Revenge of the Furries


by Simo

2167, Old Time:

My name is Wesley Evers II (after my step-father) I'm 33 years old, I am what's called a "smart" Vulpine Furrie. Basically "smart" means that you are now reading this because I wrote it. As for "Vulpine", that's self-explanatory -- I resemble a red fox in my physical characteristics (exception: my sky-blue eyes -- a left-over human trait). While I can stand and even run on my hind legs, that leaves me looking almost straight up, and I get a sore neck from looking ahead for too long, so I prefer to walk on all fours most of the time. As for my appearance, I'm not completely satisfied with it. Too many human characteristics; I wish I looked more like a real fox...

As for what a Furrie is...

Unlike most of history, my story has a definite starting point in time. This would be in the 180th year of the Second Republic: 1956OT. Now I know what you're thinking, and you'd be correct: there were no Furries so long ago. Allow me to explain, so stay with me here.

This was the year in which one M. King Hubbert published his now infamous "Hubbert Curve". Hubbert was what was once called a "petro-geologist". His area of expertise was the productivity of oil fields. Hubbert was trying to find out just how many oil wells per field would be the optimum. Too few, and too much oil would stay underground. Too many, and each well would steal oil from its neighbors. He found that each well, each field, followed a definite pattern. Phase I would be the beginning of tapping a new field. Few wells meant limited production. As more wells were drilled, production would rise to a peak in Phase II. During Phase III, production declined. Sometimes swiftly, sometimes slowly, until the field became a net energy loser. This would be followed by its becoming economically nonviable and abandoned. The Hubbert Curve followed a Gaussian distribution. He extrapolated his findings over many fields, and ultimately, all of the world. He demonstrated that the world was not only running out of oil, but also how fast. He predicted that the Second Republic would hit peak oil in around 1970. He was right. Just three years later, the Second Republic had its first "oil crisis". Did the stupid humans heed this warning? No they did not! They told themselves that there would be new discoveries of oil when it was needed, that it was just "doomsday nonsense", that new energy sources would be discovered as if by magic, that the "good times" would roll on forever. They could have averted the disaster had they begun making preparations right then.

They did not do this. Instead, their irresponsible leaders told them that nothing was wrong. The one human who tried to tell the truth about oil was vilified and humiliated. No one bothered to try again. Then came the first of the oil wars at the turn of the 21st century. Even this failed to warn these humans. Precious resources that should have been devoted to developing alternatives to oil, which would soon be gone, were used instead to fight over control of the vanishing resource. The leaders promised Moon trips and Mars landings, their version of "Bread and Circuses" to divert the attention of the humans from the looming disaster that they could have prevented. The Second Republic collapsed in its 234th year. Its last foolish leader, and the mad-men that called his policies, failed to consider that one can not build an empire on credit. The revitalized European Union called in its debts, and caused a financial collapse of unprecedented proportions.

Here is where spectacularly evil minds went to work. It was obvious that there were simply too many humans. It was decided that two out of every three had to die. The Great Eastern War, involving India, China, Pakistan, Korea, and Japan certainly did its part. You say you never heard of such places? I am not surprised, not after the atomic wars. The Fourth Republic's leaders had plans to evacuate the cities, which would soon become unlivable anyway once the lights went out for the last, and final, time the trucks stopped rolling, and civic society broke down completely. Or use the pretense of a "terrorist" attack to infect millions of humans with diseases while calling it "vaccination". This never happened since an easier way was found: infect all the dogs, and let "man's best friend" spread the infection to their owners and others. Legally required "rabies" vaccination was the means. Of course, all the dogs, foxes, wolves, etc. died off as well. But it worked, the "excess" humans were eliminated, so as not to put a strain on what resources remained. Now the surviving "beautiful people", who engineered the disaster, could live in their luxurious redoubts, supported by a remnant population of economic slaves. What little oil was left could keep them going for another couple of centuries. Of course, they felt that what they'd done was a good thing: they saved "Mother Earth", the rain forests and North American woods needn't be burned to support the surplus population. The air was cleaner, the water purer. There was just one thing missing: companion animals. That's where we Furries come in.

We were created out of their own DNA to serve this purpose. So we were genetically engineered to look like the "cute" critters they had destroyed: foxes, wolves, otters, skunks. The first Furries emerged from the labs in 2092. However humans, being the fuck-ups they are, couldn't get this right. Sure, most Furries have nothing more than mere animal intelligence. However, some Furries had a level of intelligence matching that of their creators. Somewhere, somehow, there remained enough genetic code to cause "run away" growth of cerebral neurons. At first, this was thought to be cute: a baby Furrie whose animal sounds grew more and more like human talk. Kind of like a parrot, or so they thought. Then came the debates: was it really mindless mimicry, or did we really know what we were talking about? Many tried to deny this possibility, however, the truth became all too obvious. Then there was another, nastier, debate: what to do about this. Since we were their creation, it was decided, that they could "morally" use, abuse, and discard us however they pleased. Man is created in the image of the human god, and Furries were created in the image of man, therefore, it was perfectly acceptable. There's just one little detail overlooked: we were never consulted about this. The leaders of the Fourth Republic passed its Public Order 11101, making it a crime to educate a Furrie. In this manner, they hoped to use us as a more compliant slave. The "beautiful people" were satisfied, now that the burden of the less favored could be lightened, the hoi polloi were happy to have that burden lightened. However, it didn't work out that way. Even a slave, in the course of his work, learns a trick or two.


Do not get the idea that I hate all humans, just 99 out of every hundred. Take a couple of exceptions: my step-parents, for example: Wesley and Ariana Evers. Do you think it strange for a Furrie to speak in such terms? Allow me to explain. Wesley's father, David, knew what was coming. Having made a fortune in software in the good times, he bought this land in the farthest reaches of the Second Republic, in a place called "Nevada". Far from the cities, highways, and the notice of the law. Our farm house here in the bad lands is pretty self-sufficient. We raise some chickens and pigs, and have our own bio-gas plant to fuel the generator. There is also solar power, and our own steam-driven farm vehicles. Wes inherited the place, and brought his young bride Ariana to live here. However, they went childless. Perhaps it had something to do with the radiation from the Eastern War? The bio-weapons unleashed on the Continent? Who knows? So they made the trip to what's left of what was once known as Carson City and bought a Furrie kit for companionship. They were in their 50s by this time, and the hope of children was gone forever. It was supposed to be not possible to buy a "smart" Furrie, and so I spent the first days of my life with them as a common pet. I slept in the cellar, so they tell me, until I started saying words when I was about six months old or so. (This, I do not remember at all. My first conscious memory is lying in a kiddie bed, looking up at this mobile with these plastic birds. To this day, I can still see the plastered over hole where it hung. I don't know whatever happened to that: probably ruined it by trying to catch those birds -- fox instincts, you know.) When they realized what they had, I was given the room and all the furniture they had intended for a child. I became the child they never had. Ariana read to me every night, and at first the words made no sense. Then I began to understand. Regardless, I looked forward to "story time". They taught me how to read (a serious crime at the time, as it still is, but they didn't care.) I ate with them, right at the table. Even if it wasn't always the same food, still, I learned manners, to use the silverware, even how to say "Grace" to the human god. They taught me what I know of history, science, mathematics, literature. I am well ahead of most humans in these things.

Still, life with a Furrie has its own peculiarities. For example, when I caught and brought home my first jackrabbit. I rang the doorbell, and mother opens the door, and there I am: wagging my tail proudly, with my catch in my mouth. Needless to say, I wasn't expecting her reaction. Such "boyhood antics", as father called them, aren't something parents of human children get to experience. Still, I got to dine on fresh rabbit that evening. (I don't care what they say, trust me on this: "Furrie Chow" isn't that good.) Nor is it always easy for the Furrie. Do you realize just how bad the stench is within human homes? They positively stink, but they don't seem to realize that. Wes and Ariana wondered why I was always opening all the windows to air the place out. They didn't notice the odors. Also, I have always had a problem with squeaky door hinges. I was always oiling them even though they insisted that they couldn't hear anything. Well, I could, the "Ultrasonics" (to them) make my teeth itch.

They used to dress me in these kiddie clothes. I still have a pic of myself -- I'd guess no more than two -- sitting on this little tricycle, wearing this silly blue and white sailor outfit. (I mean really: we're in the middle of a desert.) This is "the cuteness", probably from the Old Times. Anyway, I had my first "identity crisis" when I was ten or so. It was dawning on me that I didn't look the same, and that I was not going to "out grow" my looks. I'd assumed that all human children started out being furry. I'd look at my parents' round eyes, so unlike my fox-eyes, with their narrow, vertical slits for pupils. I was too different to be one of them. For awhile, I stopped referring to my parents as "mom" and "dad". Of course, they were wondering what was up with the moodiness, the sudden emotional distance. Finally I let it out: "You're not my father! I'm not one of you!" Father set me down to explain:

"No you're not 'one of us'. You are a Furrie (first time I heard that term). So what? That's just on the outside. It's what's inside that counts. If you don't start a fight, but you always finish one; if you stand up for the weaker, and don't take any shit from the stronger; if you can do what you say, you ain't braggin'; if your word is your bond, your pawshake good as a contract; you admit your mistakes and take responsibility for them, take and give credit when it's due, you will earn something no one will ever take from you: your self-respect, and my pride in calling you my son".

"And don't you doubt that your mother and I couldn't love you more even if you were our biological child." He was one of the good ones. I still miss him.

Thereafter, I decided to explore my furriness. I looked up information on my "kind" in the family library, reading up on the red fox. Even though I soon discovered the real truth of my origins, I still consider myself to be more Vulpes vulpes than Homo sapiens. OK, I suppose I can compromise: Vulpes sapiens. I made a decision that I would live more like a real fox, that I would not wear human clothing, after all, it's hot enough already, I don't need clothes since my "clothing" is "built-in": my long reddish/orange fur. At least the genetic engineers who created we "Vulpos" got the look right. Nor do I need footwear: my digitigrade feet already come complete with pads. All that remained was to toughen 'em up by going barefoot all the time. Nor was "decency" a consideration as my "equipment" is quite concealed, unless I stick my dick out, just like that of a real fox. This is especially true if I stay on all fours, which I prefer to do most of the time. I also gave in to my residual fox-instincts more than I had. Mother and father allowed me this, and I soon forgot about whatever problems I may have had as for being an adoptee.

This is also the year that they outlawed smart Furries. As I said, we did not make good, compliant slaves. We weren't worth the bother. Nor could they tolerate our existence. Or recognize that that which they'd created was now their equal. Not only was my education a crime, I, my very existence, was a crime. I had to learn the ways of the dumb Furrie, so that I could fake it. The dreaded Department of Animal Regulation and Control was organized to hunt down all smart Furries. Anyone having one was required to turn it in.

