Pop Culture
===========

Parched!

Reducing the pile of double-salted, dried herrings to a pile of discard
tails had been an admirable feat, but the task had taken a heavy toll on the
snow leopard.  Plonq admired his handiwork while he raked his nose with a
desiccated tongue and mewled,  "Thirsty."

If Plonq had learned one thing from his mother, it was that nobody would
wait on him once he had moved out on his own.  He had also learned that if
one tried to wash the cat in the toilet it would launch itself at your face
like a furry projectile with claws and latch onto you until your mother came
to rescue you.  True, he had learned that lesson on his own, but mom had
been there just the same.

The little snow leopard put down his copy of "Linux For Morons" and picked
his way through the dangerously teetering piles of clutter in his computer
room.  Unless his memory had failed him (a possibility) there was a six-pack
of cold Mountain Dew in the refrigerator.  Plonq purred his way out to the
kitchen in anticipation of liquid relief.  The fridge door, however, opened
to reveal the stark reality that he had not been shopping yet that week.

The feline's careful scrutiny of the refrigerator's contents quickly
confirmed that he had neither Mountain Dew, nor any other beverage save a
half-jar of pickle brine.  Denial caused the little morph to begin digging
through the contents of the fridge, hoping that he may have misplaced a can
of pop.  He lifted the lid on a pizza box, but aside from a vaguely
wedge-shaped mass stuck to its top by mould, there was nothing of interest
inside.  Ultimately it was the uncanny feeling that the Gobi Desert was
taking up residence in his mouth that forced him to abandon his fruitless
search of the fridge.

Plonq toddled over to the counter and extricated his coffee-tin of emergency
change from its nest amidst the unwashed dishes.  He brushed aside enough
empty cartons to give himself a clear spot on the table and emptied the can
onto the table.  He tipped up the can and it obligingly regurgitated a rain
of coins, a dried hairball, a chewed ball of yarn, several buttons that he
had misplaced, and a startled spider that immediately scrambled for cover.
The cat launched the hairball away with a snap of his forefinger and began
to count out nickels until he had enough change for the vending machine in
the lobby.

Confounded!

Clutching his booty tightly in his fist, the little cat morph trundled out
of his apartment in search of the lobby.  Given that the lobby had remained
in more-or-less the same place as it had always been since he had moved in,
one would not think that it would require much searching.  The elevators in
his apartment complex were possessed by Satan, however, and had been known
to discharge confused furs on random floors.  There were even hushed stories
about furs who had entered the elevators, never to re-emerge.  In the dead
of night one could sometimes hear the plaintive sound of those lost souls
pressing the CALL button and pounding on the doors.

The snow leopard reached his destination without incident, notwithstanding
the elevator doors that closed on his tail while he stood, blinking in the
threshold of the lobby.  The Coke machine was at the front of the room,
ensconced between the main door, and a dusty coat of arms belonging to a
long-lost furry tribe that had - allegedly - died out from syphilis in
bygone days.   The Coca Cola logo was partially obscured by a letter-sized
sheet of plain white paper that somebody had taped over it.  As Plonq
approached the vending machine he could discern that the note bore a hastily
scrawled, "OUT OF ORDER!"

Desperate!

This corner of the muck was not renowned for its abundance of vending
machines, and in a moment of panic the snow leopard considered the
possibility that he might have to resort to drinking (ick!) water - if one
was charitable enough to give that name to the vile fluid that came out of
the taps in his flat.  Plonq leaned against the vending machine with his
free hand while he gnawed in consternation on the knuckles of his other.  He
could, he supposed, take his chances with the machine he was leaning
against, but the brash lines in the warning message virtually radiated with
the frustration of its writer.  He clutched his precious horde of nickels,
and decided that his safest course was to seek out another source of
Mountain Dew.

Plonq stepped back from the machine, straightened his shoulders and turned
toward the street.  He stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight -
taking greater care to ensure that his tail was clear of closing doors - and
stood uncertainly in the middle of the bustling sidewalk.  Assorted morphs
and taurs brushed past the snow leopard, some cast him a glare for blocking
traffic, but most ignored him.  His little eyes roamed over the buildings up
and down the block when he spied a promising sign across the street.

"Furry Laundry.  Low Prices.  Colour Television.  Vending Machines."

"Oooh," purred Plonq, ignoring the squeal of screaming tires as he stepped
out into the street and toddled toward his goal.  He stepped up to the front
of the Laundromat and pressed his muzzle to the dirty window.  He could just
make out what appeared to be vending machines at the back of the
establishment.  Liquid refreshment was his - if he could just get past Olga,
the Laundromat nazi.

