesting them. It had apparently taken him at least two whole days to move entirely through the kzin's body.

He ran into Yellowstripe in the staff dressing room and the kzin gave him a curt noncommittal nod of greeting as he shrugged into his chainmail vest. The hackles rose on the back of Gareth's neck and for the second time in two days he wanted to rip someone's throat out but there had to be a better way to handle this than a public fight with a five-hundred-pound kzin. At least Yellowstripe was limping, and he saw the long scar as the kzin dressed. That was some consolation.

For two days they ignored each other in the course of their duties and Gareth fended off questions as to why he suddenly started wearing his optional helm. There were half serious jabs about him protecting his handsome face but it either had the intended effect or he was lucky enough not to be recognized. Early on the third day he saw his opportunity.

There was a solitary kzin sat at a humorously undersized table as far from everyone else as possible. Kzin could be a prickly lot and on the rare occasions they had trouble with them it was usually one like this: clearly young, alone, and trying to ignore the rest of the world. Young kzin of low rank were not treated well by their superiors and this one was clearly a mass of anger and testosterone The staff knew a ticking time bomb when they saw it but someone had brought him a plate of blood-raw meat.

Yellowstripe was still putting on the armor that accompanied a bouncer's duties and Gareth seized the chance to wander as if by accident to the young kzin's table. This one had black spots on his shoulders and neck.

"Just a word to the wise," he muttered, and saw the kzin's parasol ears unfold to take in every word. "A warning."

"Who are you to warn me," the big tiger-alien growled through exposed fangs. He was everything Gareth could have hoped for.

"There is a kzin who works here, Yellowstripe," Gareth said. "You will know him by the yellow mask around his eyes, even dressed."

"Yellowstripe is not a proper name," the kzin growled. "Or a job-title. He should be called by his calling. I am Novice."

No wonder he was so angry. "He knows you from somewhere," Gareth went on. "I heard him say that you have a yellow stripe too, and that it runs down your back."

He hadn't been sure the kzin would know that expression but was rewarded when the cat's lips drew back in a grin. That grin was not a sign of friendship in kzin, and Gareth walked away from the table before he got a closer look at all those fangs. He'd already been down one kzin's throat and he suspected he'd end up inside this one in chunks if he stuck around.

It was just a matter of waiting now. Yellowstripe was bound to stop by the young kzin's table and introduce himself, and if Gareth was any judge that would not end well. He stationed himself near a door, a typical spot for a bouncer and one with an excellent view of that corner of the bar.

Sure enough, Yellowstripe's ears went up as he spotted the other kzin and he made his way over. He stopped by the table and said something, and things happened very fast.

The first sign of trouble was the young kzin's Chinese-parasol ears snapping out of sight into the fur on the sides of his head for protection and at the same instant he let out a scream and came off his seat at Yellowstripe. The older kzin's weak leg buckled under him and the two crashed into another table, sending two patrons flying.

Gareth now had good reason to get closer but he made a point of directing customers away from the fight. From his six-foot-six height he could see the flurry of limbs but he couldn't tell who was winning. A chair went sailing through the air and he saw a flash of bloody claws as Yellowstripe's helmet rolled across the floor.

When he had no more excuse to stay at a safe distance he stepped closer and was disappointed to find a bloodied Yellowstripe on top, his fangs in the younger kzin's nape and his armored forearms choking his opponent into submission.

Fights between kzin were normally to the death and it was with mounting alarm that he saw Yellowstripe released the younger kzin only for it to gasp and try to rise. Yellowstripe already had the spotty kzin's arms bound behind it with one of the straps bouncers carried and before the young kzin recovered enough to struggle he got the ankles.

It would be a disaster if the kzin told Yellowstripe that he had incited the fight and while Yellowstripe didn't carry weapons he did. As the younger kzin snarled in defiance and while Yellowstripe tied his ankles Gareth pulled the short, heavy club from his belt and hit Novice as hard as he could on the head. The kzin collapsed, blood running from his nostrils.

"That wasn't necessary!" Yellowstripe snarled. "I had him."

"He was about to bite you."

"That's what the armor is for. Get a healer!", Yellowstripe snarled, seemingly unaware that a flap of his pelt was hanging bloody and loose from his cheek and that the younger kzin had torn his chainmail and rent the hide beneath. Sadly, the wounds were far from mortal.