One night, there was a disturbance outside, and father killed the generator, grabbed his shotgun and went out to investigate, as we sometimes had trouble with raiders. Instead, he found a frightened Otter Class Furrie trying to hide under the front porch. "Don't shoot me" he pleaded, "Please: I want to live!". He explained that Animal Control was hot on his trial. Father quickly hid him away in the storm shelter (hard enough to see by daylight; virtually impossible on a dark, moonless desert night.). There was no question whatsoever that we would not turn him in. Father managed, with my help, to convince the Animal Control people that the only Furrie around here was me, as I did my "animal act" for them. It was convincing enough that they believed that their prey had gotten away. Even though he was safe, he wouldn't come out until I went down there and called to him with my unmistakable Furrie accent. I held the spotlight I carried over my head so that he could see what I was.

We learned that "Jimmy", as we called him (he never had a real name), was "scheduled for termination". It took awhile for him to trust us despite saving his life. Indeed, it took lots of convincing just to allow me to simply bathe him. Even then, he was not convinced that I would not drown him in the bath tub. I seemed to get along too well with the humans. I had to order him to get in the tub: "I don't want your damn fleas". Yes, he was filthy and full of fleas and lice. Afterwards, we got a hot meal into him. We still had problems: he had never experienced the slightest kindness from humans before. Even though he slept in my room, he could not believe that a Furrie could have a room, or anything else, he could call his own. Nor could he believe that he would not be worked as a slave on the farm, or that I was not a slave, or that he would be welcome to eat at our table. The next night at "story time" (This is how we'd often entertain ourselves, taking turns reading out loud for each other.) No sooner had I picked up the book we were reading, than Jimmy ripped it from my paws, a look of pure terror on his face. Father had to remind him of The Rule: "Furries and humans are equal here". He found it hard to believe that the only requirement was his sessions with Ariana to be taught how to read. (At first, he'd cooperate since it was easier than farm work.) Sometimes, it took quite a lot of convincing to keep him from running away, so great was the cognitive dissonance resulting from a simple show of routine kindness.

When Jimmy came, I thought that I would finally have a play-mate. Someone to run and play games with, someone to go rabbit hunting, another pair of paws to help out around the farm. How naive I was! I did not count on hearing his chilling tales of the life of the Furrie slave, the terror of the Sunday "Furrie hunts", where packs of synth-o-dogs chased Furries for miles, wearing them down, before tearing them apart. Yeah, that's how humans from the Old Times treated my ancestors in an event called a "Fox Hunt" or simply a "Hunt". Humans can be such disgusting creatures. Made no difference: dumb Furrie or smart Furrie: actually, they seemed to prefer the latter. Or about the park farther to the west, with the guarded perimeters, miles of chain-link fence topped with razor wire, and armed security guards: all to keep the less favored miles from the place, where the "beautiful people" engage in every imaginable debauchery, including taking young girls and boys from the less favored, who never know what happened to their children, in order to yiff them whether they like it or not. As for what happens to these children, use your imagination. They have this large idol shaped like an owl. They build a fire in its base and stoke it until the flames shoot from the idol's mouth and eyes. They then burn alive a baby Furrie they name: "Care". They sacrifice "Care" before the "festivities" begin in an obscene imitation of a primitive, pagan religious ceremony. (Does their depravity know no bounds? Usually, several humans die there from alcohol and/or drug overdoses.) They got the idea from a group called "Canaanites", I read about them once.

Anyway, I lost a lot of illusions, thanks to Jimmy. I suppose it was to be expected, after all, didn't my grandfather build this place for the express purpose to shutting out the rest of the world? At one time, I had hopes that I could make this a farm that would be productive enough (I have reason to believe that there's a sizable enough underground reservoir to allow for irrigation) to grow the types of crops humans favor, and to raise the rabbits that Furries would like. That way, I could sell to both. Yeah, that's how I saw my future: Wesley: Gentle-furry farmer. Sounds awfully naive, doesn't it? Well, why the HELL should it! What is so wrong with this goddamn world that I can't be allowed to make a good life for myself by making life better for others? Where is the harm in that, I ask you?

Eventually, we were hiding away as many as 35 Furries. Father built an underground dormitory for all of us. This was truly clever on his part: he had one of the largest underground water tanks he could find. This stood in front of the place, a perfectly normal thing to have out in the middle of the desert. All the while, construction of the hiding place went on in plain sight. Once the concrete was ready to pour, the tank was ditched. Anyone would assume that it had been installed. They had no idea, as everything looked perfectly normal.

Late one night, an old, beat-up truck with a couple we'd never seen before pulled up the trail leading to the house. To be sure, we were mighty suspicious. Especially when they explained that they knew all about the secret dorm, and that they were here to deliver a load of "Furrie Chow". Of course, this is a problem we wondered about: why would anyone need all that "Furrie Chow" when they supposedly had just the one Furrie? It was explained that every week, they would come by to make their deliveries. They also impressed upon us that we were to ask no questions, that there would be no idle chit-chat. We got the message that these could be dangerous people. However, we were certainly thankful for the help.

Of course, Ariana conducted classes in reading for our Furries. It seemed that she wanted to be a school teacher at one time. She'd've been good at it.

I had an ear infection when I was 12. I needed to see a healer called a "vetinarian" who specialized in treating animals and Furries. So I put on my collar, lead, and warmed up my animal act. Ariana drove me to the suburbs of "Carson City" in our "special" family van. What we had, was our own design: an external combustion boiler ran a hydraulic pump to some 100psi. This, in turn, increased the pressure of a hydraulic reservoir to some 3000psi, and that drove four independent hydraulic motors for each wheel. Beats hell out of those little, noisy, "hydro-cars" that run on compressed hydrogen and have very limited range. Of course, it does take time for the pressure to come up once you light the boiler.

While I was waiting to see the vet, this Animal Control officer, a man, woman, and a young Skunk Furrie arrived. Ariana quickly and quietly ordered me to get under the bench and cover my eyes. I did as she told, except for the last part. The young Skunk Furrie looked to be about two, maybe three, years old, and was bouncing around all excited-like. Obviously it was an adventure for him. He jumped at the receptionist's desk: "Please, can I have some... Can I have some..." he asked about the candy jar. The receptionist gave him his choice: "I like lemon balls", he said as he popped one into his mouth. The Animal Control guy lead him to the vet's examining table. I saw it all. The vet lifted him up onto the stainless steel table: "Know what a rabies vaccination is, young fella?"

"So's I don't get sick?"

"Right you are. Be a brave lad?"

The Skunk Furrie stuck out his thin right arm, the vet tightly tied a rubber tourniquet around it, and stuck a needle in a vein. After injecting the liquid, he untied the tourniquet and the Skunk Furrie yipped, put his left paw to his chest and collapsed. The look on his face was one of surprise. I never saw a Furrie die before, and I always thought you'd close your eyes. However his were wide open, grotesque and unseeing. The body was put into a plastic container and taken out back. The man was holding the sobbing woman while the Animal Control guy dispassionately filled out some sort of report. It was all over just that fast.

I was called back next, and let me tell you, I was utterly creeped out. Just like nothing had happened, that same vet with me on that same table, with those same murderous hands, casually lifted my tail, stuck a thermometer up my ass, and examined my ear. After saying I had a slight temperature, he wrote a prescription, and dismissed us. Just like that, the Furrie he'd just killed meant nothing to him: just another unwanted animal to put down.

On the way home, mother asked: "You didn't look, like I asked you not to, did you?"

"No, mother" I lied.

In the dorms, I told all about it. I was furious: I screamed. I cried. I broke things. But what could I do?

Finally, Savin, a Wolf Furrie, grabbed me by the forepaws, gave me a good shake, and quite calmly said: "Yeah... that was a terrible thing." Then with that sly, wolfish way of his when he knew something that you didn't: "Wanna pay that f'kin' vet back?" (To this day, I strongly suspect that Savin was no refugee. He was a "plant" in our midst, just looking for an opportunity like this one. He would never admit it, of course.)


"You want in or what?"

"Sure", says I, not knowing what I was about to get myself into.

Thus began my introduction to the Underground. Three nights later, Savin and I left the dorms, walked through the desert, to an old trail-road. Right on schedule, the lights of a hydro-car flashed three times, and Savin held up a wooden match and struck it with a flick of a claw. The hydro-car pulled up quickly, Savin shoved me into the rear seat, someone put a black hood over my head: "What the...!"

"Shutup and listen. You will be asked one question: 'Do you know why you are here?' You will answer: 'No'. Then you will say nothing until you are spoken to. Understand?"

"I guess so."

"Don't guess. Do it"

We must have driven into the city center. I was led into a room lit only by a couple of candles on a long table, at which sat four other Furries, their features complete concealed in shadow.

"Wesley: do you know why you are here?"


"It has been brought to our attention that you are of high intelligence, integrity, and, rare enough, education and erudition? Is this so?"

I said nothing, I was rather frightened by the ordeal.

"You may answer"

"Yes. It is so. My parents have..."

"Enough. If you join us, we will be your new family. We will demand of you your complete loyalty to the Underground. You will speak of this to no one. In exchange, you will have our undivided loyalty. You will not know of us, but we will be there for you in times of need. In this day, we Furries can do nothing else. It's a harsh code, but if we are to survive, it must be so. You will be asked certain favors, you must never deny. Are you up to these duties to Furdom?"

"I am."

"Step forward, extend your right paw."

I stepped up to the lectern, and did as I was asked. Whoever it was doing the talking, took a piece of paper and crumpled it into a loose ball. He placed it in my paw,saying: "This is your life and soul Wesley." As he lit it he said: "Repeat after me: 'If I ever betray the Underground may my soul burn in Hell for all eternity like this paper'". I said the affirmation until the fire in my paw went out, singing my fur and pads. I was congratulated all around. A generator started up; electric lights flickered on, trays of home-cooked food and bottles of home-made wine were brought out. By the time I left, the sky was beginning to lighten. I was now a soldier of the Underground.

Three days later, I did the Underground its first favor. Now this is highly irregular. New recruits are "put through their paces", so to speak, in order to assess their loyalty, competence, and ability to keep a secret and follow orders. Sometimes the first "favor" is not asked for years. One of the things they wanted me for was my skills behind the wheel. Father taught me how to drive (not only useful around the farm, but, according to father, a "rite of passage" for humans during the Old Times) it was a skill few Furries possessed. I also knew how to keep any motor up and running. That afternoon, Savin and I headed out to the ritzy suburbs, arriving at evening time. There was a large party going on at a fancy mansion: the "beautiful people" living it up. We slipped around the back, unnoticed. Don't be fooled: we may be smart, but we have a wealth of good ol' animal instinct. I picked out a fancy petro-car with a fancy grille with an "RR" emblem on it. It was unlocked, and I can hot-wire anything. Within a minute, we were off and running. The tinted glass hid the fact that a Furrie was driving. Just another guest going home early. The valet even waved at us, suspecting nothing, as I waved back. We picked up a couple of other Undergrounders: "Holy shit, Wes! Think you can get a little more ostentatious?". Yeah, that "RR" car was slick: nice leather interior, smooth, powerful petro engine, quiet. Not at all like those little hydro-cars. Anyway, we arrived at the vet's just in time. "Slick" went over by the garbage cans, acting cute with his "innocent" begging routine. When the vet came out, he couldn't resist giving a skritch. As he bent down to do so, Savin cold-cocked him with a leather sheathed lead sap. "Slick" immediately grabbed him to keep him from falling, they signaled and I pulled up in our stolen vehicle. The two of them shoved the unconscious vet in the rear seat, and I headed out for the highway to city center, as the rotten, decaying, lawless, downtown of what was left of Carson City was then known. At what was once a warehouse, "Tommy the Rat" (Skunk Furrie, actually) had a nice, hot fire going. We tied the vet down good and tight, Savin popped an ammonia ampule under his nose, and brought him around. No one said a word, however I knew exactly what was expected of me.

