From: Snowcat To: furry-lit@dasb.fhda.edu Subject: Furry-Lit: currently untitled Date: Thursday, May 21, 1998 12:30 AM This is another experiment in styles. This is a slightly rougher draft of a story than my previous posting was, but I welcome feedback on how effective/ineffective you think this mixed genre writing is. Hope to write the conclusion to this one before I take off for the coast on Friday. This is a follow-up to a very short story I posted to a.l.f a couple of weeks back. WARNING: this one contains some *very* nasty language, and violence in places. Consider it to have an "R" rating on those counts. Currently Untitled ------------------ by David Braun (aka Plonq) "Scotch, scotch, scotch," said Plonq, muttering the word in time with his step. Thrice before the little snow leopard had embarked on a quest for the liquor, and he had returned with catnip, milk, and a back-issue of "Busty, Furry, Klingon Babes" respectively. It is not that he was reluctant to purchase scotch -- quite the opposite -- but the cat had a tendency to get easily distracted. Today the feline was adamant that he would not allow his attention to be diverted by anything until he had completed his task. He was a walking ball of furry concentration, so focussed on his chore that he did not notice the sexy stoat morph who was standing on the corner, handing out free tickets to HawaiiMuck. Neither did he observe the glowing spectre of Elvis, descending to the street in a scintillating cloud of silver, nor did he hear the screech of tires and blare of horns from angry furry drivers as he stepped blithely off the curb into the thoroughfare. Though it was a small miracle that he survived to see it, he eventually found himself standing outside his chosen alcohol vendor. The building was a low, drab, brick structure with a flat roof, and unassuming little, barred windows. Twin metal covers were rolled up to reveal double glass doors, each bearing the logos for the most popular credit cards: Vixen, Americat Express, and Master Cat. The only striking feature of the building was its loud, buzzing neon sign that displayed the name "Liquor Mutt" in a syncopated flicker. The sign reflected in Plonq's glassy eyes, as he stood in momentary awe of the dingy shrine to alcoholism. "Scotch," he sighed again, in a reverent tone. Without further hesitation, he stepped over the two drunken morphs lying in the doorway and reached for the door. "Hey buddy, got a quarter?" slurred the one who was conscious, pawing hopefully at the snow leopard's leg. The spotted cat paused and regarded the wretched poodle morph. Its watery, pathetic eyes tugged at his heart, and almost in spite of himself, he found his hands rooting through his pockets for change. "All I've got is a fish," he mewled finally, producing a salted mackerel from one of his inner pockets. The poodle made a sound of disgust. "Ugh! I'll pass," he said. Plonq blinked; apparently beggars COULD be choosers. He pocketed his fish again and brushed past the prone morphs with a shrug. The liquor store was a fairyland of fluorescent lights and sparkly glass bottles of every imaginable size and shape. There were smiling Buddha-morph wine bottles in their own wicker baskets, ornate rodent-like ewers of mousecatel, with glass tails curled up in to stylised handles, and even a gryphon morph puzzling over what could only be described as a Klein bottle of reddish liquid. The aisles and shelves were clearly marked, and his little snow leopard eyes played over the signs as they scanned toward the back of the store: "Fine Liquors", "Not Quite So Fine Liquors", "Rotgut" and finally "Scotch". The last sign was squirreled away at the dim, back recesses of the mart. "Mmm... Scotch!" mewled Plonq, licking his nose and making a beeline for the corner. He paused upon arrival, and began to scratch his muzzle in concentration as he contemplated on the plethora of choices offered by the store. At the better end of the scale -- he did not even CONSIDER the top echelon -- there were such familiar brand names as Glencivet, and Glenfish. Both were palatable single-malt liquors, worthy of any cat's collection. In the lower priced whiskies were the more notorious brand names such as Bull, Black & White (which bore the rather appropriate logo of a kilted skunk morph on the label) and -- ack! -- Johnny Stalker Red-Eye Label. "Swill," muttered Plonq, starting to wrinkle his nose in disdain, when he noticed that it came packaged with a free scotch glass. "Hrm?" He picked up the bottle and examined the little tumbler; it was square, and bore an etched-glass likeness of the scotch's logo -- a drunk, kilted wolf-morph pissing into a bottle. "Bad scotch, cute glass," he mewled, and his tail began to thrash as a barometer of his indecision. He tucked the bottle under his arm and rooted through the Glenfish in the vain hope that he had