FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

“What about this one?" Franky emerged from her bedroom wearing something Stephen was honestly surprised she owned in the first place. A long-sleeved, button-up shirt. No ostentatious prints, respectable blue stripe, and mostly unwrinkled. The problem was immediately obvious: Its buttons strained to contain her bust in doomed mountaineer style. With one vigorous move they'd be liable to pop off and present a danger to any unprotected eyeball.

“Uh… it's a little tight."

She looked down to confirm his judgement.

“It's been a while since I've worn this. How about the pants?"

It was just a regular pair of jeans, Franky not being fashionable enough to own anything with holes in it she didn't put there herself. He guessed it was a men's model, given that it only hugged her form in a way that seemed mostly unintentional. The cut was low enough to avoid a pronounced fupa, which he was sure she could rock with a pair of mom jeans and some strategic tucking. And maybe that was a bit too advanced for a television audience.

“You know the rule," he said, “denim bottoms go with everything, denim tops go with nothing."

In fact, he was wearing jeans himself. Freshly washed, and even ironed, for tonight's purpose. Button-up shirt and jacket up top. Understated, expected, and safely boring.

“I was kinda hoping this'd just work." Franky grumbled.

“It's fine. Let's just look at some of the other stuff you have." After all, that's why she invited him in the first place. He wasn't the first, or even second, third, or hundreth place people came to for wardrobe advice, so it was a bit of a surprise when Franky called him to provide it. But here he was, helping a grown woman dress herself.

“Step into my boudoir, then." She swung open the door, giving a grand gesture more in its place on an old-fashioned doorman.

Stephen followed suit, tipping an imaginary hat as he did. Since yesterday the place had actually experienced some sort of cleaning, though a lot of it amounted to Franky having kicked some of her laundry into a larger pile in the corner.

“Do you have some stuff laid out?"

She gave a noncommittal grunt. “Not really. I'll grab some."

He could swear he felt the floor beams depress as she stalked past, passing close by him. The wardrobe's door slid open smoothly on its rollers with a pronounced rumble. Franky seemed to inspect its contents with the intensity of a general on the eve of battle, the tip of her tail dancing this way and that in betrayal of her stony exterior. He moved closer to have a look for himself, putting a hand on her thigh to make himself known and not be bowled over should she turn.

Hey, he was doing it again. But this time it was practical, not emotional. Did that still count?

However, before he could spend more thought on the nature and logistics of tiger-touching, his eye fell on a piece of fabric utterly anathema to this place. A long, feminine garment suspended from a hanger, with a distinct floral pattern in soft, non-threatening pastels. It was near a miracle he hadn't noticed it the day before, though admittedly his thoughts had been elsewhere.

“You own a fucking dress." He blurted out.

He could feel her freeze by his side, the biggest bunny to ever be caught in headlights.

“I'm not wearing that." She issued in a low rumble.

“Oh, you shouldn't…" Wait, no. Wrong thing to say. Quick, save it! “… I mean, not that you wouldn't look good in it… I'd love to see you wear it… but I mean, I don't think dresses are really done on TV anymore…"

Yeah, she was looking down at him now with that lop-sided expression he was beginning to associate with himself putting his foot firmly in mouth.

“It was for a wedding." Flat affect. No judgement. She was letting him off easy, wasn't she? “Pretty sure it don't fit anymore, anyhow."

OK, just move on.

“Let's look at some of the long sleeves."

It wasn't much of a chore to pluck them all from the wardrobe. Franky seemed to mostly own T-shirts, some hoodies, and he could see a denim jacket hanging there. Good thing they already ruled that one out. What ended up draped over her arm was a rather paltry collection with no real connecting theme. One stood out to him.

“Let's try that one." He tugged at the soft fabric of classic red and black plaid. The stereotypical lumberjack shirt.

“Really?" Franky regarded her own wardrobe as if it were new to her. “Don't ya think it'll make me look… you know, dykey?"

Oh Franky, that ship had not only left the harbor, but returned from a circuit of the Indies laden with spices.

“You bring your own charm to it."

She gave him a look as if he'd slapped her on the tit.

“I'm not joking." Mostly. “It's a classic look. Rugged, blue collar. If anyone can pull it off, it's you."

Rarely had there been a more truthful statement, Stephen thought. Life wouldn't have had to go much differently for Franky to be roving the woods, giant axe in hand, ever ready to deplete the beer stores of British Columbia bars.

“Wear it with a shirt," he offered.

“Fine," she said, then gave him a look. “I'm going to undress, now."

Well, he did tell her to warn him if she were ever to do it again. He only had himself to blame for this. The primitive parts of his brain buzzed in excitement, roused by the prospect of a half naked Franky. To their disappointment he gave a non-committal sound he hoped communicated he wasn't hoping for a free show, and retreated to the living room.

He didn't have much time for the usual idly looking at things before Franky rejoined him, though he was considering contemplating the couch. After all, she did only put on a shirt.

“So, what about it?" she asked.