Gareth went home worried. Despite his best efforts Novice had survived and was confined to a cell until a magistrate was summoned. The kzin was still unconscious but the healer said he would recover, this despite a large, strong lion man hitting him in what he hoped was a thin part of his skull. The blasted alien cats were tough.

He had to do something about it. A thought occurred; hadn't he confiscated some drugs from a customer a while back? He rummaged through the detritus of two years of bouncer work, and among the notes from women giving their room numbers and various items they had left behind in his he found the little pouch full of blueish crystals.

"Take only one crystal," the customer had told him in return for merely being kicked out of the bar. Drugs were frowned upon in most parts of the Ziggurat due to unpredictable effects on various species. Unless you went to one of the rooms devoted to them, many of them on the third floor but some here on the first, trying to sell them was an offense punishable by fines and even jail time. Exceptionally dangerous drugs could earn worse punishment than that. He had never gotten around to having the stuff analyzed but "take only one" implied that taking more wouldn't be healthy.

There was no time to waste. He slipped the pouch into the larger one he used to carry coins and trinkets and left for the cells. It shouldn't be difficult at all to gain access to the prisoner's food, or if he were still unconscious, the blood and water he was given to keep up his strength.

The next day Yellowstripe was disturbed to hear that the captive had died. Unknown causes, the healer said. It rankled him that someone he had subdued died. Had he applied too much force despite his best efforts? Almost as worrying was what would happen now. The young kzin was almost certainly at the Ziggurat to meet someone. Who that someone was and what the consequences would be when they discovered he was dead remained to be seen.

For his part, Gareth returned to work that morning relieved, yet still working out what to do about Yellowstripe. The close call with Novice told him that engineering fights between visitors and the kzin might backfire. There had to be some way to get at the tiger-man, though. Perhaps the drug? He still had quite a lot...but no, two kzin dying mysteriously might provoke an investigation.

As if some god heard him thinking, or the mysterious power behind the Ziggurat itself took pity, a new possibility presented itself in the form of a little raccoon lady. Hazel, in her waitress smock, walked by carrying a tray of drinks almost as large as she was, and Gareth's nose twitched.

Had he just smelled what he thought he had? He wandered after her, paused at an arch to let her drop off the drinks, and sniffed again as she went by in the opposite direction. Sure enough.

It was simple enough to get close enough to Yellowstripe to get a sniff, too. The kzin was ignoring him even more pointedly since the incident with Novice and hardly seemed to notice him.

Yes indeed. The smell wasn't as pronounced on the kzin. He'd bathed, or been careful. Well, he hadn't been careful enough.

It was just a matter of waiting for Hazel to take her break, and he was waiting. As the diminutive raccoon sipped tea at a small corner table, he slid into the opposite seat.

"So, you and the kzin, eh." Gareth smiled. He had a ready smile that had gotten him into more panties than he could count.

A furry creature can't blush, but a tilt of her ears could convey the same message. "Oh, you know. I have lots of friends."

"More than friends I think," he purred. The lonely, the outcasts, the ones with no friends; those were the ones Hazel 'helped'. But 'helping' didn't include spending the night curled up in bed with someone, and the amount of scent the two lovers had picked up from each other made no other conclusion possible. Yes, she had the kzin's seed on her, but more than that, the smell of his fur.

"You don't smell like that from being friendly, Hazel." He swiped a glass of water from a passing tray - one with a straw, easier for muzzled sorts - and sipped.

She smiled. "He was all alone. I have a lot of friends, but I was sort of alone too. We have a lot in common, it turns out."

"Because you both eat people," Gareth said. She looked surprised, and he went on, "I know you go to the fourth floor sometimes. Then you have a few days off, but your friends still drop by your room with drinks, games. If you're not the one being digested...."

She was silent. "Hazel, you can do better." Yellowstripe only had one lover, as far as he could make out. One person he was sweet on. If he couldn't kill the kzin, he might at least make his life worse. "A bad habit is not enough in common to make it work."

"It's enough to start," she chirped. "I like him. He's gentle and confused around me. He could eat me in one bite, but he doesn't."

Suddenly her eyes flashed. "Would you rather it be you? I can smell it from outside your room, you know. Stale semen, women, sex. Sometimes I can hear it. Keep all your women and leave me my one man."

