Was tooling around the house lookin for berries for about half an hour. I came down the front walk and ended up about ten feet from mister bramble knickers. He was having a wee.
Both of us, the bear and myself turned tail and ran in opposite directions. Later, I huddled on the porch around a cup of tea, seemingly nonchalantly; watching this black bear fart around the yard. He is deaf to the horses hysterical snorts and the dog's frantic scratching, yelping, whining please play with me. He does not want to play with anyone but the bumblebees.

DELETE!DELETE!DELETE!

Where are you staying?
With Lazer, hyena sex offender

Who will you be with?
400z Hyena

Do you do trades?
Show me yer boobs.

What suits will you have?
My crow head... living out of a backpack for four days leaves only room for essentials.

What is your gender?
PENIS.

How old are you?
18

Can I talk to you?
Only if you're a white middle-class college graduate.

Can I buy you a drink?
Can I put it in your butt?

What's your poison?
Tetnus.

Can I commission you?
Sure thing. I'll be about for mostly detailing Black and White stuff.

What events will you be attending?
Last year there was a room with free food I think....

Have you visited the website?[furryweekend.com]
No. Yuk.

If you were in the Rock Band tournament [http://www.furaffinity.net/view/3479850], what would your band name be?
Rusty Trombone.

What would you play?
A rusty trombone.

Can I hug you?
Trombone. With rust. Seriously, I'll throw you down an elevator shaft.

How tall are you?
5'9''

Are you nice? Or do you think so (no personal references needed)?
I am a very, very bad person.

Are you friendly?
Yes, step into my laboratory...

How long are you going?
Thursday - Monday afternoon.

Do you have an artist table?
No, but I'm gonna TAKE ONE!

Do you like parties?
Absolutely.

If I see you, how should I get your attention?
Pop out an eye and start to scream.

It's like when Justin Timberlake was all like screw you, N'sync, I'm gonna grow facial hair. Only none of us has any money.

Here I am, in rainy Montreal, headed for the sushi buffet for a light gorging before me and the big boss Raven hit the pubs.
I'm exited. We're here to see the Bodies exhibit- you know, the science thing with the dead people. It should be truly fascinating really, and possibly beneficial for some art, gore or not.
Se yezzall later.

It's just out of reach. creaking joints clamber up onto the abyss of a wooden seat shining with age and use, why are the light switches so high here? Some rich dude remade that film on the tip of my tongue, and so many were thrown into awe at the suggestion of romance. Where are the sugar cookies that will make me fifty feet tall?
I want to be Jesus!
Nail me up baby!
I would crawl inside the woodstove, so warm, and light against this defective electric wiring. Bones dust worry not at a greasy switch frowning down the wall.

Wtf?
I demand bird banner for next month!

I all in and out of here, folks. Getting sick and mixing concrete. There is an enormous excavator at the landdigging holes and moving rocks. It's sweet. It's got big sexy tracks that CHURN THE EARTH.
Word. So 'scuze me.

The trees bin cut today. The fire lit, brush piled in the idea of an apocalypse wall.
The cold is moving in here already.
With fall, then winter, six feet of snow and gut piles like gold in the woods.
YEAH, DEER SEASON!