Here's how Furries pay back humans: I heated a length of 1.5cm diameter rebar until it glowed orange, almost white. I held it right in front of the bastard's eyes. All the while he's begging, asking what he did, why this was happening, yada, yada, yada. I blinded him; he wouldn't be putting down any more Furries. Think of it as the Underground "trademark". I can't say I got any pleasure from it, but I wasn't feeling guilty either. We then threw him from the car right in the middle of the shittiest neighborhood we could find. Let him "see" if he can survive that! We ditched the fancy "RR" car on the street, and made our way back to the farm house. Worried about the Security Forces? I doubt that that fancy car survived an hour on those streets. I am not afraid of city center, after all, it's just another type of forest to me: full of predators, prey, and hiding places. Over the next several months, I learned how to defend myself, and how to kill: with knife, rope, the garrote...

When I was 15, I killed my first human. Let me explain: Furries have other means to deal with humans, so killing is largely off limits. We'd rather take from them that which they value most: their sight. However, when it comes to Animal Control, that's a whole 'nother story. They are most certainly not off-limits so far as lethal retaliation is concerned. There had been a big Animal Control sweep through the out-lands: lots of Furries captured and scheduled for termination. We needed to know where they were being held. Unlike most operations, this one would require the help of more Fur-Syms than is usually the case, and more than I ever felt comfortable working with at any one time. For this operation, I had to relocate.

Allow me to explicate: there is a certain class of human called a "Fur-sym" -- a Furrie Sympathiser or friend to Furries. They come in all forms: some are dedicated on principle, others are lead to it by a personal relationship with a Furrie, some are in it for what they can get out of it, some see the hand writing on the wall, and want to be on the "winning side", some want to get even with the power elite for their utterly shitty lives. Anyway, our Animal Control guy, whom I knew only as "Toothy" was an interesting case. A couple of Furries found him one night in an alley behind a liquor store, having already polished-off half a bottle of cheap bourbon. Still wearing his Animal Control outfit, they almost killed him right then and there. Indeed, he actually begged them to do just that. (Which is probably why they didn't.) Instead, they listened and tried to make sense of his drunken blather. It seemed that he was having regrets over what he'd done to the Furries. So they took him along, gave him a place to sleep it off, and a bit of the "hair of the dog" next morning to cut the hangover. Was he still serious? He said he was. There had been much talk of his resigning, would he stay with Animal Control as an insider? He was ecstatic at the prospect. Turned out to be one of our most reliable insiders: he felt he had much to amend.

There was the ultimate question: would he actually betray one of his own? I arrived early on the day for my part in the operation at a bar/strip joint/crack house/shooting gallery/house of prostitution/gambling joint called the "Cat's Ass". (At first, I was rather offended by the sign with the animated dancing cat-girls. It seemed a bad, insulting, misrepresentation of Furries. However, I would learn that it had long been a common motif among human-kind. Long obsessed with the idea of Furries, and yet so unable to deal with the reality of Furries. How do you explain that?) It's in North Las Vegas, even in the Old Times, somewhat of a shithole. These days, it's an absolute shithole. It's where the Beautiful People chuck the hoi polloi whom they don't want defiling their playground: Las Vegas. Deep in center of the city, it was off-limits to the Committee of Public Safety agents, who were only too happy to look the other way so long as the pay-offs kept arriving, and largely too afraid of the denizens of this place: folks of decided criminal inclination with nothing to lose, and no stake in the future. Despite this, there was an unwritten agreement that the Cat's Ass was off-limits. Its services were too highly valued to allow the place to be robbed, or, if they could safely arrive, its patrons to be assaulted, robbed, or rolled. Rival gangs used the club as "neutral ground" where violence was never tolerated. Drugs, stolen goods, and money -- oftentimes lots of it -- changed hands; the independent contractors of both sexes and all persuasions worked the club's main floor and its several bars freely, fearing no vengeful pimps. A regular den of thieves, hustlers, under-cover agents, informers, incognito low-level politicians, hypocritical preachers in government hire to keep the hoi polloi reminded of their place, and the "eternal rewards" for Earthly compliance, and bureaucrats: all pursuing pleasure, all kept in line by an unwritten code of honour while naked men and women danced, men yiffed men, women, sometimes Furries -- in all possible permutations of sex and species -- on the expansive stage, gave lap-dances and blow-jobs to the big spenders. Fortunately, the main supervisor at Animal Control who organized the Furry sweep had a weakness for all the vices the Cat's Ass specialized in, and then some. The Cat's Ass was also owned and operated by an entire family of dedicated Fur-Syms.

Slipping in unseen by way of an old service entrance, the proprietor personally led me to his private office as far away from the main floor as possible, behind the private upstairs salon reserved for both the big-spending elite and the truly influential politicians and criminals (but then, I repeat myself). Already gathered there, were the proprietor's eldest son, a brother, a cousin, and finally, looking completely out of place in more ways than one, the proprietor's youngest child: a ten year old daughter. (I heard of a concept called "childhood innocence" from the Old Times, however, I see damn little evidence of it these days. Human children grow up fast and hard, or not at all. A child of her age would never be seen anywhere near a place like this in saner times. Neither would she be working with the Fur-Syms and Underground.) The girl was about my height at some 160cm and I'd guess 40Kg. She was wearing leather sandals, a white skirt with a bright, bright pink (I'm sure I'm right about this, as that's what I clearly saw. We foxes don't see color so well, so it must've been a bright pink) floral pattern which came not quite half-way to her knees, and was somewhat poofy that it looked even shorter as it didn't hang completely straight, and a pull-over of a pink matching the pattern on the skirt, with white trim at the sleeves, pocket, and bottom, with a white collar. Her brown hair with gold streaks was pulled into a pony-tail that hung slightly below the collar. (How is it that these young females are the only humans to dress in a manner that is both sensible: cool and allowing freedom of movement, and colorful?) I was none too pleased with this, after all, a ten year old human is not as mature as a ten year old Furrie. However, her role in this operation could, if she could pull it off, make our job a lot easier and less dangerous. Right off, she committed her first faux pas. Stepping right up, all bright-eyed, and smiling, she put out her paw, announcing:

"Hi. I'm Cynthia. What's your name?"

My rejection of her show of friendliness brought a quizzical expression to her face. I motioned towards a card table against the far wall, and told her to sit down. Sitting across from her I explained with both gentleness and deadly seriousness:

"For future reference, when you work with Fur-Syms and the Underground, you never ask names, or give yours, or reveal any sort of personal information. Doing so is quite dangerous as you might get taken for an Animal Control or Security agent or informer. This will most likely get you killed. You want other Fur-Syms to know as little about you as possible, and you want to know as little about them. It's for your protection, and theirs. You can't blab to interrogators what you don't know. Secondly, you avoid any personal contact that's not completely necessary. Stray hairs or other fibers can be detected and used to connect you to folks you'd rather not be connected with. Make no mistake about this. It isn't some youthful lark or an adventure. As soon as you were approached for this, by whomever is organizing this operation, you became a full member of the Underground. And became a part of everything that implies. That's how the Underground sees you now; that's how the secret police will see you. The fact that you are a child, and a girl, will not protect you. From now on, you are in extreme danger."

She says right off: "What makes you think that 'Cynthia' is my real name?"

A good sign: she can improvise, and thinks quick. This seems to be a pretty intelligent girl. Nevertheless, aliases are still dangerous. No idea exists in a vacuum, and so I explained: "Bet your favorite group is 'Midnight Commander'. Or your real name is 'Cindy' or 'Samantha'? So which is it?"

"Midnight Commander... How..."

"The group's lead calls herself 'Cynthia'. This is a common thing that people do when giving a false identity. They still give themselves away by choosing some name that somehow means something to them. Now if I were an Animal Control or Security infiltrator, they'd be running a check on all stores selling CDs, and cross-referencing all young female purchasers of Midnight Commander CDs already. You probably bought your own, right? It wouldn't take long to narrow down a list of possibles. You have no idea what you are dealing with here. This is why it is so important that you say nothing to anyone about what you have heard here, who you see here, or even that you know what the inside of the Cat's Ass looks like. And that includes everyone here today. Once this business is done, you don't say a word of it to even your father, brother, or cousin. Do you understand what I'm telling you now?"

"Yes", she says. For her sake, I hope that was true.

Now it was time to get down to business.

"Think carefully about what I'm about to ask." ...

"Have you ever been here before?"...

"Did anyone see you arrive?"...

"Or see you at anytime since?"...

"Can you account for why you aren't where you'd normally be expected?"...

"No. Father and the others were quite careful about everything."

"Do you know what the Cat's Ass is? What they do here?"

"It's father's place of business. He never much talked about it, but from what I've heard, it's some sort of cat-house?"

"True enough, that's pretty much it. Do you know why you, all of you, are here?"

"Only that it has something to do with helping you guys, you know, Furries... other than that, I don't know."

"We need your help for this operation. It's nothing too demanding. Basically you will stand around looking cute. You won't have to say much, nor will you be expected to. It's simple enough, but it won't be easy by any means. Basically, you will be playing the part of a child call-girl. You know what that is?"

"A child or a call-girl?" (Chuckles all around. Humour: another good sign: quick improvisation, good timing, and not excessively nervous.)


"A call-girl's like a 'ho, but works the clubs instead of the streets".

"That's what you will be doing: playing a child prostitute/call-girl working the Cat's Ass. Our mark has a reputation for yiffing young girls such as yourself. This isn't a game we're playing. There is a very real chance that you just might be assaulted. If that happens, understand this: NO ONE will be able to help you. And if you want a chance at living, you'd better make sure that he believes you enjoyed it. Hopefully, that won't happen, but I'd be misleading you if I didn't tell you that there are no guarantees. I'm going to kill that man tonight, and you are going to be the bait. You will have to be convincing, because if you aren't, a lot of other folks could get hurt. I'd like to avoid any recourse to firearms or other 'rough stuff'. If everything goes as planned, none of the other patrons or guests will be any the wiser. With everyone literally knowing nothing, there will be no leads to follow. If you have any problems with that, I want to hear about it right now. I won't hold it against you if you back out. And I'd rather hear about it sooner than later. So I need an answer right now. Can you do exactly what I ask of you, no questions asked?"