She had the uncomfortable stance usually only exhibited by boyfriends and husbands indulging their better halves in malls and high streets across the world. And like those, she had silently taken advice given, wearing the plaid over a forest green shirt bearing a worn print of some nature reserve or another. He could make out trees, a lake, and a beaver.

Had he ever seen her in a shirt that looked like it hadn't been vigorously worn? She had pristine clothing she'd evidently grown out of, but her ratty shirts suffered no such problems. Maybe she did her own shopping in tent size to gradually work up to a proper fit.

“That's good." It was. The lumberjack shirt fell naturally over her frame, dressing down all that needed dressing down, ensuring attention would go to her mind rather than… something else. “Good color coordination, too. I think we've got a winner."

“You sure?" She shifted her stance and moved her arms a little in what Stephen guessed was an attempt to give fresh perspective on the ensemble.

“It's not rocket surgery. You look rugged, but respectable. It's a good look for you." Indeed, if he were of any service here to begin with, it was probably in preventing her from overdressing in the eye-hazard button-up.

“Gee, uh…" she scratched the back of her head, for a moment achieving a perfect outdoorswoman catalog pose, “… thanks."

“You're still shit at taking compliments, though."

Stephen expected her normal stony expression to return. However, instead mischief shone in her eyes and the tiniest of smiles curled her lips. “Keep 'em coming. I'll learn someday."

You better not be batting my heart around like a bloody cat toy, Stephen thought.

“Keep earning them, and they'll keep coming," he shot back.

That seemed to be it for TV-Franky. Apparently she agreed, because she only returned the same thin smile and stalked past him like a city bus passing a cyclist.

“I'ma pull on my boots," she announced as she did so. “Maybe have a beer. You want a beer?"

He wasn't sure whether he agreed if it was smart, but his nerves certainly did. With the immediate problem taken care of he could already feel the icy claws of impending Big Things crawling up his spine and rummaging around in his guts.

“Sure."

Before long they were in the same position they'd been in the day before, Franky with giant can in hand, he with the not-quite-right glass in his. It was the same one, too. He was sure of it. Franky struck him as the sort of person to do the cleaning as it came.

“That hit the spot," she said.

Stephen didn't answer.

“I'm kinda nervous, ya know."

“That's normal. Just don't spill any on your shirt. I've got no idea what else we could dress you in."

She barked a single laugh. “Thanks for easing my nerves, ya prick."

“At your service." He gave a two-fingered Scout salute.

They sat in silence for a while. Pressed into the nook of the couch, one boot placed casually on the coffee table, loose grip on a can of beer, staring thoughtfully into the distance Christian rock band style, Franky once again took on the aspect of a catalog model. Maybe a little less when she took long, greedy pulls from the can. But otherwise, pretty decent. And he had a hand in creating this look, so that was something, right?

The doorbell intruded on Stephen's peace of mind, shrill buzz rubbing against frayed nerves.

“Damn, you really ought to get that thing changed."

“Assholes are early," Franky growled, then drained her can, crushed it, and tossed it onto the table. “Let's go. Time to be pretty on TV."

Ah well. Stephen finished his own, rather more modest, beer and wiggled off the couch.

They made their way outside, Stephen utilizing the small strip of squishy-access stairs next to the more chunky variety designed for the likes of Franky. Still he felt the mallet blows of her booted feet reverberate and resound off the bare brick walls. After she swung open the old factory doors, they could see their ride waiting for them, parked halfway on the sidewalk. A big pick-up type truck, with the rear bed given over to a single immense passenger compartment, driver already behind the wheel despite having rung the bell.

“Shit, I hate these things." Franky spoke in a low tone. “Makes me feel like the fucking pope."

Nevertheless she pressed on and clambered into the vehicle, rocking it on its creaky suspension.

“You're up here with me, buddy," the driver called, leaning out of his window.

Yup, he totally saw me standing there like an idiot, looking for a chair that wasn't there, Stephen thought.

But he, too, pressed on, hoisting himself into the passenger seat with a groan. This thing wasn't a low-rider, and his side set about some vigorous throbbing to confirm that fact. As soon as he slammed the door shut the driver shifted into gear and peeled out into traffic.

The man had a no-nonsense voice that fit his look. Receding hairline, mustache, pot belly, and hard eyes that continued to scan traffic without shifting to his passenger for even a fraction of a second.

“So, you two together?" he asked while Stephen was still trying to wrap himself in his seat belt.

The question shot through Stephen's brain like a bullet.

“Uh… kind of a forward question, don't you think?" he answered.

“I guess." The man's voice was unapologetically upbeat. “I figured I'm dropping off a big girl and a regular guy at the studio, you're going to be in some show, right?"

The question wasn't rhetorical. Stephen thought he could see the driver's eyes flick briefly in his direction before snapping back on the road.

“Right." He nodded.

“So I figure you're going to make some point about how you're living together, and you need a little step ladder to get onto the couch, that sort of thing."