Olga was the old lioness who owned the Laundromat, and she kept a stern
vigil at her counter by the front door.  She was not much to look at; she
had only three of her original teeth left, a potbelly, horn-rimmed glasses,
a hunched back, and halitosis that could melt enamel.  The problem is that
her sense of humour had been surgically removed when she was a cub, and she
could swing a broom with deadly accuracy.  Plonq wavered for a moment before
the siren call of the soda machine bested his reluctance.  He swallowed
once, and pushed his way through the door.  With luck he might sneak past
her unnoticed.

Confrontation!

"Plonq," barked the old lioness as soon as he stepped into her territory,
"what be ye wanting here?"

"Um," mumbled the snow leopard.

"I don't see you carrying any laundry in need of a wash," she snapped.  "I'm
thinking ye be here to loiter and loaf, that's what I be thinking!"

"I was just going to purchase a Mountain Dew from your vending machines,"
said Plonq earnestly.

"We don't have that, so be gone with ye!" she said, reaching for her broom.

"I'll settle for a Coke," said Plonq.

"What, the vending machines in yon apartment are broke again, hm?" she
asked.  Her eyes narrowed dangerously behind the horn rims.  "Probably one
of ye lazy ne'er do wells plugged a bent nickel into it again, hm?"  The
little snow leopard quickly shoved his nickel-bearing hand behind his back.
"Get lost if ye have no laundry to do," growled Olga.

Sometimes fate smiles on the unworthy in strange ways, because at that
precise moment another fur entered the Laundromat, lugging a large tub of
laundry.  As the unseen morph brushed past the little feline he extended the
pinkie-claw on the hand behind his back and snagged an item of clothing from
the top of their tub.

"Actually," he purred, bringing the pilfered item into view, "I was just
going to wash... ack!"

"Your lacy silk panties, hm?" said Olga sourly,  "Though they hardly look
your size.  Crotch-less too, I see."

"They, uh, belong to a friend," said Plonq quickly.

"Ye don't need to explain," said the old lioness, "go and wash your
panties - and quit blocking traffic in my doorway."

Plonq scooted quickly past the lioness, but he could feel her eyes boring
into his back as he walked away.  Just to be safe he decided that he should
make a show of washing the garment.  He dropped the panties into one of the
washers and began feeding the machine nickels, carefully watching the shop's
owner in the reflection of the coin slot.  The lioness rolled her eyes and
turned her attention back to the race forms on her desk.  The moment her
eyes left him, Plonq muttered a scatological oath and pressed the "coin
return" button.  He fished the panties out of the washer again while his
nickels plinked noisily into the return slot.

Once his treasure of coins was safely in his fist again, the snow leopard
began his search for the undergarment's rightful owner.   The obvious choice
was a slinky little mink morph who was busily unloading her basket into a
nearby washer.

"You dropped these by the front door," said Plonq, holding out the lacy
panties.  She eyed the panties coolly.

"Not mine," she said, "and that's one of the cheesiest pickup lines I've
ever heard."

"Oh, there you are you naughty panties," said a masculine voice from behind
the feline.  He turned, and found the speaker to be a lithe little puma in
an open vest and VERY short cut-offs.  "I don't let just any man touch my
panties, you know," he said with a saucy wink.

Plonq literally tossed the panties at the other morph.

"I'm totally out of clean underwear," said the puma.  "Thank dog for these
old cut-offs or I'd have been forced to come here naked.  I'll bet you'd
never have guessed that I'm not wearing any underwear."

"Ack!  Too much information," yowled Plonq.  Before the other fur could
elaborate any further on his wardrobe - or lack thereof - the little snow
leopard loped past him and escaped to the back of the Laundromat.  Ah,
bliss!  The back wall was lined with vending machines, all of them in
apparently working order.

Indecision!

Plonq resisted the urge to give the soda machine a hug.  He stood, poised
with his first nickel in readiness when his little feline peepers spied the
snack machine beside it.

"FRESH, DELICIOUS TWINKIES."

A mewl of pure anguish tore loose from the back of the snow leopard's
throat.  Twinkies: the Shangri-la of snack foods!  Plonq desperately counted
his nickels, nearly dropping them in his haste.  It was a pointless effort
since he knew that he'd only grabbed enough change for a pop, but there was
always the hope that they might have multiplied during the trip from his
apartment.  He'd read that story about the loaves and fish (Yum - fish!  He
drooled a bit in spite of his dry mouth.) so he knew that miracles could
happen.

Apparently a miracle had not happened, and the cat morph found himself
facing a very difficult decision.  On the one hand, he doubted that he
possessed enough saliva at that moment to properly appreciate one of the
little sponge cakes.  On the other hand... Twinkies - yum!  He sidestepped
over to the Twinkie machine and began plugging nickels into the coin slot.
He was halfway through his pile of coins when the compressor in the soda
machine's refrigerator kicked in, reminding him of how parched he was.