"Look... Mr. Fox... I hate those fuckers as much as you do. I'm only too glad to be included." (I had every reason to believe this. Her mother had died two years prior simply because the powers that be decided that saving her would not be cost-effective, as she wasn't one of the "beautiful people" of the power elite.)

"I know you do, however, hate and revenge are dangerous emotions. We're professionals doing a job -- nothing more." I personally didn't like the youthful enthusiasm all that much. I remembered all too clearly just how I got myself involved in this whole business in the first place. No way could this Cynthia -- or anyone -- at any age -- really appreciate what involvement with the Underground would mean.

"OK, let's get started: stand up. Now remove all your jewelry and anything else you brought with you and place it on the table."

She did as asked: a ring, two silver loop ear rings, the band that held her hair into a pony tail.

"That's everything? Nothing missing that you had earlier that you could possibly have lost here in the club?"

"Nothing's missing. I'm certain of that".

I dropped all these items in an envelope, sealed it, and set it aside. These would go back with the proprietor just in case anything might look suspicious if it disappeared.

"Very good". Now came the real test, as I casually leaned back in the chair I said matter-of-factly: "Now what I want you to take your clothes off".

"Huuuuhhhh...?!", eyes widening, this wasn't what she was expecting. Reflexively, she glanced back towards the others.

"What do you mean 'Huh'? Didn't you agree not two minutes ago to do exactly what I asked without question? I want you naked as a jay bird."

Cynthia undressed as asked, until she was wearing nothing more than panties. "Panties too", I had to remind her, and she slipped those off as well. As I gathered and went through her clothes, she stood there, like a statue. It was obvious she was ill at ease. I wrapped everything up into a neat package, and tore the skirt to make a bundle, and tore off a strip of cloth to tie it together. This I handed to the cousin to dispose of, at least ten clicks from the club, the farther, the better, now, before this little detail could be overlooked.

"Why'd you ruin my skirt?!" she exclaimed. "Now what will I wear?!"

"Cynthia, for the next 24 hours, at least, you will have no need for clothing". I took her hand: "Out into the center of the room; let's get a good look at you". She followed tentatively, looking down all the while.

"I realize you're in charge here, but why did you make my daughter strip naked, and why should we look at her?", the proprietor asked.

I addressed them as much as Cynthia: "I told you it wouldn't be easy. You are supposed to be a child call girl working a house of prostitution. You yiff men you don't even know for money. Being seen naked in a whore house should be the least of your concerns. The mark will know that something is very wrong if the 'prostitute' he's being offered is too embarrassed to even be seen. I'm sure he's done this before, probably lots of times, and so he's going to know. So you need to get over any shyness over being seen naked. I need a little co-operation from all of you.

Cynthia, eyes forward, there's nothing to see down there, look at us".

She did as I asked. "Feet father apart, try to look more natural". Cynthia had been standing in a most unnatural, stiff manner, all the while looking down to avoid eye contact. "What are you doing with your paws? Paws at your sides, show us your pussy". She put her hand-paws down. There was no trace of fur anywhere between her legs. Even the youngest kits have some.

I'd never seen what a human, male or female, looks like underneath all the clothing. This one was certainly remarkably fur-free. It's no wonder that they wear so much covering. Granted, she was no vixen, still, she seemed quite fit. Her stomach was flat, no trace of the puffiness that's all too common with human cubs, the so-called "baby fat", either around her middle or her face. Her hips widened somewhat below the waist; she had the visible beginnings of those udders that the humans call: "breasts", or "tits" and except for the lack of fully developed "tits", her shape was that of a mature human female. I didn't know if this was a plus or a minus. Does one that likes yiffing kids want one that looks more like a kid?.

I addressed the others: "I want you to take a good look at Cynthia, after all, she took her clothes off to be looked at, the least you could do is look. Now, not being human, I'm none too sure about appearances, so what do you think? Is she yiffable?"

I really needed to ask since the mating season was months off, and I wasn't thinking in those terms. That's another big difference between Furries and humans. They are always thinking about sex, and I'm surprised they manage to get anything done. They agreed that she was yiffable.

"How long do I have to stand here?", finally, she asks. Boredom: a good sign.

"Let's try something else. Everyone: out in the hall". We all stood in the hall, outside the office. "Now I want you to walk up and down the hall." So off she goes, up and back.

"Cynthia, that's not walking, that's plodding. Know what you were doing?" I did my best imitation of what I'd seen: head down, the slow, stiff, unnatural steps. "Keep your head up, and walk like you normally do every day. Now try it again." Better. "Pick up the pace a bit, and try to loosen up, and show some confidence. You're a very pretty girl, take pride in showing off what you got. And try smiling." A dozen trips later, off she goes, striding in a natural manner. I had her try it a few more times, just to be sure. She was overcoming her modesty at last. Time for the next lesson.

Next: running through the entire act. We started in the "yiff room" where she would be waiting for the signal buzzer that alerted the working girls that a client was waiting out in the bar. Thus alerted, she would take with her all the essentials: the mirror, a silver vial of the supervisor's favorite white powder, a gold snuffer, all carried on a low, small stand. In the bar, she would place the stand at the far end of the table, facing the mark as she measured out the powder, then come around to the opposite side as she bent over to prepare lines, smooth out the creases under each butt-cheek, and sculpt her ass into two smooth, unblemished, symmetrical ovals. Place the mirror and gold snuffer in front of him, then subtly back out of reach as he was distracted, yet positioning herself so as to keep her genital region in his line of sight at all times while running a finger tip up and down her genital slit. Then leading him to the private "yiff room" where he would be expecting his "special treat". This involved her walking fast enough to keep him behind her, yet neither so fast as to give the impression of running away, nor too slowly as to suggest reluctance. Either could lead to his yiffing her in the hallway, and ruin my chance at a clean kill. She had to suggest eagerness to keep him following her. Of course, she would have to improvise as there was no way to guarantee exactly what his actions would be, but I had confidence that she could do that just fine. As for his choosing the wrong room, we made certain that only the door to hers was unlocked.

Indeed, Cynthia was a quick study, and learned the whole routine ahead of schedule, so we spent the spare time playing video games (damn, she beat me every time) until we heard the main sound system come on with a feedback squeal. The evening's festivities were about to begin, so our mark would be arriving soon. I left Cynthia and the others in the salon bar, telling them that the hardest part of any operation was now at hand: the sitting and the waiting. I headed on up to the cat-walk overlooking the main floor. Patrons were beginning to drift in by ones and twos, the band started playing, the naked dancers took the stage to begin their performances, the MC announcing each act. Larger crowds started arriving, and, finally, I spotted Toothy and his fat, ugly, supervisor, and a few of Toothy's co-workers. I got down off the cat-walk.

"They're here. So it won't be too much longer. Let's go Cynthia" As I escorted her to her "yiff room", I explained: "He's every bit as bad as our friend described, so be extra careful not to show any sign of revulsion. Regardless of what you see, or the impression it makes, keep smiling. And one last bit of advice: stay close, but out of reach unless you want him groping you." We entered the "yiff room"; as I took my place behind the curtains, I noticed that Cynthia was pacing all around the room. Anticipation is a terrible thing, so I offered one last suggestion: "You might want to paw off. It'll help cut the tension of waiting, and get you into a yiffy mood". Behind the curtains, I gave my equipment a final check. Cynthia stepped over to the lounge, perched on the edge, spread her legs wide, and began caressing her labs and genital slit. She did this right in my line of sight, was that deliberate? No time to wonder about it then, but I would find out later...

Toothy had suggested bringing the supervisor here to celebrate the great "victory" over the out-land Furries. The staff had received instructions to treat him extra-special nice, although not for the reasons they were told. Other contingents of Fur-Syms (unknown to each other) had been strategically placed at the near-by tables for their part in the operation, although they had no need to know any of the particulars, only that they were to treat the mark with the deference a "true hero" deserved.

That's how the Animal Control super was treated: like the conquering hero. Drinks and lap-dances: on the house. Rapt attention as he spun his tales of derring-do. Subtle little questions to further puff up his ego, draw more information out of him, and ultimately seal his fate. It didn't take nearly as long, nor was this nearly as difficult, as anticipated. The guy was singing like a canary, spilling lots of useful information concerning investigative techniques, names of informers, and finally, what we were really after: the location where the 300 or so Furries were being held, pending termination, and when that was scheduled -- all with no concern for whomever might overhear the conversation. That's when the Fur-Syms began drifting away, unnoticed, to report their findings to their handlers. Our proprietor finally paid a visit to their table, introducing himself, offering his personal congratulations, the observation that the Cat's Ass wasn't often graced by such an august personage, and would he like to come on up to the exclusive private VIP salon for some truly unique and kinky action? Of course he would!

So the son poured him a drink; he, the cousin and the proprietor spent time glad-handing him; casually mentioned that they just happened to have something quite special available for his special occasion: a brand-new, prepubescent call-girl working the club lately. By all means, send for her! That's when we heard the buzzer sound in Cynthia's room. I watch as she picked up the little stand with the mirror, the silver vial, this time filled with the special powder -- guaranteed pure -- and not the practice powdered sugar, the little gold snuffer, and razor blade. So far, just as we'd rehearsed it so many times that afternoon.

Obviously, Cynthia had done everything right, as I heard the door not ten minutes later. He followed her just like a puppy and she lay down on the smooth, satin sheet covering the lounge, and seductively spread her legs wide, and gave him just the right "come-hither" look. First, he pulled off the wide utility belt.

"Get up and bend over the bed", he ordered.

So that's the bastard's idea of yiffage: beating the hell out of a young, defenseless call-girl. (How many times had he done this before? What other atrocities was he capable of?) This had me worried: what would she do? Interestingly enough, and with no trace of a reaction, she did just that. She got up off the lounge, walked past the mark, and stood by the foot of the lounge and bent over. In order to whip her, he was out of any possible line of sight. She knew what she was doing.

As he ran a paw over her bare ass: "You're a bad girl, aren't you"


"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I'm a bad girl"

"Bad girls need a good ass whippin', don't they?"


"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I deserve a good ass whippin'"

"You won't be able to sit down for a week when I'm through with you"

It was a disgusting performance, and I could really feel the hate rising. As he raised the belt to beat her ass raw, I swiftly, silently made my move. He brought the belt down hard, a sharp crack of heavy leather meeting bare skin that left a reddish-pink blotch across the middle of her ass. She let out a sharp yelp from the swat, as the thin stainless steel wire went around his neck. Simultaneously, I put all my strength into it and ordered: "Cynthia! Get out of here!". She ran out the door. I had him like a fish on a line. Even though he was a good deal bigger, the fight went out of him quickly. His face turned purple as the wire dug into his fat neck until it literally disappeared. If you do it right, it doesn't take too long. The idea being that you not only cut off his air, but also the flow of blood to the brain. As he was dying, he messed himself, and I had to take care not to slip in it as I went down to the floor with him. Through the taut wire, I felt the life go right out of him. In about three minutes or so, it was all over. I rolled him over onto his back, unbuttoned the shirt of his uniform, took his badge and ID card, keys, and a semi-automatic pistol. I checked the magazine -- it was loaded -- and racked the bolt to chamber a round. I safed the weapon. I then put on his shirt, even though it was way too big, but that wouldn't matter. As for the mess I'd made, well, cleaning that up wasn't my problem. I had another job to do that was more urgent.