Zeon shoves him off and stands up. She crosses the room and cranks shut the window against the darkening sky. Atop the bookshelf Skat, Didin, and Coccus squat ruffled among various strange artifacts, seeming to sleep. Zeon reaches under Coccus and pulls out a bizarre firearm, all chrome and swirls. It is about the size of a Glock 19 and looks like a spaceship. This is because it is one of the original laser Pistols. A-go-go MIT.
She shrugs off the heavy vest revealing a plain black tank beneath. Laser pistol tucked into it’s streamlined silver holster, she slips from the room and back into the cavernous insect displays. Rekk and Mecum scout ahead, hopping sideways in the avian come-along dinosaur gait.
The pair descend to ground level once more, slipping into the street silently, with Rekk swooping up and ahead to scout. Zeon follows closely behind. She trots along on the sidewalk, keeping the open street between her and the occasional parked car. When they reach a major intersection she stops next to a deep blue 1997 Chevy Monte Carlo and kicks each tire in turn. Chuckling as Rekk settles in the open passenger window, she pumps the gas twice. Ignition. Roar. And they’re off.
The crow waits until they hit forty. With this he snaps open his wings and leaps from the window, disappearing backwards at high speed. For a moment he is freefalling, spilling up and around in the wind behind the car. Then he is flying up, up and around to head Zeon off at the next turn.
She has been driving for some time when Rekk slams back into the car. He bounces off the passenger side headrest and flops into her lap, causing the car to swerve wildly for a moment before Zeon has time to hit the brakes. They slide to a stop.
“Fuck now, little crow- what’s going on?”
“Kek kek! Fuckek!”
“What?”
He flaps his frustration and cocks a ruffled head. “Other. Other! Yikes!”
“Crows?”
“Pink.”
Zeon unsnaps the laser pistol and flips on the power charge, spinning the dial up to level four, just enough to stun an adult. The Monte Carlo rolls forward.
When they round the corner, they are moving a good fifty miles per hour. The woman in the street has clearly heard the car coming. She is huddled against the brick of an apartment building, white lab coat lifting in the breeze. Zeon fires.

She is incredibly pale, as if she hasn’t seen real light for years. She probably hasn’t. Zeon couldn’t remember seeing human for at least six years, and the last ones couldn’t have possibly have counted. This woman, this scientist, must have spent the last decade locked in some laboratory jerking off to gene research.
Well it’s too late, isn’t it?
Zeon leans back in the creaking seat of the cherry picker and smiles. She’s waking up.
The woman’s eyelids flutter. She is suspended in the grasp of a comically school bus yellow cherry picker, one of the construction vehicles Zeon had found rusting in the empty city.
They are in the zoo.
Below is what was once the bear’s pit. Three large female black bears had dominated the expansive enclosure, lounging in the artificial caves during the day. With one male lumbering about the area as well, they had a very cooperative existence.
Zeon enjoys the zoo. Most of the creatures in it are long dead, from either starvation or by being poisoned by the drastic change in the environment. Holocaust will do that. Some died. Some escaped. Some… changed.
The creatures dwelling therein now are… different. Not apples to oranges. More like apples to, say, moray eels. Zeon would come round every couple of days with a dead krahl or a bag of trash for the Bears to eat.
The woman has stopped writhing now. Her optic nerve severed, one eye’s pupil is pinpointed with panic, the smooth orb of her sclera spider webbed with red. Rekk hops further along the arm of the cherry picker causing his prize to bounce on it’s elastic cord.
She is beginning to tremble again. Waves of shock and fatigue seem to be washing in and out like some chemical tide. Zeon turns on the ignition as the woman turns her head to look at the fisher who watches her twisting in the grasp of the machinery, clutching at her once white lab coat desperately.
Zeon grins as she sees the woman mouth please over the roar of the machine. Rekk bounces. The Bears circle below, acrid breath burning the air, spines rustling. Zeon giggles.
She switches off the ignition and cocks her head at the woman questioningly.
“What was that?”
“P-please, please, pl-“
Zeon leans on the horn hard.
Rekk hops. “Beep! Shutit! Beep!”
The woman squirms. “Please- you-“
“Don’t have to do this? I know.” Zeon shrugs. “But Rekk was hungry. It isn’t my fault we happened across you. I was expecting one of the big rats or something. Personally, I think they are a little tastier.” She shakes her head sadly.
“I’ll do any- I’ll tell you everything… anything you want to know, I’ll tell you… I will… please.”
Zeon looks surprised. Rekk almost drops the eye.
“Anything? Really?” She pauses. “How about Nilla Wafers?”
“W-what?”
“Oh, you know- crunchy brown cookies- in a box… taste like some oddshit bean. I must have tried a thousand times, but I just can’t replicate them. And the factory seems to be leaking some weird chromium smelling thing, so I keep a wide berth these days.” She sighs and leans back, rubbing dark hair into spikes with frustration. “I just can’t get that… crumble.”
The woman stares in desperation, pale face luminous against her dripping red eye socket, open mouth dark and pink.
Rekk bounces.
“I- don’t- I’m in stem cell research- I don’t-“ She swallows. “Have you tried egg whites?”
Zeon looks thoughtful for a moment. Then-
“Yep! Sorry, miss, wish you could have helped, but no go. Good evening!”
The cherry picker roars to life as the woman begins to writhe and scream once more. Rekk flaps around overhead, eye bouncing and dripping on the Bears below.
Zeon pulls one lever and pushes another. The claw contracts.
She smiles.