Better sense prevailed, and Plonq pressed the coin return lever.  He
retrieved his precious stash of nickels and stepped over to the cola machine
where he began jamming them into the slot as quickly as it would accept
them.  He had three coins remaining when...

"Oh look," said a fur behind him, "they've installed a Twinkie machine
here."

"Cool," said somebody else, "I haven't had a Twinkie in ages!  Boy, I could
really go for a Twinkie right now!  I can just taste that delicious crème
filling exploding over my tongue as I bite through the delectable sponge
cake."

"PLINK!  PLINK!  PLINK!" said the coin return slot.

Once again Plonq gathered up his assets.  He turned to the other machine,
just in time to see a prepubescent mole morph jamming a bent quarter into
it.

"Nooooo!" he wailed, leaping belatedly to the defence of the Twinkie
dispenser.  The young mole gave a chirp of surprise and jumped out of the
manic feline's way.  Plonq quickly assessed the damage, and found to his
dismay that barely a sliver of the bent coin was visible from the slot.  He
extended the claws on his free hand and tried to grip the edges of the
offending coin.

"Hey mister, I was using that machine," said the indignant mole.

"Don't you have traffic to go play in?" growled Plonq as he worked furiously
to free the jammed quarter.  "Ack!  Ack!"  When it became apparent that it
was wedged beyond redemption, he wound up and pasted the coin slot with his
nickel-filled fist.  The predicament was doubly exasperated by the sight of
all those delicious snack cakes lines up tantalizingly on the other side of
the glass.  "It's not fair!" he sobbed, falling to his knees in front of the
machine.  "What kind of a merciful God would let this happen?"

The mole, meanwhile, had not remained passively by throughout the ordeal.
Plonq heard a commotion behind him and turned to see the youngster leading
an angry old lioness in tow.  She was armed with her evil broom.

"There, see?  Just like I told you," said the mole, pointing at the kneeling
snow leopard.

"Just as I thought," sneered Olga.  "I didn't think you looked like you were
coming in here to do laundry, and now you've broken my new vending machine!"
She raised her broom like an all-start batter winding up for a grand slam.
"I'll teach ye!  Layabout!  Scoundrel!"

"It wasn't me," wailed Plonq defensively.  He ducked under her first swing
and bolted past her, catching a solid smack across the backside from her
follow-through.

"Get out!" she roared, giving chase to the hapless snow leopard.  Plonq ran
pell-mell through the Laundromat, dodging between and over washing machines
on his way to the exit.  Olga was surprisingly quick for her age and
stature, and he received one more swat to the tail before he gained his
freedom in the street.  "And don't come back without laundry," she called
after him, shaking her broom menacingly at his parting back.

Dejection!

Plonq sat on a park bench, wallowing in self-pity as he alternately rubbed
his smarting behind with his free hand, and abraded his nose with his dry
tongue.  On any other day he might have appreciated the sun beaming on the
verdant stretch lawns, the duck ponds, the well-manicured gardens, and the
happy stream of furs meandering down the winding paths of the park.  The cat
was so lost in his misery that he didn't even notice the stranger who sat
down next to him.

"Well, now, how can you be such a sour puss on such a beautiful day?" asked
the stranger pleasantly.

"Bleah!" replied Plonq.

"That serious, is it?" persisted the stranger.  Plonq glanced over at his
companion, and found himself sitting next to an elderly bear morph.  The
aged ursine was dressed in a natty tweed suit with a felt fedora on his
head, and a silver-tipped cane resting between his knees.  The bear raised
his cane and tipped the brim of his hat lightly.  "Anything you want to talk
about?"

"I got kicked out of the Laundromat," said Plonq darkly.

"Ah, yes, Olga is very protective of her territory," said the bear, nodding
sagely.  "What was your crime?  Did you add the fabric softener on the wrong
cycle?"

"I was just trying to buy a pop," said the snow leopard defensively.  "I ate
a whole bag of double-salted, dried herrings and now my tongue is all dried
out."  He pointed to his tail and whimpered.  "She struck me!"

"There, there," said the old bear reassuringly.  He leaned over and
retrieved a satchel that he had placed beside the bench.  "I always pack a
couple of cold ones with me when I come to the park.  Of course, I only
drink one myself because it's a long walk to the park washrooms when your
bladder gets as old as mine."  He reached into the sack and withdrew a
frosty can of beer.  He offered it to the snow leopard with an inviting,
"Hm?"

"Yum!" said Plonq, eagerly reaching for the beer.  In his excitement he
forgot about the nickels in his fist, and they rained to the ground in a
cacophony of jingles.  "Ack!"

"Oh dear," said the bear.  He pulled out a beer for himself and returned the
satchel to its former resting place on the ground.  Plonq shrugged.

"Oh well," he mewled, "I'll leave them for some lucky kid to find.  Cheers."

The End