As I left, Cynthia was waiting in the hall, rubbing a welted butt-cheek, and I had to stop her from going back to see.

"You saw what he did to me?(!) So I want to see..."

"No, you don't. I think you've seen quite enough already young lady. A smack on the ass is NBD. Don't make this personal; we're just professionals doing our respective jobs. Any other attitude will get you dead in a hurry. Your job now is to come along with me." OK, I admit it: I broke the rules, letting her take my paw in hers. We needed to go out by way of that old service entrance, unseen. Not necessarily a sure thing, now that the club was filled with patrons.

The Animal Control petro-van had been parked behind the club, in an area far from any lights. After making sure that no one was looking, we moved swiftly to the van, I taking the driver's seat, and Cynthia climbing in the passenger side. I took the super's hat off the dash-board, stuffed my ears beneath it and pulled the visor low over my eyes. Cynthia was sitting in the passenger seat, so I told her to get down on the floor-boards. Not so comfortable, but necessary. I unsafed the pistol and placed it within easy reach on the passenger seat.

This was some tricky business: driving the van far from the Cat's Ass to ditch it. Hopefully, there wouldn't be any radio dispatches to this unit -- if there were, I couldn't answer it, not with my accent. Neither could Cynthia, even if she didn't sound like a Furrie, she sure didn't sound like that supervisor either. There was always the possibility that some jackass would involve the van in an accident. I might just drive off, but accidents attract unwanted attention. Or that some other Animal Control or Security officer would want to get sociable, and pull the van over. Be real damn difficult explaining how a Furrie and a naked girl happened to be driving such a vehicle. That's what the pistol was for. In case of a pull-over here was the routine: Cynthia would quickly take the driver's seat, as I slipped out the back. The distraction of seeing what he'd never expect in his wildest imaginings as he opened the driver's door would give me an excellent opportunity to come around the back of the van and get off a clean shot. As for being recognized, that was the least of my concerns. By now, it was getting dark, the last of the twilight fading fast on the western horizon. I sat higher than the other vehicles, and no one would be expecting to see a Furrie driving an Animal Control petro-van. Luckily, none of the things that could go wrong did go wrong. When seeing how unrecognizable we were, I allowed Cynthia to get off the floor and return to the passenger seat, even if I shouldn't have. She sat there, sort of sideways, right foot-paw tucked under the left knee, elbow propped on against the door and window, just staring off into the distance, lost in thought. Finally, she changed positions, sitting up straight in the seat. Whatever it was, she'd evidently made her decision.

"What are we doing now?"

"First of all, we're going to ditch this van, so that hopefully, it won't be connected to the Cat's Ass. We have Toothy and the other Fur-Syms who'll say that they saw the van leave the Cat's Ass. Hopefully, this will look like a crime of opportunity. Secondly, we have to get you cleaned up so thoroughly that no trace of where you've been remains on your person, and get you back home. There are other Fur-Syms expecting us, but it's not going to be all that easy."

"I suppose we've been through quite a lot?" she asks, raising her right leg slightly. "I mean, I do like you and if you wanted... you know... for real... I wouldn't mind." She says, drawing a finger along the inside of her thigh, back and forth, close to her genital region. This was an open (pardon the terminology) invitation, for sure.

"Cynthia, I appreciate the thought, really I do. I quite understand the feelings of being comrades-in-arms, the soldierly brotherhood, the sense of 'mission accomplished'. I can even appreciate that you are at that age where you are experiencing your first yiffy feelings. However, I can't do that, much as I'd like to. And for quite a few reasons, but, first and foremost, is the immediacy of the situation. I'm not the type to take advantage of an emotionally charged situation for my own selfish gratification. That's the attitude that got the world into this mess in the first place. Nor am I willing to use you to pleasure myself. Hell, in a couple of days, you'll probably be asking yourself: 'How could I have come on to that fur-ball?'"

"I mean, if they catch us, I'll never... And I'd really like it if you were my first..."

"Get that thought out of your head right now. We've taken more precautions than you -- or even I -- know, and the Underground has resources that you can't imagine. Even though we're Furries, we take care of our own regardless of species. And you are one of our own now.

If we were living in saner times, it would be different. If Furries lived free, if selfish elites didn't keep the humans enslaved, it would be different. I'm not even suppose to be alive, you know that don't you? Personally, I like you a lot. You're pretty, you're bright, you think well beyond your years, you handled yourself with extraordinary common sense back there, you overcame some great difficulties and did so faster than I ever thought you would. You did us all a great service, and a lot of Furries will get another shot at life, due to your contribution. How can I not possibly have definite feelings for you?" I gently placed a paw on her thigh. "Even though you are not a vixen, I would like nothing better than to mount you for some hot vulpine lovin' under a clear desert sky. And I do mean loving, not just yiffing. But there is not thing one that you, me, or anyone else can do about that. This whole fucked-up mess of a world just doesn't seem to have any place left for love, or honest friendship, or any other sort of goodness. Once I've completed my mission, I will never see you again, I will never have any further dealings with your family, I will never be allowed anywhere near the Cat's Ass. This is the way it must work. So do yourself a big favor and shutup and start working on forgetting all about me."

"You really think I'm pretty? You aren't just saying that?"

"I've said a helluvalot more than I should have already, but, no, I'm not just saying that".

About twenty miles out (the instrument panel was calibrated in that old-time system) I found the old, abandoned rest plaza that served travelers in the times before the oil ran out, and cars freely zipped from one end of the continent to the other. The gate had been taken down some unknown time prior, by some unknown Fur-Syms, for reasons they were never told. I told Cynthia to not get out, so as not to cut her foot-paws and leave behind DNA evidence. I took the items I got from the super: the badge, ID card, keys, and wrapped them up in the shirt with a big, rotting, smelly carp. Another Furrie calling card: sleeping with the fishes. Now I had another problem: a cross-desert trip to our rendezvous point three clicks or so away. That would mean carrying the girl all the way, as her foot-paws had no pads. I could make better time on four legs than she could ever do on two. So I opened the passenger door, put one fore-leg under her knees, the other under her arms,, and lifted her from the van. Once beyond the broken concrete, glass, bits of metal, etc. I told her to climb on my back and rode her "horsey style" all the way to the pick-up point. Firing off a miniature flare in the darkness brought the flash of the headlamps of a hydro-car. The Fur-Sym behind the wheel couldn't suppress his surprised look when he pulled up. We must've been quite a sight. Cynthia took the front passenger seat as I came around to the driver's side and ordered him into the rear seat. He was surprised at that: Furries don't drive, and he asked what that was all about. "Fox eyes: I can see in the dark better than you", I explained. Of course, identification wasn't necessary. How many other Furries were out in the Mojave, accompanied by a naked human girl? He knew better than to ask either of us questions. He had no need to know. I drove, lights off, navigating by nothing more than starlight, along a service road for an electrical transmission line. Deeper, deeper, deeper into the desert, a long, sixty-five click circuitous route back to the back-roads to just south of Henderson. There was little difficulty, except after making the turn-off to the back roads. Here, the trial all but disappeared. We almost got stuck going around a sharp bend while climbing a steep hill. Fortunately, the wheels caught just enough traction in the loose sand to make it up the incline. Once on real road (or what was left of it) it was clear all the way to the fringe of Las Vegas. In what was left of a parking lot for what may have been a restaurant, we met up with the other Fur-Syms who were expecting us, and Cynthia and I parted ways. But not until we exchanged a farewell kiss. Bad form, I know, but, I really liked her, and figured that it was the least I could do. So, her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist, a paw under each butt-cheek to support her weight, I gave her a big, old, sloppy canid kiss. It was the damnedest thing. She buried her face in my fur. When she looked at me again, tears were streaming down her cheeks: "I'll never forget you", she said. Yeah, my eyes were a bit misty too.

I arrived back my territory for a de-briefing.

Usually, we never learn how an operation concludes. However a raid that frees over 300 Furries from under the very noses of Animal Control is news that's very hard to suppress. Even by the system. As for Cynthia, her family, the Cat's Ass, I heard not a word. All I could do was hope for the best. No news is the only good news I had access to.

We did, unfortunately, lose some good Furries and Fur-syms. How many, I don't know. This day, some six weeks after the raid, I was watching the announced execution of one Julie Rheims on the visivox. Now, I had no idea as to who this was; I had never heard that name before. Yes, they really do execute kids and show the executions on the visivox. This serves several purposes: it demonstrates "good faith" that the offers of humane executions for their kids in exchange for "confessions" from parents are genuine. It serves notice on parents that their political activities will affect their kids, and it gives kids something to think about when it comes to choosing loyalty: their parents or the government. Finally, this is a source of entertainment for the Beautiful People. Yes, I've heard all about their execution parties, complete with wagering on how the victims will behave, how long it will take them to die. The method for these kiddie executions is the CO2 chamber. It is claimed that it's quite painless and humane; nor does it leave the body disfigured, so that they can have nice funerals.

Today, the Beautiful People were in luck. They had announced the execution of a male otter Furrie as well as the Fur-sym girl. The otter Furrie had been captured during the raid, after having been wounded. They had obviously kept him alive for this very occasion. They wished to connect the two in the public eye: humans who help Furries can die like Furries.

They announced what everyone was waiting for: the live feed from the Youth Offender Facility. The otter Furrie, whose name was never mentioned (we would learn of it later) was being dragged, foreleg bent behind his back into the execution chamber. Even though otter Furries are lean and tall, and don't look it, they are quite strong. He suddenly twisted himself free: "Take your goddamn paws off me!", he commanded.

"You piece of shit!", one guard cursed him, as he reached for his baton. Uncharacteristically, another guard stopped him.

"Let him go in peace, if that's what he wants", he said.

The otter Furrie strode across the floor, with a determined, business-like gait. The only thing that betrayed how he was really feeling was that his tail dragged on the ground, hanging limp from his spine. Otter Furries seldom walk like that. The guards followed close behind, as he climbed the stairs up to this stage, and over to the carbo-box itself. He slipped his tail between the seat and back, as he sat down. The guards immediately bound his wrists and forelegs to the chair arm rests, all the while standing back. It was obvious they were afraid he would claw them with his feet. They need not have worried since he did no such thing.

They placed his feet in the stocks mounted between the front legs of the chair. They finished strapping him down. A clear bell jar-like dome was lowered over the Otter Furrie, and the CO2 was turned on. They must have filled the chamber with CO2 quickly, as the Furrie began to breathe heavily after less than a minute. Being a descendant of an aquatic species, he was unusually resistant to the effects of CO2. He was conscious most of the time, as he suffocated. It looked like they wanted to make him suffer. They waited until he was no longer breathing before venting the chamber, and lifting off the dome. The prison doctor came up, held a stethoscope to his chest, shone a penlight in his eyes.