The step ladder wasn't a bad idea. If he was going to hang out with Franky more he ought to get one.

“But I guess you ain't together, then," the driver continued. “No offense intended and all that. I drive big folk for a living, and I don't get many double pickups. But you did the thing, you know? The couple thing."

Christ, was he being that obvious? Franky didn't seem to notice, but yeah… she was Franky.

“What's the couple thing?"

“Seeing if you can ride together. Most people are fine riding separately. If we get into an accident, and you're riding with big folk, things can… they can get pretty messy." The driver paused for a few seconds, then figured Stephen's silence meant he could handle the harsher stuff. “Strawberry jam kinda messy, you get me?"

Thanks for the mental image, random truck driver. The man had one arm dangling habitually from the open window. So he probably had a history wrangling big rigs to account for his lack of candor.

“I'm familiar with the risk," Stephen answered. He certainly was.

They came to the end of the neighborhood, its fashionably eclectic architecture gradually giving way to more boring developments. The driver guided his vehicle into a sharpish turn onto a large thoroughfare, engine rumbling as he gradually coaxed more power from it. The entire truck lurched on its suspension, leaning into the turn.

“You feel that?" the driver asked, then rattled on without waiting for an answer. “That's one of the problems with driving the big folk around. High center of gravity. It's OK if you're driving a big truck, but it gets a little tricky for a small single-seater. I took a special course and all. Good thing your girl's not a mover, either. Boy, you don't want them moving around back there!"

It felt like the driver was trying to push the gas pedal through the floor as the truck crawled towards its theoretical top speed, engine erupting in a full, steady roar. The speed was palpable in the movement of the vehicle, in the way the wind pushed against its tall sides, and the gentle sway of the suspension as the driver corrected for the drift.

The nature of modern society was to be dependent on other people, no matter how independent someone thought they were. With his job he was more aware of that than most, he figured. Few people spent any thought on how the only thing between them and danger could be a tired architect forgetting to carry a zero. Or, in fact, a driver being overconfident in his ability and flipping the vehicle you're in. How often did Franky have to do something like this? The bus at the site seemed safe enough, but to her this thing had to seem like nothing more than a speeding armchair. No wonder she had the bike.

As they sped along Stephen idly observed the world passing by outside, as one does. He had no line of sight on their giant cargo, but the occasional glances up and to the rear of passengers in other cars confirmed she was still very much there. The children were either delighted, or frightened, so he was sure Franky was still her surly self as well.

“I wonder how they do it, though." The driver left the other half of the sentence hanging like a baited hook.

“Do what?" Stephen bit.

“You know…" the man's eyes flitted meaningfully towards Stephen for a fraction of a second, “…the horizontal lambada. Creating the beast with two backs. Fucking."

“Huh."

“Ways I see it, someone's either too big or too small, right? In the…" the driver rummaged around in his head for a proper word, “…interfacing department. Either you don't fit or… ah… you don't fit."

Images of a disembodied, rubber horse cock danced in Stephen's mind. A vague sensation of inadequacy rode its back as it looped and frolicked in the baying, primitive parts of him.

“There are other ways of having sex," he answered, banishing the vision back to whatever mental strongbox he kept it in.

“Yeah…" the driver seemed to contemplate the possibility even as he conceded it, “…but is it fun, though? Like, with the size difference someone's always gonna have to do a lot of climbing, right?"

“Maybe that's part of the fun." He was sure it was, in fact. If he had to compare Franky to any natural feature, it was surely a daunting rock face. But the driver seemed like the sort of guy who only walked out of absolute necessity, his adipose beer gut looking too large to not get stuck on anything he might attempt to scale.

“Won't catch me doing any of that." The driver gave a shrug.

Ain't that the truth.

“Do you ever ask any of the couples that question?"

The driver laughed. “Shit no. That'd be insensitive."

He wasn't wrong, but one had to wonder if he was truly motivated by a desire to be inoffensive, or by a desire to not piss off people who could punt him like a football.

“Do you have a line to the back? We could just ask Franky. Maybe she knows."

“That'd be insensitive, too."

Definitely the latter, then.

The line of questioning petered out with that. The driver returned most of his attention to the road, only occasionally putting forward a few random words of wisdom. For his part, Stephen returned to watching the world zoom by, giving some noncommittal confirmations and observations. After a few miles the driver asked if he was OK with him putting on some music. That was only half of the truth, as the driver flicked the truck's radio onto a station that was at least 50% DJ gleefully segueing between pop classics, and pop flavor of the month.

The road blurred by to the tune of shitty music, DJ gab, and habitual, idle phone browsing. Eventually Stephen was jolted out of his high-tech trance when the driver lurched the truck onto an off-ramp and into a turn that, again, seemed too sharp.

At first glance it seemed like they hadn't gone far. The neighborhood they found themselves rolling through had the same appearance of an industrial district overtaken by gentrification, though the process was in a far more advanced stage. Little remained of the working class aside from the facades of buildings where they used to work.