Gareth wasn't used to being rejected. He didn't want to fuck her, but to be shut down like this? It never happened. He reached across the table and gripped her little wrist, maybe a little harder than he meant to.

"Hazel, I -" and that was as far as he got. Her other hand flashed and her short, polished, but sharp claws raked his cheek. One cut his nosepad and in a flash of anger his fangs came out.

It was all a misunderstanding, he would have said when tempers cooled. But before that could happen something like a steel clamp closed around his shoulder and he was yanked from the bench as his nerveless fingers released her.

"The lady is not interested," said Yellowstripe in a growl so deep it was like the rumble at the start of an earthquake. He had Gareth hoisted off the ground by one shoulder with one hand and pointed with the other. "That means hands off."

Punching the kzin in the nose wasn't the best idea. All the signs were there: the half unsheathed claws, the tips of too many fangs exposed past wrinkled-back lips, and most of all the parasol ears sucked out of sight into the fur on either side of Yellowstripe's head. But Gareth had one foot on the ground for leverage and a powerful rage of his own. Yellowstripe was too busy being angry to be smart and Gareth's fist smashed into the tiger-alien's blunt muzzle.

Hazel shouted something but it was drowned in an ear-splitting snarl as Yellowstripe went berserk. Gareth had found a button to push and with a smug sense of superiority he dodged below the first swipe - thankfully the kzin retained just enough control to keep his claws sheathed - and hit Yellowstripe in the armpit as hard as he could. He remembered weak spots Reina had drilled into him for many species, kzin among them, in the long hours in the training room.

But Yellowstripe had those hours too, if not as many, and that free shot was all he got. With a grunt the kzin shrugged off the hit and now the claws did come out.

Now the trick was to avoid another trip though Yellowstripe's digestive tract but before another fist could be swung a voice snapped out backed by an unwavering faith that it would be heeded.

"That's enough, you two! My office, now!"

Even red-eyed with rage the voice made Yellowstripe stop and Gareth nearly snapped to attention as well. Floor Supervisor Maribell was used to being obeyed and it showed.

Two minutes later, having been marched to the center of the complex of bars, restaurants and meeting rooms that made up the first floor, they stood shoulder to shoulder as the short elf woman glared at them.

"I don't understand you two. When's the last time you flew off the handle, Gareth? You're too relaxed after boning five women a night. And Yellowstripe? You lost your temper over what?"

Yellowstripe grimaced at the thought of his fellow kzin dying in a cell, but he answered. "He was hurting Hazel."

"Is that true, Gareth?"

"I was just talking to her -"

"Then why are her claw marks on your nose, Gareth?" Yellowstripe snarled. "What is your problem, anyway?"

The pleasant face Gareth had practiced for years, that had earned him an endless supply of pussy, cracked for a moment. "I don't know, maybe it's because you ate me!"

"You can't talk about that and you know it!" The volume of the argument was going up fast and Maribell held up her hand.

"I know about your fight in the arena," she said. "And I know it was Yellowstripe in the costume that day. Do you think I don't keep track of which of my employees are fighting in the arena?"

Later, Yellowstripe would regret not simply apologizing. It had been an accident, more or less. Sending the hairball had also, in hindsight, been a terrible idea but tempers were high on both sides. And Gareth didn't help, not at all.

"I wasn't hurting your little raccoon fuck buddy!"

Yellowstripe's ears snapped out of sight and Maribell slammed her hand down on the emergency button hidden behind her desk as the normally reliable kzin's fangs came out from behind his lips. She didn't invite people into her office without a way to defend herself and suddenly neither of the two was able to make but the slightest movement.

"All right!" Now she was the one who was shouting. "You two need to get over this. I can't afford to have you two trying to kill each other, I don't have anyone to replace you." She tapped her foot as she thought.

"All right. This is what is going to happen."

In his room a little later Gareth thought, and worried. She was setting up a grudge match for them in the arena: just him and Yellowstripe/Blackfur. He got his weapon of choice, the spear, and Yellowstripe wouldn't have any armor under the false mane. That, plus the leg wound that still slowed the kzin, should give him a chance.

Grudge matches were to the death. One or both of them was going to die on the sand, and though they would reform, there would be consequences. Whoever lost would be relocated to another floor. Maribell wasn't happy about that, but she said she'd get someone in return with at least some bouncer training.

That wouldn't bother Yellowstripe. He'd probably love being a guard on the fourth floor, where odds were good he'd get to eat people.