overlooked a complimentary glass with one of the better brands. His investigation was interrupted by the sound of the front doors literally exploding inward, and a bellow of, "Awright you motherfuckers, hit the floor -- NOW!" "Hrm?" Plonq stood and peeked over the shelf to see what was going on, and had just enough time to glimpse two masked furs in long, grey overcoats, before same one yelled again, "I said on the floor you dumb fucks! Now! I said NOW!" He emphasised his point by pointing a sawn-off shotgun at a rack of beer, and unloading in a spray of malt liquor and lead shot. "That's your fucking head next, now get DOWN, and don't you fucking move!" "Ack!" yowled Plonq. He did not know if the fur had been talking to him, but he was not about to take a chance. The little snow leopard dropped to the floor behind the rear shelf and curled into a foetal position around the bottle of scotch that he was still clutching in his trembling hands. He compiled a quick, mental stock of everything he was carrying, and took distant comfort in the knowledge that all he stood to lose was a salted fish and his credit card. "I said don't move, bitch!" thundered the fur again, which was followed by another tremendous blast from the shotgun. There was a shriek of vulpine pain, and a child's scream. "Momeeee...." wailed the child. "I told her not to move," shouted the fur with the shotgun, "now look what the stupid bitch made me do! I told her not to fucking move!" "Oh my god -- they shot someone" thought Plonq. The sound of the screaming, wounded femme morph turned his stomach to ice, and the smell of gunpowder, blood and urine washed over him with an accompanying wave of nausea. The snow leopard felt his lower intestines knotting in terror, and he found it increasingly difficult to catch his breath. As fear wrapped its gentle stole around his heart, it whispered an unholy litany in his mind: "These furs are ON something. They're insane. They'll kill us all." "No, no, no, no, nooo! Plonq doesn't want to die," he keened softly. Tears welled up in his grey-green eyes, and his voluminous tail wound itself tightly around his body, as if it might offer a small measure of comfort, or protection. A moment later, a slam of adrenaline pulsed through his system as his body's natural "fight or flight" instinct kicked into gear. The screams and shouts at the front of the store continued, and although the snow leopard no longer comprehended the actual words being uttered, a part of his mind suddenly became very lucid. The cat glanced up from his prone position and noticed that the swinging doors leading to the stock room were only a few short bounds from where he lay. He held his breath, and over the din at the other end of the store, and the thundering of his own heart, he heard the sound of the morph's partner moving toward the back of the store. Plonq eyed the doors again and considered his odds -- he would be exposed for a second, or possibly two, if he made a quick dash. In a moment, it would be too late for a decision, and his flight instinct made up its mind for him. The feline went from rest, to full flight in two bounds. In the periphery of his awareness, somefur shouted, "Hey you!" This was followed by a curious series of staccato burps, as splinters of wood and plastic sprayed from the doors toward which he leapt. A fragment of something nipped his left arm, but by the time he registered the sting, he was already through the doorway and flying over a low stack of beer cases. Plonq twisted nimbly in mid-flight, sweeping his tail in counter-balance so that he hit another, larger stack of beer flush with his back, before landing in a furry heap on the floor between the two piles. Several bottles over him exploded in another hail of automatic weapon fire, sending a rain of glass and beer suds down on the cat morph. Even as he hit the floor, his hand and feet were already scrambling for purchase, propelling him in a direction that he dimly hoped would lead toward a doorway into the back alley. He guessed rightly, and was rewarded by the sight of an open door -- presumably opened same stock boy who had left the receiver of the wall phone beside the doorway swinging on the end of its cord. Plonq padded into the alley, just ahead of the sound of a body slamming through the door into the stock room. To his left, he caught sight of a fleeing panda morph, its smock flapping freely in the breeze. Of more immediate concern to the cat was the Dumpster and high, concrete wall across from him. As his eyes were barely beginning to register distances and angles, his legs were already bunching to jump. In a graceful leap that would have made a ballet dancer envious, he sprang lithely from his right foot, kissed the top of the Dumpster briefly with his left, and propelled himself over the wall in a fluid, feline motion. Jumping was a snow leopard forte.