Among the buildings one loomed large, free standing, dating back to a time when any large factory or power station had as much architectural effort put into it as a church. Its decorative brickwork spoke of a grandure that had once given rise to the term 'captain of industry', though the modern sign at the gate simply read 'Media Park'.

The driver slowed the truck and turned. After a quick exchange with the guard, the old wrought iron gate swung open on new electrical motors. They turned onto the parking lot, and with a turn of the key the chugging of the engine ceased.

“We're here," the driver announced superfluously. The heaving and creaking of the truck's suspension hinted that Franky wasn't waiting for anyone to open the door for her.

“So what show are you guys going to be on, then?" Stephen was already halfway out of the truck when the driver asked the question.

“Uh… The World Keeps Turning." It still felt somewhat surreal to say it, even more when standing in the shadow of the studio.

The driver's face lit up in surprise, the most emotion Stephen had seen of the man in their brief acquaintance. “Really now? Guess I'll be seeing you two on TV tonight."

“Guess so."

“Good luck!"

With that, Stephen slammed the door shut and glanced around for Franky. She wasn't hard to find as a rule, and the truck between them did little to hide her as she made her way around it, catching Stephen's eye from over the cab. She looked… surly, with hard eyes and the corners of her mouth turned down into something approaching a scowl accentuated by bristly, striped sideburns. Nothing out of the ordinary, then.

The day was already coming to an end, the sun dipping behind the skyline on its way to the horizon. Where its rays touched brick they brought out a fiery red that stood at odds with the rapidly cooling air. Stephen couldn't help but watch the truck roll off the lot. Seeing it in motion somehow made it look stranger than when it was standing still, the pope mobile cab over the bed giving it the appearance of a poorly proportioned toy. It really did look like it ought to teeter over in a corner. It wasn't his first time seeing one, but the experience took on another meaning after confidently speeding down the highway in one.

Shit, and they'd have to take one back, didn't they?

He felt Franky standing beside him the way dogs feel oncoming earthquakes.

“Told ya I hate those things, didn't I?"

“Yeah." The rumble of the truck's engine merged with the sounds of other traffic as it turned onto the road and accelerated away. “The view has to be pretty good, though."

Franky snorted. “Yeah, of me. I can handle the kids. They're kids. But the adults…" She bent down, looming like an overhanging cliff, “…they stare too much. They think I can't see, but I can."

To be fair, it was hard not to notice, what, 12 feet of orange anger. She was probably the biggest tigress he'd ever seen.

“That's just because your angry face is your cutest face," he said only partially embellishing the truth.

“Har har." She cast a glance over her shoulder at the towering turn of the century architecture. “Wanna go in? You might see a lot of it."

A gust of wind swept across the parking lot, carrying the first sting of cold to herald the coming night.

“Let's."

The main entrance was a building's calling card, and the long dead architect that had worked on this one was well aware of it. A short flight of stone stairs, scaled in one step by Franky, led up to a vaulted archway flanked by pillars and lit by wrought iron lampoons of lanterns. The classic olde-timey look, though the light spilling from the lanterns was no doubt LED, and where once would have been something of oak or teak, there was now the transparent sheen of glass set in a modern frame. At first glance it seemed capable of admitting only a normal sized person through a normal sized door, but an enterprising doorman swung the entire thing open as they presented themselves. Maybe it had been foresight on part of the media company when they acquired the building, but Franky only had to stoop slightly to fit herself through.

“Party for The World Keeps Turning?" the doorman asked. You could tell he worked for a professional outfit because, well, he was wearing a professional outfit. His unwrinkled, tailored suit outdressed both of them without effort.

“You got it," Franky answered with a hint of a growl.

“Follow me, please."

From on high Stephen caught Franky shooting him a meaningful look. Quite what it meant, he wasn't sure, but it was certainly infused with a sense of resignation.

The doorman preceded them through the spacious main hall, the building still affording Franky enough room to move normally. Past and present clashed in the aggressive repurposing the building had undergone, its organic red brick, blue collar origins at times completely washed away by the influx of the tight lines of glass, plastic, concrete, and steel. Set in a modern door frame, set in turn in a bare wall weathered by age, was a matte glass door much like the one at the main entrance. The doorman swung it open in its entirety to admit them.

“One of my colleagues will come fetch you when we're ready to start shooting," he said, voice dutifully formal. “Refreshments are provided, naturally. Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything."

Beyond the threshold lay a waiting room. At least, that was the function, because the few rooms of that title could boast about having their own bar. And kitchen, too, judging from the subtle smell carrying through the air. An audible sniff from besides and above hinted to the fact that Franky had noticed this fact, too. Comfortable-looking couches set against the walls, standing and sitting tables, large windows looking out over a small courtyard, black and white photographs on the walls, and modern steel additions bolted onto the ancient walls without obfuscation. At all spoke of that modern style that did its best to look Spartan and down to Earth, but came with a price tag that was anything but.