Gareth didn't want to lose. He had too good a thing going to lose his job on the first floor. There were too many women there, drunk and sober both, who longed for the taste of spiny black-skinned lion cock. He just couldn't lose.

In the secret compartment of his desk he once more found the bag of crystals. They had killed Novice, or helped. They'd kill Yellowstripe, too.

But Novice had swallowed several crystals dissolved in blood. The only way Yellowstripe would swallow them is if they were on Gareth's person, and he didn't want another trip down that throat even if they both died instead of just him.

Did they search contestants before grudge matches? They hadn't searched him before his fill-in match. Just in case, though: he'd bring a water bottle, make sure no one drank from it. Hopefully a handful of crystals dissolved in water would be enough to poison the tip of his spear.

Only a few hours later the trainers were fitting him with armor: hardened leather bracers, a breastplate of horizontal plates called a lorica segmentata, a helm that left his handsome face exposed, and long light armored slats that gave his legs some protection. He rejected the shield they offered as useless against an opponent as strong as Yellowstripe. It would just get grabbed. Likewise he turned down heavier armor. If Yellowstripe came to grips with him the kzin would be coughing up mane-fur again so anything heavy enough to slow him down was rejected out of hand.

They had stripped him naked before starting on the armor so it was as well he didn't bring the pouch of drugs. They didn't touch his water bottle, though, and sure enough they left him alone to pray or otherwise prepare as they went to check on Yellowstripe. Raedic actually smiled and thumped his shoulder.

"You were pretty good last time. Sorry I was so hard on you. Now's your chance to get back at him. To the death!"

He had won one concession out of the trainer and as he stepped out into the hot fake sunlight he listened to make sure they had the script right.

"To the north, here to avenge his brother's death, Yeski Bronzemane!" They had touched up his fur with magical dyes and even altered the recordings of his last fight, so whatever happened it was unlikely anyone would connect him to the lion about to live or die in the arena. Soon enough people would argue about even the color of the last lion's mane and Gareth would just be "That lion who fucked my sister" and not "The lion Blackfur swallowed last week."

"And to the south, healed, rested and looking forward to another meal of familiar-tasting lion, everyone's favorite man-eating monster Blackfur!"

Even Gareth had to admit that Yellowstripe looked good. They had dyed the kzin's fur black and by now they must have his exact measurements. The thick white mane covered the black cloth it was sewn to and the long furry sleeve that covered his rat-tail fit so snugly there were no wrinkles even when it lashed from side to side. The quills protruding from the mane rattled as the beast snarled, ropes of drool dripped from his jaws and the kzin's many sharp fangs glistened. Every eye must be on Blackfur and hopefully no one would notice the similar sheen to Gareth's spearpoint. He had dissolved many of the crystals in water, pouring it over the point and the rest down the toilet in case anyone found the bottle afterward.

Now he just had to kill the kzin so he could stay where he wanted and cause Yellowstripe inconvenience. With the kzin banished to a different floor he could work on Hazel again and years of experience in seducing women made him confident he could win the little ringtail away from the bland thug of a kzin.

He allowed himself one elaborate flourish with the spear before putting the point in line and advancing. This time he had a weapon he knew well and if could stay away from those paws he might even kill Yellowstripe without the drug. But with any luck the dissolved crystals would have a dramatic effect and the second he saw Yellowstripe in distress he would pounce. As far as the audience was concerned he must be the one to kill the monster, not the drug.

'Blackfur' snarled and pounced but landed short. He must be worried Gareth would brace his spear against the ground and impale him. That still might lead to Gareth being torn apart but he thrust twice before Blackfur was recovered. The point went into the furry cheek and shoulder - the armor under the mane would have stopped both before - and blood flowed as a rapid swipe of a forepaw just missed the spear.

Blackfur pounced again, more aggressively, and Gareth sprang to the side and buried the point of the spear in his shoulder. Finally the beast rushed forward, much faster than Gareth could back up, and he sprang in the other direction. He just missed a good stab into the flank - the point glanced off what must have been one of the kzin's interlocking 'basket' ribs - when Blackfur let out a long snarl and started to shake. The furry tail trembled and Blackfur unexpectedly backed up, shaking his shaggy head.