"The animal's dead", was all he said.

Next, some prison morgue technicians arrived with a plastic bin into which they dumped the body. They carried it away, and directly to the prison incinerator. The Otter Furrie would have neither a funeral, nor a decent burial. His ashes would mingle with the prison refuse, to be disposed of like trash. They couldn't even allow him even that small dignity: to maybe say a few words over his remains. Even pets get a more respectful send-off than that.

Despite this, the Otter Furrie received a more merciful execution than is usually the case.

The talking heads were back. We were told to expect an emotional display, since this was a girl, and she was of an age where kids are old enough to understand that they are going to die, but not yet old enough to have become hardened like the street kids who already believe, that by 17 or 18, they are already living on borrowed time, and who really don't care anymore whether they live or die. We were told that the girl and her parents were accused of running guns up from the South to supply arms to the Furrie raiders. I don't know if there is any truth to this or not. Her family was what you might have called "Middle Class" in the Old Times -- low level bureaucrats and apparatchiks -- necessary for the government to function, but not so high up as to be among the truly elite. Still, Julie and her family were a good deal better off than most. Ironically enough, it is this class which provides the most Fur-Syms. They have the luxury of being able to care, not struggling every day for their next meal.

They were pontificating about the tragedy of a young life gone wrong. They blamed the Fur-Syms and Furries for "corrupting youth" for their "nefarious" purposes. Yada, yada, yada; bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. We did learn that she was an honor student, and a cheerleader at her high school and that she played field hockey.

Quite frankly, I had mixed feelings about this. The girl was going to die, but was the alternative any better: to be sent to one of the "party parks" to serve as a yiff toy for the Beautiful People? To be used as a breeder for elite couples that couldn't have kids of their own? To be abandoned to the streets, once they served their purpose: no longer young and nice-looking, to make a living as a common street prostitute? To die young of disease, or alcohol and/or drug abuse, or murdered by some psycho "john" that picked them up? Would that really have been better? Of course, what she was being accused of didn't merit such "leniency".

We were back to the Youth Offender Facility. The "main event" was about to begin. It wasn't what we were told to expect. Julie was not crying, pleading, or otherwise being emotional. One guard led her by the arm, and she was quite co-operative. He wasn't holding her all that tightly. Her expression, however, looked blank. The four guards broke up into groups of two, one pair, like little tin soldiers, lining up along a white, stucco wall. Once released, Julie took her place, standing in a yellow circle on the floor, the guards off to the sides, out of our view. She stood, feet casually apart, handpaws at her sides, back straight. Her feet were bare, and she was wearing a bright red dress with a white collar (I would later learn that this is the standard dress for males and females who are on their way to their executions. The idea being that, in the off, off, off chance they escaped, they'd not be able to blend in with the general population.)

Off Camera Voice: "State your full name, date of birth, and age"

"Julie Rheims...

OCV: "Your full name

"Julie Allison Rheims", she began again, "May, 23, 2134. I'm fifteen", she answered.

OCV: "Is there anything you would like to say to the victims of your crimes and/or their families?"

"No, not really".

This was the cue for two of the guards to head across the floor to take up new positions, one of either side of the carbo-chamber. Once they were in place, a third guard stepped behind Julie. He unbuttoned the collar of Julie's dress, unzipped and opened the back. He slid the sleeves off her arms dropped one side, and pulled the dress away. Julie continued to stand as before with her hands at her sides. Julie was completely naked. The only sign of unease was the way she pressed her palms into her thighs. Her genital region had been freshly shaved of all that genital fur. The camera continued to linger over her full frontal nudity, showing off the trim, athletic cheerleader figure.

OCV: "You may now proceed"

Cameras switched, and we were shown a side view. Julie looked up, then down at her feet, then up again, then back to her feet. She hesitated. She willed herself to put a footpaw out, and take a step, all the while looking down at the floor, not much farther ahead than the next step, then another, and another. She looked up and continued across the floor to the stage. There was a set of stairs running up the left side of the stage. At the foot of the stairs, she hesitated again, looking up. The stage wasn't much taller than she was, and there were just six steps. She looked to her right, recognizing the stairs were wide enough to accommodate a reluctant prisoner and two guards. She would not be carried. She put her right foot on the step, and her left handpaw on the banister. She kept her eyes on the next step, as she went up.

Upon reaching the stage, she turned to her right, crossed the stage, past the first guard, and paused in front of the chair. She seemed to be examining the thing. It was made of welded steel angle stock. The back and seat being sheet steel tack welded to the frame, the legs bolted to a circular platform raised above the floor. Across the front legs was welded a flat steel bar. This is where the ankle stocks were usually bolted between the front legs. This time, it was set up for females, with stirrups replacing the stocks, attached outside the front legs, and adjustable to accommodate the victim's height. From the arm rests dangled leather straps. The whole thing was painted some off-white color (ivory, I think they call it). Julie stepped up, forward, and sat down. The guards at once positioned her arms on the armrests, buckling the leather straps around her wrists and fore arms.

One guard stood in front, the other behind the chair. The one in back passed a leather strap between the seat back and frame, while the one in front positioned it just under her arms, passing the free end back. The guard in back tightened it. Another went around her waist. Up till now, she'd been sitting, knees together, feet flat on the floor. All the while, she looked off into the distance.

"Julie", the guard said to her, and she looked up at him: "Would you open your legs?". She relaxed, letting her knees part. The guard got down on one knee, placed a hand on her right knee, the other around her ankle. This time, she followed him with her eyes as he placed her foot in the stirrup. She didn't resist. She allowed him, her eyes following, to place her left foot in the other stirrup. She sat there, as he pulled something from beneath the chair. It was a dark brown leather strap, looking much like a collar for Furries. He picked it up from the wrong end, as something fell off. He retrieved it: a clip with a spring slide. He considered for a few seconds, how it should go back on, then let it drop to the buckle. This, he placed around her thigh, slipping the free end through the buckle while holding that end. He held the clip and slipped the leather band up her thigh until it was next to the arm rest support. He clipped the clip to an eye bolt attached to the front of the arm rest, then adjusted the position of the buckle, pulled the band snug, and buckled it. He put the other band around her other leg, eyes following. Finally, he got back down on one knee, this time passing a leather band over the top of her foot, the free end slipped into a clamp, pulled tight, and a lever engaged to lock the band into place, to hold her foot in the stirrup. He strapped down her other foot. Having finished restraining her, he stood up and actually stroked her hair: "Good girl", he said. She looked at him, and sort of half-smiled in acknowledgment of the compliment.

The other guard had returned, and was waiting off to the side. As the one guard left, she followed him with her eyes. The other guard placed a shallow tray under the chair, extending between her feet to catch the urine. She watched him leave as well. Then she looked down at her lap to see how exposed she was. Her legs spread wide enough to completely reveal her labs, the rest of her genital region, and the lower insides of her buttocks. She was looking at something out in front as she heard the approach of this black suited, white collared, prison "chaplain"

"My child", he began in that smarmy preacher-voice, "You will be meeting your maker very soon now. Would you like to repent of your crimes and sins, and seek the mercy of our lord and saviour?"

She gave no immediate sign that she'd heard, or even knew he was there. After making him wait for her answer, she slowly raised her head, looked him in the eye, and simply said: "No", in an unnervingly calm tone of voice.

"God have mercy on your soul!", he shot back at her, making it sound like a malediction instead of a blessing. He turned to go.

"This has nothing to do with God... and neither do you!", she called after him.

These "preachers" are in the gov't's pocket. Their purpose is to preach Earthly obedience in exchange for pie in the sky. They also give a patina of "morality" to the behaviour of the Elites, to preach the latest "party line". There isn't a one of them who's not a flaming hypocrite. I doubt that that "chaplain" ever believed in any "lord" and/or "saviour". His "righteous" indignation was at having failed to get her to legitimize her own execution and death as having anything to do with "justice", by any sane definition of the word. He couldn't care less about having "lost" a soul. I doubt he even believed in the concept.

This is not to say that there aren't any sincere believers out there, or that there aren't any sincere preachers. There are, however, these ones operate without the appropriate gov't license and permission. The "home churches" they run are under constant harassment. They aren't the ones you ever see on the visivox, or hear over the webcasts.

A bright yellow stream of urine poured out of her full force, to splatter into the tray at her feet. One of the guards was back, standing by the side, to watch. She glanced up at him. He waited as the stream weakened, died out, and she strained out the last few drops. He took a paper towel and wiped between her legs. He wiped the urine from the seat, pressing his ungloved fingers under her thighs and ass. He took out a fresh paper towel and wiped the insides of her thighs. Finally, he emptied the tray into a plastic bucket, and placed it back under the chair.

The warden and another official climbed up the stairs, as she turned to watch their approach: "Has there been any word?", she asked.

"The Board of Pardons has declined to review your case", the warden explained, "There's nothing more anyone can do for you. I'm sorry, Julie", he even managed to almost sound sincere.

"Oh. I see", she said, looking down.

"Do you have any last requests?"

"Yes", she said as she looked back up: "Don't let them rape me after... after I'm... gone. Let grampa take me home". This is the first time she said anything that sounded like a plea.

I nearly threw up, hearing that. The idea that she would even know to ask such a thing, and have reason enough to actually ask, made me wretch.

"Is there anything you would like to say before you are put down?"

She looked like she was going to say something, then reconsidered, as she looked down. "I've waited long enough", she said softly.

"The prison doc wants to have a look at you", he said as he turned to go back down the stairs.

The prison doc, the one who'd accompanied the warden, taped a stethoscope to the center of her chest and connected it to a panel mounted to the right side of the chair. Next, he placed ECG electrodes to her chest. As she looked down he explained quite unnecessarily: "This is so the official witnesses can testify that they witnessed your death". The sadistic bastard.

Once he was satisfied everything was working: "Look at me Julie". She looked up. "Once the dome is in place, the first thing you'll hear is the inflation of the pneumatic seal, so don't let that startle you. Try to take normal breaths. This will allow the CO2 level to rise slowly enough for the anesthetic effect to take place. You will first feel maybe dizzy or light-headed, then euphoric. You may even hallucinate. When you feel yourself losing consciousnesses, just let it go. Once you are unconscious, the remaining oxygen will be driven out and it'll be all over very quickly. Do you understand what I've just told you?"

"Yes", she answered weakly.

Four morgue techs arrived with a gurney. One of them approached, and attached an identification band around her right ankle.

Next, we had an obscene parody of what was once called due process. This "prosecutor" addressed the official witnesses: "The defendant, Julie Allison Rheims, of her own volition and without coercion admitted her guilt to the charges of aiding and abetting the enemy, sedition, conspiracy to commit sedition, and accessory after the fact to murder of Officers of the Court. The "Court" (what "Court"?) having returned findings of no extenuating circumstances or mitigating factors has ruled that the defendant shall be put to death in the place and manner as described in law".