Prion is flying. It is early morning, with the wind off the coast slightly cooler than usual. An empty canvas bag swings from his shining black talons. He can taste the electric tension of a storm slinking on the grey waves. He is alone.
The other crows are spiraling off over the Zoo, dancing around the leftovers from last night, as the Bears sleep in the growing sunlight. Heat and cold are gathering high in the sky, preparing to crash together like opposing armies.
Outside of the city, the big male crow touches down on a stony hill. A ridge of sickly fir trees hold court between him and the sea, but the faint sounds of the surf beyond still reach is black plumed head.
Around, many different lichens crawl over the rough granite. They are like a miniscule topographical map on the broken stones. Prion hops about, scratching at the undergrowth searching for a particular berry, leaf or twig formation. The canvas bag swells with foraged goods, herbal scents seeping from the fabric.
Thunder rolls.
Prion leaps up, stuffing a final sprig of yarrow into the pack before launching into the air, listing slightly as he is bogged down slightly by the extra weight.
From the city, Mecum and Rekk are speeding towards Prion. Other dark shapes can be seen heading for the home museum for shelter. Prion picks up speed, gaining height as Mecum loops around beside him, snatching up a trailing strap from the pack to share the load. Rekk cackles and swoops inland.
There, Zeon’s Chevy Monte Carlo blasts along the decrepit pavement, roaring along the weed- strewn beltline like some great blue beast. Rekk soars in through the open passenger’s side window. He lands in a jumble of feathers on the carpeted floor, puffing out in injured pride like a great dust bunny. There, two groundhogs lie twisted and bloody, with the charred scent of fully powered Laser pistol wounds. He hops up onto the seat.
Zeon reaches over and ruffles his head distractedly, bringing forth a croak of irritation. Like Didin and Mecum, Rekk has never spoken, seeming to be one of the few creatures unaffected by fallout. The fisher pulls a battered joint from behind her ear and grins out the windshield, punching in the car’s cigarette lighter. The city ahead is shifting, caught between brilliant morning sunlight and dark rolling thunderheads.
When they pull up to the museum, Zeon does not slow, but swings in through a huge plate glass window, crashing through into the decrepit empty space room. Giant foam planets swing overhead, looming over fiberglass spaceships and piles of folding chairs. Rekk hops out of the door when the fisher opens it, rolling up the windows and popping the locks into place and scooping up the groundhogs before slamming the door closed.
Upstairs, cracked windows are cranked tightly shut against the growing storm. Quarter sized hail scrabbles against the glass like bony fingers. Prion is crouched on the bookcase with the other crows, gripping the canvas bag like a lifeline.
Zeon drops the groundhogs in a large plastic bin on the floor, gesturing at it encouragingly as Rekk, Mecum, Coccus and Didin dive on the rodent dinner. Scat hops onto Zeon’s shoulder, clicking her beak in the fisher’s ear affectionately. Zeon pinches out the dwindling roach and exhales around the crow’s head.
“Icy heads!”
Zeon nods sagely, eyes flickering. “Quite a storm Scat. How’re the bears?”
“Burpin’.” Scat presses her face against Zeon’s palm, rumbling deep in her throat with affection. She stays there for a moment, then hops down and begins tearing at the groundhogs.
Prion is cold under Zeon’s fingers, nervous from the race back from gathering outside the city. It is clear from the melt water pooling around him that he had been caught in the storm. Mecum is oblivious, wobbly head poised over the soft groundhog innards.
The fisher gently lifts Prion up off of the shelf, uncurling his talons from the canvas bag and setting it on the bed. She sits next to it, settling the big crow in her lap and smoothing the ruff on the back of his head gently.
They stay this way until Prion is dry and warm. His eyes have become bright and clear, free of the panic that had cloaked the bird before.
“Thanks, Ze, thanks.” He cocks his head. “Gonna eat now.” He hops off her lap onto the floor, bouncing over to the bin and shoving the smaller Didin aside.
The crows eat. Zeon is crouched by the window drawing the hail-strewn city.
Below, a creaking ton of rust red steel lumbers up the street.