Movement caught his attention. Sat at a table was his lanky boss, waving a lanky arm.

He's just the sort of guy this interior was made for, Stephen thought. It spoke even in his manner of dress: Ribbed pants of a color that was escaping brown for orange, a well ironed button-up that'd be a Hawaiian if the print were larger and the sleeves shorter, and shoes with a faux-reptilian texture and pattern. He effortlessly danced on the line between frivolously casual and fashionably businesslike, and he wasn't even going to be on TV. Stephen admired Conroy's confidence, though not his taste.

“Who's that… guy?" Franky asked in an attempt at whispering that Stephen hoped didn't carry across the room. She was already showing restraint by substituting something more neutral for whatever she intended to say originally.

“That's my boss," he whispered back up to her fuzzy ears.

The boss, sensing a moment of hesitation, decided to turn it into a moment of action. With a few long strides he made his way over.

“Good to see you made it." Conroy beamed, then turned his attention upwards. “And you must be Franky. You made quite the impact."

He thrust his hand upward. Franky gingerly placed two fingers in his waiting palm, and Conroy made a good attempt at a shake, imparting some small motion to the tigress' arm.

“Hard not to as a big gal. You give as good as ya get, though." She twitched an ear. “Hear I've got you to thank for all this."

Briefly Conroy turned his pearly whites on full PR strength. “We put some feelers out, called a few people, let them know we were available. They couldn't believe their luck we'd already reached out when you went viral." He paused. “Are you excited to be on TV?"

Stephen could practically feel the unease radiate off Franky.

“Super." Deadpan. As she said it she twitched her tail, slapping its tip against Stephen's leg like a truncheon.

“Glad to hear it." If Conroy had picked up on Franky's sarcasm he wasn't letting it on. But maybe that was the point.

They took their seats in a corner of the room. For Franky the staff had brought in a chair of the same over-engineered sort he'd seen in her apartment, polished steel arches holding aloft a thick seat. Franky's ass did the big girl thing, cushioning her weight and seeming even larger for it. Lucky chair, Stephen thought.

Conroy wasted no time waving over the girl who manned the bar and ordering a pineapple juice for himself. Yeah, OK, so the boss was that sort of guy. The girl then turned to them with the unspoken question.

“What'cha got to eat?" Franky rumbled, priorities ever so straight.

The girl quickly rattled through the list. Vegan quinoa with creamy soy cheese that was neither, cod with pommes fondant, boeuf Stroganoff, and a burger.

Before the girl could go into detail of which meat the burger was artistically put together out of, or which unique toppings it had, or even if it came with fries, Franky piped up. That's what she wanted. The burger. It's the safe bet, Stephen agreed. If you go somewhere and you don't know if they're good, just order the burger. It takes an absolute idiot to fuck up a burger, but a good chef can turn it into a special experience.

Was he thinking more about food since he met Franky? They were certainly eating together more often than you'd expect of people who'd just met. Or was he just primed by hanging out with a chubby apex predator? With that big, toothy maw of hers it really did spring to mind quickly what she liked to stuff down it.

When the girl turned to him, Conroy gave a discrete hand gesture to indicate he would not partake.

“You're not staying?" Stephen asked.

“Prior engagements." Conroy checked his watch in a not at all understated manner. “I've got about half an hour."

“Let's not shoot the shit, then." A slight simmer of irk started brewing in the back of Stephen's mind. He'd expected the boss to stick around, sit in the audience and everything. If many people would kill to be on the show, there were just as many who'd commit assault to sit in the audience. Let alone ones who actually had something approaching authority. “What's the plan?"

Conroy's eyes flitted from Stephen up to Franky, who was watching over them like an Easter Island Moai, then back to Stephen. He let his body relax and leaned back, one lanky leg crossed over the other. “Just like we discussed. You go on, Newchurch introduces you, you complain about the tabloids, and tell everyone Franky here actually saved your life."

The man could be credited with not concluding with an 'easy', but his expression said as much. He sipped from his glass as another man might light a cigarette.

“Just like that?" Franky rumbled from on high.

“It's only a ten minute segment." The boss' eyes narrowed as he looked up at the tigress. “Weren't you the one to put Stephen up to this?"

Teeth like daggers gleamed in a smile that was only halfway friendly. “I was hopin' for a slightly less stark spotlight."

Good sentence, Franky. Only ate one of your words, threw in a relatively rare one. Conroy, however, didn't flinch at the array of cutlery in Franky's mouth. Instead, he issued a soft chuckle, with just enough delay that one might suspect it wasn't spontaneous.

“That's the first time I've been accused of doing too good a job."

On the other side of the room the glass door swung open, though only the normal-sized one this time. Several people ambled in, carrying with them the soft murmur of conversation. There was about them the subtle, suit with no tie look of understated wealth that this entire place spoke of. Stephen let half an eye fall on them to see if he could recognize anyone, maybe a politician or celebrity. No dice.