He turned to address her directly: "Julie Rheims: you are to be put down for your crimes. You will be suffocated until you are dead"


The guards returned to complete their preparations. Julie knew she was going to die, as she tried blinking back the tears. One of the guards placed a bowl shaped cap on her head, and adjusted a chin strap, this to hold her head up. He then drew a black curtain over her face. That prison doc was back:

"Julie, you have may be fifteen minutes to live. Nothing or anyone will save you now. Make it easy on yourself: don't fight it. Just let it come nice and easy"

The guards guided the dome into place. "Fifteen minutes... fifteen minutes...", she sniffled. "Why are they doing this to me?"

The dome dropped into place with a soft thump. The pneumatic seal inflated, but she showed no reaction at all. The warden gave a subtle nod to her unseen executioner, and the CO2 started. Julie sat there, breathing normally. Her heart rate dropped. Since CO2 is as colorless and odorless as air, she would have no way of knowing anything was happening just yet. It looked like she was taking their advice to accept, and not fight. What does a fifteen year old school girl who, just a few weeks ago, had everything to live for and a life to look forward to, think about when she knows she will be dead in less time than it takes to listen to half a CD? I don't know. She said nothing, did nothing.

It wasn't until about eight minutes later that she began showing the effects. First, she giggled softly, then more loudly. Then she began to sing this silly kids' song:

Was a farmer, had a dog And Bingo was his name-oh B, I, N, G, O B, I, N, G, O And Bingo was his name-oh [...] Was... a... far... mer... had a dog And... O... O... was his...

She made it through five verses of that, before falling silent. The prison doctor decided she was finally unconscious, and ordered the CO2 turned full on. In less than a minute, she was breathing quite heavily. Near the end, every breathe came with a raspy gasp as her chest heaved, every muscle straining to force the non-existent oxygen into her lungs. Her fingers balled into fists, her arms and legs strained against the restraints. Suddenly, she collapsed back into the chair, heart silent, ECG flat but for random noise or what remaining heart muscle fibers weren't quite ready to call it quits. However, I didn't need any of that to tell me she was dead. There were no flashes of light nor choirs of angels, but it couldn't have been any more obvious to me. The high school honor student, cheerleader, field hockey player wasn't there any more.

She sat unmoving for five minutes before they began to evacuate the inside of the dome, released the seal, and pulled it off. Once that dome was out of the way, it was that much more obvious that her skin had taken on a bluish tinge. The prison doctor casually walked up the stairs, crossed over to the girl. He lifted the fingers of each hand paw to check the deeper blue of the nail beds. He pulled back the curtain; Julie sat there, mouth open. He pried open each eye, shined a light in her eyes. Satisfied, he turned to the audience:

"Let the record show that the prisoner, one Julie Allison Rheims, is pronounced dead. Record time of death: 23 August, 2149 at 19 : 43 hours.

The morgue techs prepared to remove the body, as we returned to the talking heads, whom I didn't listen to at all. Later that evening, and in the "news" paper the next day, they showed before and after pics: Julie standing against the wall, and her naked body lying on a stainless steel table, side-by-side with the body of the Otter Furrie. They wanted there to be no doubt about it: Julie was dead.

Julie's funeral was held three days later. Somehow, the Fur-Syms got videos of the service, obviously through long range lenses and directional mics. Julie lay in a white casket decorated with pink and blue butterflies, appropriate for a girl her age. She was dressed in a maroon gown, and wearing white shoes. Around her right wrist, she wore a corsage. Laying on her chest was a kangaroo plushie, around which was folded her hands. Her head was slightly propped up, and a crown of fresh flowers encircled her head. Between the red dye in the formaldehyde that now filled her veins, and the make-up, she looked almost life-like. I would learn later that she had been dressed for the high school prom she would never attend. The kangaroo plushie? That was Roo-roo -- a constant companion from early childhood.

It was a simple grave side service presided over by a "Father Mike", from her unauthorized, unlicensed Reformed Lutheran Church. The Fur-Syms obviously weren't the only ones listening in, as Father Mike spoke in terms like "God called our sister home", and the like, making it sound as if the girl had simply died. Like it was one of those things that just happen for no good reason, and that nobody can do a damn thing about. Well, it wasn't an "accident": it was an "on purpose". It wasn't a "tragedy", it was an outrage. But Father Mike couldn't say those things. Anything the least bit "political" was off limits. He was weighing his every word very carefully.

Attendance was likewise strictly limited, lest it be considered a "political rally", so the only attendees were Julie's grandfather, a boyfriend, Doug, and his parents, and a long time gal-pal, Elaine, and her parents. No one else. The shitstem's final insult? Julie's grave would have no marker. However, there is enough detail in the vids for us to determine where it is. One day, I swear, an heroic memorial will rise from this site.

You may be asking, why did I watch this? Believe me, I've asked myself that question a lot. It would have uncomplicated my life to have not done so. However, I believed I had an obligation. I asked who screwed up here: Furries? Fur-Syms? How is it we could have a successful raid to free three hundred Furries, but we couldn't hit that kiddie prison hard and fast to free one girl and one Furrie? How did our intel fail here? Was it inevitable, if it hadn't been her, then someone else? Would it make any difference at all? I didn't know.

I also had a crisis of conscience. Did it make any difference whether that girl, or her parents, had been involved? As far as I was concerned, it didn't. Julie let them strip her, even though they don't like to be seen without their covering. She walked by herself to what she knew was certain death without a complaint. She did it for others who aren't even of her kind. I had to ask myself, had the roles been reversed, would I have done the same thing? To my shame, I had to admit that I would not have done so. I thought I hated them all, all I'd ever known was human cruelty directed at my kind. Yet here was a fifteen year old school girl making the ultimate sacrifice for Furries. I had to realize that, no, they aren't all bad, may be not even most of them. May be, given even half a chance, humans would try to do the right thing. I thought I knew all the answers, but now I wasn't so sure.

A few months later, Savin, that wily wolfie, showed me documents concerning this affair that had come into the possession of some Fur-Syms. It seemed that this prison "end of life councilor", Kimberly Wayland, had rediscovered her conscience. She described her job as being that of running psychological tricks and other mind games on the kids to make them as co-operative as possible. This to lessen the psychological toll on the prison staff of having to deal with pleading, begging, crying, and very frightened kids. She did the same with Julie, however, she didn't turn the documents, videos, the pages and letters Julie had written over to the authorities. Instead, somehow she got the material to the Fur-Syms, though she wasn't one herself. I still have most of this material, and I'll include it in the archive, though I doubt that video media will survive very many years, and even if it does, will the technology still exist to make sense of it? I don't know. Here's a transcript from the video that was recorded surreptitiously by this Kimberly, whom she called "Melissa"

Julie smoothed her dress, the civilian attire she'd been wearing when first taken from the video game arcade at the mall: short, bright pink dress with a white collar and lapels, white trim around the hem, sleeves, and pocket, and black patent leather sandals..

I hope this gets to the right people. You'll know who you are. If it doesn't, then, oh well... They will be coming for me and Ruki, the Otter Furrie soldier they captured during the raid, very soon now. I will have to leave my clothes and jewelry behind, and to prepare me they're going to shave my pussy, and I'll change into a special gown that all prisoners wear. Then we'll be taken to a holding cell until they're ready for us. I just hate the idea that, someday, some other girls will be wearing my clothes, wearing my jewelry, never knowing where it came from. Yeah, that's right: they do a side business of selling our personal items after we're dead.

I already wrote down his story, since he never learned how to read and write. Once he's dead, they're gonna take his body to the crematorium and just discard the ashes out in the desert. At least Granpa arranged a service for me, picked out a grave site with a view of the lake, and had Roo-roo, my old kangaroo plushie I had as a kid restored to as good as new. He says I can hold Roo-roo for companionship through eternity. I just wish Granpa and Elaine could have a more pleasant final memory of me than me turning blue in that carbo chamber. Granpa says it'll hurt for a good long while, but that they'll get over it eventually and remember me as I used to be. Elaine is sixteen, and has never lost anyone before. I wonder who's really the more unfortunate. My problems will be over; theirs will just be getting started.

Melissa says they're gonna take off my clothes. I don't really mind that, after all, I was a cheerleader. We wear those skimpy little outfits to make it easy for guys to undress us with their eyes. Look at this outfit I'm wearing. It didn't come like this, I added a pocket because I like pockets, and I got the extra material by shortening the hem. Removing a little extra material is NBD. I came into this world naked and innocent, and it looks like I'll be leaving it the same way.

Melissa says I'll probably pee; I just hope I don't shit myself.

I will not cry or plead. Pleading for mercy implies that you've done something for which you need mercy. It also implies that those of whom you ask mercy have mercy to give, even if they refuse. These... people don't know the meaning of the word, and I won't do anything to make it look any different. I will not fight. I can't win, and there are enough guards, and they're mean enough, to see that I get to that carbo-chamber regardless of what I do. I admit it: I signed their bullshit "confession" because they threatened to take me to "The Basement" where I would kneel before a concrete trough to catch the blood as my throat was slit. They promised that I would be sent away for a "humane, painless" execution. So I signed instead of fighting for my innocence. Does that make me a coward? You'll have to decide that for yourself. I hope I have the strength to carry through with my resolve.

What of our so-called 'friends': there were easily a hundred kids in that arcade. When the State Security agents arrived, every single one of them got extra interested in their games. It doesn't pay to pay too much attention to State Security agents. They could have easily overwhelmed them, drove them off. The kids vastly out numbered the agents. What of our 'friends' and 'neighbours'? They simply cowered behind their doors, hoping the foot falls would carry past their doors. They could have stepped into the hall with ball bats, kitchen knives, skillets -- anything -- and could have fought the agents off. Someone could have spiked the fuel tank of the van that carried my parents away and lit a match. They could have slashed the tires. They could have done something. They did nothing. Is this what we've become? And some people wonder why Fur-Syms side with Furries: who else is willing to stand up for themselves anymore?

I want to make it clear: I never had my day in any court, never got a chance to defend myself. If my parents were Fur-Syms -- and I doubt it -- then they kept it from me completely. I had no idea. I had nothing to do with the Furrie raid. I didn't like how the Furries were being treated, but what could I do about it? Would I have joined the Fur-Syms later? I'd like to think so, but in all honesty I can't say so. I mean, that last morning before I was picked up, I had an argument with Mother over the dress you see me wearing right now. She says I dress like a slut, that I shouldn't be seen in public like this. We were always fighting over one thing or another. This is the kind of stuff I worried about. I'm just a kid, but that State Security investigator who interrogated me every day for weeks as good as admitted it. I'll never forget what he said: 'If order is to be maintained, examples must be made'. Make of that what you will.

If you knew me, go have a good cry and get on with your life. If you didn't, don't feel sorry for me. In any case, lay a flower on my grave if you can.

May be you can give our deaths meaning.

I had to ask myself: what made me different from those city center thugs? I had the titles: "Furrie Soldier", "Underground Soldier", I had the guns, the training in lethal paw-to-hand combat. I realized that it really isn't much. Without honor, there is no warrior, just a well armed thug. That's what I'd become, I realized.