Drukk dances the wheels of the van over mounds of hail. Scratch is curled in the rear with Umber, with Phil crouched watching out the rear window. The storm thunders down.
Hezron is lounging in the passenger’s seat, dick and dawn squeezed in at his feet. At a signal from Drukk, the wolfhound cracks open the door and hops out, followed closely by Dick. The two slip through the weather down a slope, the looming beast of an empty parking garage overhead.
The ground floor is strewn with the skittering forms of city rats, under siege against the storm. They scatter, lumpy useless bodies shedding scraps of fur in Hezron’s path. Dick swings around, slipping up to the second level.
There is nothing but strewn broken glass here. A few twisted black forms of metal suggest old cars crammed against the east wall. The third and fourth floors are deserted as well, the garage being devoid of food. In its place, the burned remains of automobile blood lay slick beneath the dogs’ feet. Antifreeze and burned oil mix sweet and sharp scents like some filthy cocktail.
On the roof, hail is thundering down as fast as ever, obscuring the surrounding buildings in a haze of ice. The air is hot. Inland, brilliant sunlight can be seen, creating a sharp contrast to the rolling black clouds from the sea.
Dick dashes back down to the waiting van while Hezron clears the fourth floor. The elevator shaft is gaping, one door still in place while other lies crushed with the guts of the machine, resting at basement level. There, the floor is clear of grease and debris. Crisscrossed orange lines block out handicapped parking, across the floor to the balcony to the street below. Apparently the city’s disabled population was at home when disaster struck.