It was the drug. It had to be. Though the spearpoint was bloody none of the wounds were close to lethal. Blackfur snarled again and swiped at the air and Gareth backed off for a moment. The beast was trembling and before it simply fell over he leapt forward, spear poised. Here was his chance and he had to kill the kzin before it became obvious there was foul play.

Blackfur reared up to meet him and Gareth's eyes went wide as the beast's forepaw snapped out and caught the spear shaft inches behind the point. He had forgotten for a moment that under the costume was a creature with hands and a brain! His weight still pushed the point closer to the furry chest but before the audience realized the "beast" was fighting like a man the other forepaw came around and snapped the spear in half.

Time seemed to move in slow motion as Gareth, still falling forward, reached for the hilt of the shortsword he carried as a backup weapon. It was only halfway out of its sheath when the paw that had gripped the spear whipped out in a backhanded blow and almost decapitated him.

He was only unconscious for an instant but when his vision cleared he was on the sand face down with a heavy paw on his back. Gareth snarled and unsheathed his claws but all he could do was kick in frustration. Yellowstripe weighed twice as much as he did and was solid muscle. He was about to go down the kzin's throat again, assuming it didn't just bite his head off.

There was an even more unpleasant surprise in store. He felt the hot breath on his mane as the kzin lowered its head, fangs dug hard - but carefully - into his scruff, to not to kill him but just to grip, and he felt the brush of muscular thighs as the beast stepped up over him. There was the brush of something else against his rump but it was not until a terrible pain smote him beneath his tail that he realized what was happening.

Gareth was a well-hung lion, everyone agreed. He had never asked or cared how well endowed kzinti were, but his eyes went wide and an unmanly shriek came out of his fanged jaws as Yellowstripe/Blackfur mounted him. A long thick shaft with curious bumps and backward-pointing barbs sank into his anus only to be immediately withdrawn, then stuffed in again with more force. Gareth screamed and thrashed but the nape bite held him as a barbed cock half again as long as his own and cruelly spiny ravaged his insides. Never in his life had anything larger than a finger made its way in there - that hole was strictly 'exit only' as far as he was concerned, and the kzin's cock was thick as his ankle. He was sure his rump must be bloody by now but he was destined never to see the results of the unwanted mating.

The panting beast arched, driving his point home over and over, and with a sudden lurch his jaws were over Gareth's muzzle. Moist fang-filled maw closed around his skull and the howl of the crowd was drowned out by a gulp as the kzinti began his meal.

He fought to the last, even after 'Blackfur' rolled onto his back so the audience could see the blood-smeared cock slamming in and out of him, but impaled like a bug on a pin and held by the powerful forepaws he couldn't stop the hungry jaws from working their way over his shoulders. The agony of heavy, spiny kzinti cock stretching his lower intestine was matched by the horror of what was happening higher up. The kzin's pulse thundered in his ears as wet muscular gullet sucked him inward, and he could already smell the stomach acids that would consume him.

Gareth enjoyed his second death even less than his first.

*****

Gareth's eyes snapped open and he cursed, long and in five languages, at what had just happened. That fucking alien cat! It didn't hurt any more - he didn't need to check himself to know that his old body was digested. His now perfectly intact body was another shadow of his former self, the old one reduced to fat on a kzin's flanks and still more sewage.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck that kzin," he snarled, and the door opened.

"Oh, Gareth, there you are," said Tom, the watch supervisor for the night bouncer shift. Tom had greenish armored scales on his neck and a curious horseshoe-shaped dent in his forehead but Gareth had never cared enough to ask what species he was. "They said you had an accident and I'm supposed to bring you for debriefing."

Gareth swore silently as he pulled on his harness with its only slightly exaggerated codpiece. At least the minor disguise had worked. As far as the arena audience, and anyone they might have talked to was concerned, it had been an entirely different lion who provoked Blackfur to belch a couple of days ago. If he fought that bastard again, yet another relative would have to be invented. The father of the brother lions, perhaps.

"Anything I should know about," he growled, putting on his best unconcerned face.

"Pretty boring week," Tom grunted. "Just you being missing. The ladies were asking after you."

Of course they were, Gareth thought. He'd have some catching up to do. There'd been a time he worried he would run out of semen, as much as he went through. Thankfully, the supply was self replenishing. That thought led unfortunately to the fact that the last semen he had encountered had been left in his colon by a horny kzin dressed as Blackfur. The beginnings of a smile turned back into a snarl.