When a few glanced over, he first thought he must have been too obvious, but their gazes were directed quite obviously upward, and lingered only so long as social correctness allowed. Or maybe that was just Franky staring back at them.

“Anything else?" Stephen asked, getting his attention and the conversation back on track.

“Remember, you're not speaking for the company. Stick to personal experiences. If anyone asks, just tell them the incident is still under investigation."

He knew better than to stake any professional claim on results that weren't known yet.

“Speaking of…" maybe this wasn't the best time to ask, but he was going to anyway, “…any news on that front?"

“It's slow going." It was clear that was all Conroy was ready to say.

“Shouldn't be hard to figure out why some rocks fell." Franky spoke up. Or down, as was often the case with her. Stephen could just hear that lopsided expression in her voice.

“These things take time." The boss' voice carried effortless authority that didn't come with knowledge, but conviction. “Besides," he made a gesture that implicated the room from hardwood floor to repurposed ceiling, “they might be waiting for the circus to end."

Franky, ever the wordsmith, grunted.

It was then that members of the staff approached the table, heralding their arrival with the smell of junk food elevated to please the palettes and wallets of the well-to-do. The drive-through cousin of these burgers would scarcely recognize them, and certainly be jealous. The gourmet burger was a lot like Conroy's Lexus, luxury pressed into the mold of normalcy, bulging at the seams.

Or burgers, as the case might be. A lot of them. The plate set before Franky -before her knee, to be accurate- was stacked with them, laid out to at least suggest the idea of a single, large meal. And a separate plate of fries, too.

“Y'gotta be kiddin' me…" Franky growled under her breath. She glared at the plate as if she was waiting for her laser vision to kick in, then turned the baleful gaze onto the closest member of staff.

A rudimentary reflex kicked in for the man, something left over from prehistoric times, when meeting something very much like Franky was an instant life or death moment. He recoiled, and Franky turned the strength of her eyes down from fuming to casual annoyance. That is, pretty much the standard.

“My apologies, miss." These guys were professionals. He'd regained his composure already, speaking in the benign monotone of the service industry. “The large buns were unavailable, and this is the best solution the kitchen could come up with. If you're unh…"

“It's fine." Her black lips curled up in somewhat of a social smile. “I can deal. Sorry fer scaring ya. Been told I can be kinda scary. But I swear, it's the good kinda scary."

Stephen felt a beam of pride at hearing his wise words repeated. Though, his reptile brain was still running with the term 'large buns', of which Franky certainly owned a pair. And not the kind with floppy ears, either.

“Looks like it's time for me to leave," Conroy spoke up, again checking his watch more for the message than the time. “We'll talk about how it went Monday, OK?"

“Uh… sure." The boss had already lifted his lanky frame halfway out of his chair before Stephen could even answer.

“Franky, it was nice to meet you. Take care of Stephen for me, will you?"

“Nothin' new there," Franky quipped in return.

The shock of red hair, traveling above most others in the room, sat above the most confident style of dress present, made it easy to follow the boss all the way out. With him he carried the faint feeling of a lifeline disappearing. When a parent lets their child go free for the first time on their bicycle, that kind of feeling. And if memory served him right, he skimmed his knee when that happened to him.

“He didn't say much of anything." Franky's customary rumble was muffled by half of a hamburger she chose to chew while speaking.

Oh well, at least he got to see how she negotiated normal food. It wasn't quite popping them in like potato chips, but it was close. Certainly she wouldn't have trouble do so with any sort of bottom rung burger from any fast food joint. Just as he was thinking it, in went the remaining half of the burger. There was something satisfying about it, like watching someone cleaning a room.

Shit, he wasn't becoming one of those freaks who watch video's of people eating on YouTube, right?

“He was probably here to smooth things over with whoever is in charge." He was hoping for more support of the boss, but that's probably how things were.

“I guess," Franky said while making another burger disappear. “You know how I feel about this sort of thing."

“The media and stuff?"

“Yeah."

“You don't trust them."

“Tha's right." Acting like a hamburger disassembly line didn't do much for her diction, but the conviction was still clear in her voice.

“Hey, we're in this together, OK? If you don't feel good about something, just toss it my way. Say something like 'Stephen is better equipped to answer that question'. Something diplomatic like that."

She gave a grunt.

They ate in silence after that. Maybe Franky had no trouble speaking with her mouth full, but the food was enough of a challenge for him on its own, let alone while also fighting years of social conditioning. As the hour of truth dawned on them, he felt his own mind occupied more and more with swirls of half-coalesced emotions. Slippery eels of thought-stuff he couldn't quite grasp. He'd never been on TV before, and hadn't ever cared to give it a go. The closest he'd ever come was imagining what he'd say if a TV chef called him a donkey dick sandwich, only to come to the conclusion that he wasn't witty enough to stand up to someone who cursed at people professionally. Though, maybe Franky could come close.

And of course she finished before he did, despite eating exponentially more. She excused herself to piss the jitters away, as she eloquently put it.