In the end, I realized that we Furries were not responsible. It was this corrupt elite that made the kiddie prisons, kept the vast majority of humans in virtual economic slavery, it is they who can't stand the existence of Furries. They destroyed the Old World, rather than give up even a little of the excess in their possession. What's one more fifteen year old school girl to them? They gave us their answer, didn't they? It is they, not humans, who must be destroyed -- without mercy, without pity, without compromise, so that that evil will never rise again. That, and that only, will give meaning to the revenge of the Furries.

Julie and Ruki: you didn't die for nothing.

I did some "free lancing" on the side. That warden and his son were the first: they mysteriously "disappeared" next summer during a fishing vacation at Tahoe. That prison doctor and his nurse, those guards, that prison chaplain -- all of them met a series of unfortunate "accidents". I made sure they all knew why they were dying.

Unfortunately, it didn't end with Julie's funeral. Five years later, to the day of her death, her grandfather, Lynn, walked into an Animal Control office, pulled a .45, and shot two Animal Control agents: one literally right between the eyes; another took a hit to the neck that caused his demise two days later. He was cut down in a hail of lead. That wasn't the point. He knew that his home would be searched.

Down in the basement, about two meters of gas pipe had been replaced. The extra valves might have looked strange, had they noticed. May be they would have figured Lynn was just being frugal by turning off the gas main, as heat wasn't required at this time of year. They also did not notice that the heater's gas valve was cross-connected to the air conditioner, or that the pilot was out. They didn't notice the motion detector built into an antique clock, its lens looking like another decoration. It was all very low tech, no lasers, no radio emissions: just a couple of photo resistors behind a lens. Any voltage changes meant something was moving in the room. This started a 15 minute countdown. The agents doing the searching might have wondered why there was no air conditioning.

While searching, they would have welcomed the cool air. They would not have noticed that the gas valve was also open, and that something else was pouring into the air intake: one of the first organic compounds ever to be synthesized over three centuries ago, by Humphrey Davy, living in what used to be known as England. By the time they recognized the scent of freshly mown grass, but that no one was mowing grass, it was too late. The first indication of trouble came over the handy-talkies to the cops and agents waiting outside, a badly garbled utterance. The agents rushed in, to be greeted by a scene straight from Hell itself: agents lying dead on the floor, faces frozen in agony; the dying, with foam pouring from mouths and noses. Suspecting gas, windows were broken out, sending an invisible cloud of the heavier than air substance rolling across the lawn to the agents outside. Several more would die in agony over the next two weeks.

That extra section of pipe? It didn't contain gas.

Carbonyl chloride is some nasty shit.

Later on, a note was discovered, well concealed.

Dear Animal Control Fucks:

After you took from me my son, my daughter in law, and my grand daughter -- everything that mattered -- I asked that warden if I could see her one last time to say a final good bye. I was led to the prison morgue, and my grand daughter was lying naked on a table. Even in death, you didn't have the decency to cover her. As I held her still warm hand, and kissed her cheek, one last time, I knew what I needed to do.

You bastards gassed my grand daughter, so I returned the favor.

See you in Hell.


Lynn Rheims


After doing this assassination, I moved up the ranks quickly. First: Capo de Regime of a small regime that handled minor enforcement jobs, low-level assassinations, and controlled the center city drug trade. For the latter, I insisted on quality. I pulled an ancient book on organic chemistry from the family library and insisted that it be read. Those who could read would read it to the illiterates. No more half-assed equipment and sloppy lab techniques either. The quality of meth, psychedelics, and other "happy stuff" with which the "Beautiful People" destroy themselves went way up, and explosions went way down. Soon, we had the best stuff in all of the city center. Speaking of city center, I made an effort to clean it up, and make it clear to the gangs and thugs that they'd be better off finding somewhere else to operate. This brought in even more of the "Beautiful People", now that they no longer had to fear assaults and robberies. Pay offs to the cops had to increase, but so did the profits.

Next, a promotion to a bigger regime that was behind the drug trade for the ritzy suburbs farther to the West, all the way to what was once the "San-san" megalopolis. This was the territory of the elite's elite, even going back to the "old times". (I liked that: the fat-cats ultimately financing the instrument of their own destruction because they couldn't control themselves. Little did they know that the very Furries they were trying to eliminate were supplying them their "happy-stuff".) Higher level assassinations of politicians, not just the occasional thug who tried to put one over. I ran a tight regime, kept our drugs high quality with fair prices and no cuts. We also ran the gambling (I insisted on clean games at all times -- crooked dealers found themselves having a hard time even holding a deck of cards, let alone able to deal seconds). I kept our hookers and call girls clean, and saw to it that they were never cheated, the independent operators under our protection, so no more greedy, abusive pimps to deal with, even if it cut into our profit margins. That brought the elite from their lairs, looking for our brand of depravity.

Then, in a few years, I made Consigliore. Yes, I was now second only to the Big Boss Furrie. The BBF was smart, had good strategic sense and an excellent feel for personnel needs. He was a total illiterate, and so I did all the reading for him he required. He wouldn't be bothered to learn. In this capacity, I passed along orders to the Capos. If an unreliable Capo needed to be "retired", I had a paw in that decision. I can't say that I'm proud of some of the things I had to do, but it's a survival thing for us Furries.

This wouldn't be complete unless I told you about the worst day of my life. That was when Father died. It started out like any other, as I was helping him coax a little more life from our old generator. Wesley had a massive coronary. I tried CPR, but it was no good. Mother and I held a funeral on the ridge overlooking the property. All our Furries insisted on attending, despite the great danger of being out in the open during daylight. I said a few words, for mother's sake, even though I can't believe in the human god. (How can I? If Man was created in the image of god, then what of we Furries? This just offends my sensibilities, especially as this is frequently used an an excuse for our abuse.) There were 36 pairs of Furrie eyes there, not a one dry, and all surrounded by tear-matted fur. One-by-one, they all gave mother and me a hug, when we needed it the most. None of them could say words; they substituted animal sounds instead. I worried about mother, but she had more strength to go on than I suspected. So we went on, teaching our Furries their lessons the very next day. Let me say again, I still miss my father, especially now. I could really use his council... especially ... now...


I regret that Mother will live to see this... Even though she says she's 86, I believe she's really older. I left her a few hours ago. I'd dropped by to say my farewells, and explain the arrangements I made with the Fur-Syms to try to protect her. It was not easy, explaining the entourage of petro-fuelled military vehicles, the weapons, the uniforms, the deference and saluting of the other Furrie soldiers. It was not easy explaining that I could no longer simply live on the farm with her, as if I had no greater obligations to the outside world -- or to my kind. I explained that she had prepared me for this moment all my life, and that Father would expect nothing less from me. She's afraid... It was not easy...

"What is that you're wearing? You haven't wanted to wear clothes since you were a boy"

I sat next to her, taking her hand in my paw, to explain as gently as I could:

"It's not 'clothes'. It's a military uniform. There's a war coming..."

"Does the Commander think it wise..."

"Soldier! This is my mother. She has the right to know"

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

"War? What war? Wesley?"

"We're fighting for our lives, for our right to exist. The system as it stands needs to go, and we are going to tear it apart. I hope we can build something better in its place. You and Dad prepared me for this moment all our lives. Would you expect anything less of me?"

I'm afraid this will probably kill her.

My final promotion: Commander. In a few more hours, the war of our liberation begins: to let no one say we can't live because we're "too smart", to educate our minds, to enjoy that which we earn with the labor of our minds and our paws, so that we can say the word: "Furrie" with the pride of the free instead of the shame of the slave. Even now, more Furries are arriving to join our efforts. Hopefully, it will be our last. I'm not sure how much abuse this old world of ours can take. I'd say our chances are pretty good. Don't dismiss our "rag-tag" little army. Where ever there are Furries, Furrie armies are gathering. Such forces have prevailed before: Yorktown comes to mind here. As for the opposition, well, even in the final decades of the Second Republic, they were so decadent that they let the lower classes do all their fighting. In places like Vietnam, Kuwait, the Oil Wars: the "beautiful people" couldn't be bothered to dirty their paws. They've had over a century to indulge their pleasures, to grow even softer. Will slaves fight for them? Furrie slaves: almost none left. Human slaves? Whence their loyalties?

Don't deceive yourself. There's literally tons of tech lying out there in the desert, most from old, forgotten Second Republic military bases. Indeed, we have six nuclear-capable cruise missiles, two functional thermonuclear warheads, and another possibly functional by week's end. RPGs, small arms, ammunition: we've got it. We have a field piece, a mobile cannon called a "Paladin Howitzer", aimed right at the regional Animal Control Headquarters. Our forward spotters are already in place if we need to adjust the aim. The morning shift begins at 0800 hours. By 0900 hours, the building should be full.

(The elderly human who's sighting this gun has, I admit, gotten a bit exasperated with my asking how's it going: "With all due respect, Commander, I've spent half the night checking and rechecking the aim. If this antique doesn't malfunction, we'll drop a shell right in the Superintendent's lap. And if it does, there won't be enough of our asses left for you to chew out".)

Then the big gun barks, the Furrie War begins. Granted, it's not a strategically important target, but it's a damn satisfying one. When I think back on all the atrocities they caused, how I had to spend my entire life running and hiding from these people, well no, I won't feel the least bit bad about giving that order. Those Animal Control assholes made their choice, and they're gonna pay for it. Hell, most of them probably will never know what hit them. It's way better than they deserve.

What will become of our world? I don't know. However, can we Furries possibly do any worse? Look at this fucked-up mess of a world and ask yourself that. Then check back with me in a couple or three centuries and we'll talk about it. Make no mistake: regardless of the final outcome, the reign of the power elite is through. Either we are victorious, or Planet Earth joins the other eight as a lifeless ball of rock circling an average star at the outer fringes of an average galaxy.

"We have, or soon will have, exhausted the necessary physical prerequisites so far as this planet is concerned. With coal gone, oil gone, high-grade metallic ores gone, no species, however competent, can make the long climb from primitive conditions to high-level technology. This is a one-shot affair. If we fail, the planetary system fails so far as intelligence is concerned. The same is true of other planetary systems. On each of them there will be one chance, and one chance only."
-- Sir Fred Hoyle, 1964OT

Smart human, that Sir Fred. Is it true? I don't know, and I can't really say I give a damn. I can dig a den, and make it as cozy for myself, a mate, and our kits, as my old childhood home (hopefully, it will still be standing, but if it isn't, nothing more than a sentimental loss). I guess we'll find out soon enough. I hope I haven't bored you silly with my ramblings. I hope that I have given you some insight as to what has led us Furries to these extremes. I hope you learned something.


To Whom it May Concern:
Consider this the last Will and Testament of Wesley Evers II, of sound body and (reasonably) sound mind. If you're reading this, then you have also discovered the library of the Evers family. To you, I bequeath its knowledge, more precious than gold or silver. It is yours, for better... or worse. That's strictly up to you, whomever you may be.

I have been waiting for you... or Eternity.