"What's this?" Tom had led them to a door he had seen many times, next to the floor manager's office, but had never seen opened. It opened now and he went in as Tom shrugged and headed the other way. A short hallway led to a single, heavy door. With nowhere else to go he opened it and stepped through.

"Do you know who I am?" the creature behind the desk said.

Gareth could only stare. There was a horrible familiarity to the thing: the black fur, the yellow-white mane, panther-like build, the long tail with its white plume. Even had it not possessed the same quill-like spines protruding randomly from its mane he could not miss the resemblance, for all this one was humanoid. It was altogether too much like the costume Yellowstripe wore.

"You must be," he growled, "The son of Blackfur? -A- son?"

"Correct," the thing purred. "During his time in the arena my father was offered many females as rewards for his fights, and he was not hesitant to accept them as mates. The arena masters hoped for litters of savage little hybrids to send into the arena. Despite my father's best efforts," he smiled, "There were only a few.

"But more importantly, can you guess my job?"

He'd never seen that door unlocked. When he'd asked, people had just shrugged, but eventually someone muttered that it was a records department.

"Records clerk?" It was a large and imposing clerk, if he was one. The black-furred creature looked to be able to walk on all fours or just two and if standing would be a foot taller than his own six and a half feet. Almost as tall as Yellowstripe, but more lithe.

It seemed a reasonable guess. The walls were lined with cubbyholes and cabinets stuffed with painstakingly organized scrolls, books, and both the magical and technological versions of photographs and hard drives. Display screens were fit into what space was left, some of them blank and some showing views of various bars and hallways. Still others showed lists, some in languages he knew and some in alien runes. One was in the hooks-and-commas of Kzinti script.

"Something like that. Now, as to why you are here. Just a routine investigation - whenever a prisoner dies in custody, there's a followup, naturally."

"Of course," Gareth nodded, but a chill went down his spine.

"Now, a prisoner dying is bad, and a kzin dying, well, that might be pretty serious. There are two universes with similar kzinti races, and they use the Ziggurat as a method of communication. Pretty soon it will be three universes worth, and then there are the Kilrathi, the Khanate, the Lyrans, the Charr...quite a lot of large cat people, really. They hold meetings here, send messengers, and generally spend quite a lot of money. So naturally we are concerned when one of them dies."

"Of course." Gareth wore his best 'interested but slightly bored' face, not dissimilar to the one the black creature was wearing.

"My name is Warth, by the way," said the creature, and touched a control. An image appeared in midair, a hallway, doors. Gareth recognized the cells where unruly bar patrons were kept. A moment later a handsome lion man paced by.

"Here you are, visiting the cells perhaps an hour before the prisoner was found dead. Well within the scope of your duties, of course." Thankfully, the footage didn't include his stop at the kiosk where prisoner's meals were prepared.

"But as a matter of habit, I review footage up to the point of the death," Warth purred, and the image changed.

"Here we have Yellowstripe fighting the kzin, and winning fairly easily. The younger one is perhaps stronger, but hasty and unskilled. Of the 'scream and leap' mindset too, apparently. Here we have you giving the young one a whack."

"He was about to bite Yellowstripe," Gareth growled.

"No doubt. Continuing on...well, here you exchange a few words with the kzin just before the fight. Too bad there's so much noise in the bar. Can't quite make it out."

"It was nothing important," Gareth said, but the pads on the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet had begun to sweat. He fought back the urge to pant.

Warth rested his chin on his fist. "It's an interesting coincidence." He touched another control and for just a moment there was a terribly vivid image in midair of Yellowstripe, dressed as Blackfur, sodomizing him. Gareth grimaced as the few seconds of video ran and he saw the agonized expression on his own face. It brought back too-recent memories of a large and thorny kzinti cock shoved up beneath his tail.

"My mistake, wrong video," Warth purred, and touched the control again.

Now the video was of a brief conversation with a bloodied and full bellied Yellowstripe. Gareth suppressed a growl as he realized what the lumpy bulge in the kzinti's middle was.

"I don't know what came over me," Yellowstripe growled as a healer worked on his shoulder. A trainer was removing the long tail-sleeve. "I don't like him, and I planned to eat him if I won, but suddenly I was overpoweringly horny. I've never mounted a male before and while the trainer says the audience likes it when a monster rapes its opponent, I would prefer a female mate. Yet I couldn't help myself."