After polishing off the meal that would have been quite satisfactory under any other circumstance, he gave himself over to the rituals of the idly. He glanced about the room, seeing nothing new in the other guests. They sat chatting and laughing among themselves, betraying no nervousness of any sort. He checked his phone, noting they were getting close to the time the program usually started. There were a few notifications. He hadn't told anyone he was going to be here, but some had put two and two together. They'd all seen the ridiculous photo of him and Franky, a few had seen the video that went viral and shared it with the group, and he guessed they'd used the footage in the teasers for tonight. So he had a few people questioning him if he was going to be on tonight.

Yeah, he wasn't dealing with that right now. Let them figure it out on their own. He depressed the power button until the screen winked off. He turned to the more traditional method of waiting, twiddling his thumbs and trying to build the scenario in his head, only to find he couldn't.

Franky was taking her sweet, damn time.

In fact, when a snappily dressed program director appeared to guide them to their places, she could only give a mildly exasperated stare at the very obviously empty giant chair at their table. He checked his phone to see how much time they had left, wondering if he should give Franky a call, to find himself staring at his dark reflection. Right.

“I'll go get her," he offered. “Where's your big bathroom?"

The program director blinked, then understood and gave proper directions.

He filed out together with the other guests, pushing past the slower ones, slipping past in that crowded room crab walk, a man on a mission. Outside they parted ways, thankfully, as he made his way down the empty corridor until the obvious revealed itself: A modern door set in the ancient brick, reaching all the way to the ceiling, with a little pictogram telling of its purpose. Unisex, thankfully. Making himself look like a sex pervert was all he needed before their appearance. Especially one that liked staring up the skirts of giant women.

And… shit, the handle hovered above his head, with no means for normal sized person to open the thing. No matter, he'd done this before.

Reach, grab, hang, pull, pain, pain, pain. The door was open, and his side was throbbing. He slipped in through the crack.

None of the building's old charm remained here, all clinical tiles from top to bottom, tight lines, and cold fluorescent lighting. This room was, obviously, completely built to the needs of larger people, and he had a mild flashback to Franky's apartment. Again, he felt like a child without a chaperon. The mirror only reflected the ceiling, and the full length urinal seemed more like a monolithic expression of modern art. There was only one stall, and a pair of familiar boots were visible through the gap.

“Franky? You OK?"

“What?" Her voice hit a note higher than it normally did. “Yeah, jeez. Just gatherin' my thoughts."

“We're starting soon," he called through the door, trying not to sound too insistent.

There was a nondescript grumble from the other side, then the clank of the massive lock being turned. The door drifted open, but Franky remained reclined on the closed lid of her porcelain throne. With a mild shock Stephen noticed she wasn't her stony-faced self, regarding him rather with a forlorn, droopy-eared expression. Even her whiskers seemed to be weighed down, wilting down towards the floor.

“I ain't sure I can do this," she stated in a soft voice.

Ah shit, poor Franky. Maybe he'd assumed too much strength from the angry, orange ball of social maladaptiveness. Right now, precious little of that was left.

“Mind if I, uh…" he gestured towards the stall she was occupying, “…step into your office?"

He thought he heard the remnants of a chuckle deep in her throat. “Nah."

He did as much, finding himself craning his neck to look up at Franky in the cramped space, as she sat there like some sort of fluffy grave monument.

“While we're at it, can I come up there?"

Maybe it was a bit of a weird question, he worried. He wouldn't have any place to sit, except on Franky herself. But before he could come back on what he said, she reached down to give him another ride on the tiger elevator. From this position she couldn't get a normal grip on him, and his side seized up in hot stabs of pain. He gritted his teeth and bore it through.

She sat him down on her thigh mother-and-child style, facing inward, his feet resting on the toilet's lid. Franky made for a comfortable seat, he noted, and she kept her hand to his side to prevent him from falling backwards. Pretty good, he thought. Then he thought about how this was the closest they'd been since she'd carried him out of Big Joe's and into fame, and he had absolutely no narcotics to shield him from his own awkwardness. Ass to thigh maybe wasn't the most erotic position, but the primitive parts of his brain weren't slow to notice quite how much they were touching. They whooped and hollered in the back of his mind, frightening his rationality.

“Ya can just tell 'em I got sick. Sometin' with their burgers."

Thank fuck she started on her own.

“Hey, I'm not going out there on my own," he returned. He still had to look up to her as he sat, but they were closer. He could focus on the cute spot on her nose.

“Tell 'em yer sick, too." She affected a wan smile, letting her fangs slip out a bit. “Ya ate the same burgers."

He could see she was far off in her mind, imagining the future where they'd chickened out and just went back to their lives. It gave her a bit of a big, wet kitten look. The facade of monolithic strength that came so naturally to her was now well and truly cracked, with her vulnerable self peering through.