Another control. This time they watched the brief, violent confrontation between him and Yellowstripe as Hazel tried to calm them down. Until now he hadn't even realize the raccoon had been talking.

"I'm a bit confused as to the sequence of events," Warth purred. "Let me see if I can sort them out." He counted off on his fingers.

"You worked shoulder to shoulder with Yellowstripe for about a month, and nothing much of interest happened. Then you both got into the arena trainee program."

"That's right," Gareth growled.

"Yellowstripe had his first match, got a bit mauled - you probably didn't see this one - swallowed a man to the ankles, but got out of sight of the audience and let someone pull him out."

"Must be nice," Gareth muttered.

"His second match was your first,"

"I did fight a couple of short exhibitions in there," Gareth objected.

"My mistake, I have a note about that here. Your first fill-in match and major showing was the fight with you, the gnoll and that cappani - the blue man - against Yellowstripe when he was dressed as Blackfur. Yellowstripe got hurt badly and swallowed you whole. Apparently he was too hurt to cough you up and that was that."

"It wasn't too bad," Gareth said, putting the best face on it. "You die, you wake up."

"I know," Warth purred. "So you made your way through his digestive system and eventually reappeared."

"The Ziggurat brings you back, it's not like he shit me out and I grew back from the pile."

"Of course, of course. You got into a little dust-up in a bar, nothing of note, and went back to work."

He had ticked off the fingers and thumb of one hand, and needing a fifth digit went on to the other hand. "Two days later you happen to run into this young kzin and he jumps Yellowstripe."

"I can't control what a ratcat does. The young ones are psychotic."

"So you help him with the kzin, kzin dies, you and he get into a shouting match - something to do with his lover, the floor manager arranges a grudge match," Warth had stopped using his fingers, "You bloody Yellowstripe and he enthusiastically rapes you before you get another trip through his bowels."

"Is there a point to all this?" Gareth growled.

"It was just a series of somewhat unlikely coincidences, but I found myself thinking, you might have a bit of a grudge against him after he ate you the first time. Yellowstripe doesn't like you, maybe you don't like him. Then this bit with the young kzin and eventually Yellowstripe rapes you and expresses confusion as to why it happened. That reminded me of something."

The chill in Gareth's spine was back and worse now as the black creature reached into a cubbyhole and pulled out a little vial. The crystals inside it were familiar.

"Drugs are strictly controlled here because their effects are unpredictable between races. This one, in large doses, will cause most hearts to fail. In small doses, in humans, it is a stimulant. For me, it would be a mild hallucinogen. In kzinti, on the other hand, it is a powerful aphrodisiac."

Gareth made to rise from the chair as Warth brought a pouch - his pouch - out from a drawer. He was surprised to find he could not stand. Just as the manager's office had some sort of restraining magic, or technology, so did this one.

"And imagine what I found in your quarters," Warth purred.

"You aren't a records clerk."

"No. You may come in now, Captain."

The side door opened and a kzin entered. Visibly older than Yellowstripe, with an air of dignity and insignia and what were probably military decorations on the straps of his harness. Black stripes on his face reminded him momentarily of the much smaller, much less menacing Hazel.

"This is the one," the kzin rumbled, and Warth nodded.

"Gareth, meet Sheowma, captain of the Kzinti battlecruiser Bloodshedder. Novice was his nephew. Sheowma was here to pick him up for a junior posting on his ship." A kzin with an actual name, as opposed to a nickname or designation was a person of note, and Warth rose respectfully. He was nearly as nearly as tall as the kzin captain.

"My brother is a fool," the kzin growled, "And so is his son. But not so much one to attack a stranger for no reason, when he had been told to stay calm. As soon as I heard, I knew something strange had happened."

"Captain, as long as he is here, in the Ziggurat, he will return to life if killed. I could have him fired, but a quicker approach is to let you take him with you when you leave. Once he is off the premises he is mortal."

"You can't -"

Warth touched a control and Gareth could no longer even speak. He continued as though the lion hadn't spoken. "Sir, we have something of a custom here. When we want to make sure someone will not be back, we have someone eat him. Could I prevail upon you to follow our custom?"

"Oh yes," the kzin said, "He will be eaten." Gareth reminded himself that the smile on his face was not a sign of friendship. Not when his fangs showed that way.

"Eventually."