OK, it was time to muster whatever kind of charisma he had in his lustful, anti-social mind. Stephen pushed himself upright so he could actually be on eye level with her, standing on a giant toilet pot between the tree trunk thighs of perhaps the cutest piece of construction equipment he'd ever met. She even followed him with her hand, should he fall. A bit of effortless care and thought that didn't come naturally to everyone. He tugged his shirt in place as he stood and focused on her eyes, normally enchanting, long-lashed, golden pools that seemed to say 'what are you looking at' or 'I'll fuck you up'. Now, possibly for the first time ever, they were rimmed with fear.

“Franky, you're just about the strongest person I know. Mentally, I mean. Literally, too, but that's not what I'm talking about right now." Not a great start, but she was still humoring him. “I'm pretty sure you didn't actually like me when we met. I was there to look in on your world and find things wrong with it, so really anyone would have been skeptical, at best. But when the rocks started falling…"

“Concrete," she corrected him with the sort of whisper of someone who just can't help but say it.

“…when the concrete started falling, you didn't hesitate. I was there, I know how fast it all went. There was no time to hesitate, and you just threw yourself on top of me." He patted his injured side for emphasis. “OK, there was some collateral damage, but I'm not lying when I say it's the biggest damn thing anyone has every done for me."

“Aw, it's nuthin'…" She evaded his gaze for a moment as she said it, almost as if she was embarrassed to say it.

“Hey, don't get in the way of me saying nice stuff about you."

“It's just 'cause I'm big, ya know? Anyone could've done it."

“What did I just say? Do I need to grab your ears and shout it in?" Without meaning to, he gave her a stern gaze. It seemed to work, and she kept whatever smart-ass, self-depreciating comment she had stored up to herself. Now, to get the point across fully, should he touch the tiger?

Yes, touch the tiger.

He put his hand on her shoulder. Even through the fabric of her lumberjack shirt, and the T-shirt under it, he could feel the hard, tense muscle that lifted girders without a second thought.

“A lot of people would have just stood there, Franky. And no-one would have blamed them for it. I'd have been a smear on the ground, and an article on page 3 of the local paper. Just because it's something you were capable of doing doesn't mean it wasn't a brave thing to do, or something everyone should just expect of you." He squeezed the small part of her shoulder he had hold of for emphasis, feeling some of the tension slip from the slab of muscle as he did so. “You did what you did because you're a strong person, and we're here because of that. Especially me, because I'd have been… dead. I wouldn't want to be here with anyone else, OK? Whatever all these idiots have been saying about you, and people like you, we're here to set the record straight. And whatever happens, I've got your insanely large, rock-proof back."

They regarded each other for the moment that his speech needed to trickle through the cracks in Franky's hard exterior, until her face softened. He had no time to admire the result of his work as a meaty paw came up behind him, clasping fully around his own shoulder, and pushed him forward into a clumsy collision passing for a hug. There was pain, and the world went dark. Only briefly, though. Vision returned as he lifted his head out of the prodigious fluff of her left sideburn. The bristly fur was comfortable enough, though it tickled his nose and a few loose strands found themselves in his mouth. It had that telltale musky smell he associated with her, though it was lighter, sweeter. Almost a perfume, but the sort that smelled of wood rather than flowers. The stab of pain in his side came from the hard edge of some anonymous part of her giant bra poking his sore side.

Wait.

He was in between her tits. Her giant, fluffy tits.

Don't you dare get a boner, he shouted down at primitive part of him. This is a special precious moment. Save it for later.

“Thanks, man," Franky said, oblivious to the battle raging in Stephen's mind. Her voice had a soft timbre to it. “That's just real nice of you to say."

The pressure lifted, and he extricated himself from her pelt. She looked at him differently, now. Confidence had returned to the expression that greeted him, though still somewhat weakly measured. She bore a modest smile, seemingly almost embarrassed at having acknowledged a compliment.

“I'm still kinda scared, but I… I think I can do this."

“I'm right there with ya." He gave her a final pat on the shoulder. “Let's do this thing."

As soon as they emerged in the hallway they were set upon by the program director. Judging by the fact that her eyes looked to be on the verge of rolling, she'd been looking for a while. In a hasty pace, heels clacking on the floor tiles, she preceded them through the mostly empty corridor to a set of large double doors with a lit-up sign shining over it: SHOOTING IN PROGRESS.

The doors swung open, revealing a dark room with a mass of people clustered around an oasis of light in the center, with a firing squad of camera's pointing inward. This was the set so familiar to anyone who still watched evening television, and anyone who just caught the highlights later on the internet. The table and chairs were lifted for Franky's benefit, but the entire thing still had a surreal quality to it. See something on a screen enough, and your mind starts telling you it isn't quite real. That modern defense mechanism of the modern person who knew what dragons and space ships looked like, despite never having seen one.

But here it was, quite real before them.

Inexonerably the doors closed behind them with a thunk and the program director ushered them forward down a narrow path through the crowd, the occasional neck craning to look up. The center set grew closer and closer. The host and guests turned to them as they approached, no hints to the future on their neutral faces.

Showtime.

Literally.