They park the van by the shaft, far enough from the outer wall to stay concealed from the street but close enough to take advantage of the light. As the day grows later, the light becomes stronger, slanting in almost horizontal. With the afternoon comes a silence, the dead city stoic after such a storm.
Umber rouses Scratch with a gentle lick on his forehead, brushing the reddish fuzz there into a discreet spiral. He twists, opening one eye and curling around her forepaws.
I’m off for street watch, Scratchmeat. Watch your bones for a while, alright?
“Umber, girl… what you done to me?” Scratch is half asleep, mumbling into eight heavily clawed toes.
I have done nothing that was not already coming, nothing. She gingerly removes herself, backing out of the van’s rear door. Phil’s cooking something dreadful topside. I’d advise eating some of whatever it is.
Scratch grunts, sitting up blearily. “Love ya, bitch.”
And you.
The roof is a maze of battered weeds and puddles of melting ice. Near the center, Phil is hunched over a small camp stove. Dick and Dawn are pacing the perimeter of the rooftop level, dark eyes just reaching out over the concrete half-wall to catch any movement from below. Although Scratch is silent all three acknowledge his presence with a brief flick of the eyes.
There is indeed a suspicious smell wafting from the stove, and as Scratch comes closer he realizes why.
Atop the stove a gallon sized cook pot grumbles to itself. Around Phil are the remains of what was presumably a pigeon, two swallows, and a lot of onion peels. She looks up and grins at the boy.
“Good eatin on a squab. Even more if you cut it with a few of these buggers. Never had them before, but… well they are called a Swallow.”
Scratch sighs and squats beside her. “Don’t the food out here got radiation on it and shit?”
Phil laughs quietly, shaking her head. She jabs a long fork into the stew, bringing out a steaming onion. “Honey, out here, radiation just happens. Lookit yourself.” She hands him the glistening bulb. “I was pink once too, I’ll tell you. Had a real life.”
Scratch blows on the onion and takes a cautious bite. It is delicious. “Yeah, sure. Me too. Goddamn picket fence.”
Phil bares her teeth. She stirs the pot for a while in silence.
“Aww, shit man. Tell me Phil, I’m sorry. Tell me your story. I do care, everything is just all fucked lately.”
She leans back, new leather jacket creaking eerily in the silent city. “Not much to tell. I was just a regular kid, living in the South Center of the city with my parents. Rooftop garden, real posh.”
“South Center? That’s real uppity, aint it?”
“Yeah. My family liked to think they had class. But I’ll tell you, when I was fourteen my ma died of old age.”
“But if you were fourteen-“
“I mean Pa killed her cause she started to sag.”
Scratch shrinks around his empty fork, burping and shivering.
“Don’t feel bad little Scratchmeat. Everyone gets what’s coming. I was put right there in the kitchen, and in the damn rooftop garden, wearing nothing but my old dead mother’s blue striped apron. That thing had pockets for everything. Everyone gets what’s coming.” She pauses to reload Scratch’s fork with another onion and some tender white bird-meat. “Two years later I was on the run for killing a man, with a backpack full of rat poison and sewing needles. Drukk picked me up before the Whorehouse Foxholes could.” She grins ruefully rubbing heavily furred white knuckles on the sleeve of her new coat. “And now look at me. Pillar of the goddamn rooftop.”
Hezron slinks up behind her, his great bulk seemingly appearing from nowhere. Dick and Dawn take no notice.
But Phil, my dear… a pillar must hold something up, isn’t that right? It has a purpose.
She makes no physical movement, other that becoming suddenly rock solid with tension. “Hez, I hold up what’s handed to me. Don’t matter what.”
He pauses. Then slinks around and curls beside Scratch on the pavement, popping a raw pigeon foot in his mouth and crunching it like a pretzel.
You are lucky this one cares, Scratch.
The boy licks his fork clean; forcing his brown eyes up past Hezron’s splayed legs to the wolfhound’s face. “Why’s that, huh?”
He shrugs, tendrils of pheromone lancing off his shoulders. You are in a dog pack. Someone has to lick you after you roll over.

Rekk bounces along the rooftop, perching for a moment on the cracked skull of a worn gargoyle. The museum is silent, Zeon and Prion sound asleep in the locked room below. Skat, Didin and Mecium are scattered like dead leaves around the city, swooping over the zoo and chasing malnourished rats up crumbling pavement.
Across the way, and a floor above, Rekk can see a weak tendril of wood smoke slinking up over the edge of a dilapidated parking garage. Winging up and over the museum, from a distance it appears as though a group of four Dogs, two of which seem to share kin with Zeon, are lounging about the rooftop around a small camp stove. Rekk soars down and alights on the roof of what was once the entrance to an elevator.
There is a young man, light brownish fuzz glistening in the sun, curled with his head on a dark canvas bag. He is sleeping, watched closely by a white girl in leather. The other two are dark mutts, simple collar-less dogs pacing the perimeter.
A large, rancid grey paw shoots up out of the elevator shaft, fastening around Rekk’s talon and gripping it tightly despite his agitated squawks and pecking at it’s wiry knuckles.
Hezron flips the thrashing bird upside-down, holding him there as the blood rushes to the birds head. Eventually Rekk quiets. Right side up, his head lolls to the side, eyes shrouded in a pink fog.
Hello, little bird. Your scavenger butt smells like a polecat, not an osprey. Who’s your pointy toothed friend?
Rekk glares groggily at the big wolfhound. He gurgles a little crow gurgle, puffing out the feathers on his head in irritation.
Hezron sighs and sets him back atop the concrete. Let her know we’re here, and only looking to kill a few raptors.


A cool dark wind. Dust, like snowflakes, are littering the ground. It is as if they were dancing with each-other, glued to the air’s breezes and skeleton sleeves, garments of the inhabitants here. The flesh was never essential for their existence- having never been made more of than songs and hope. And fear. Belief is water here, and the desert rains have changed course.
A gathering of light and a salted breeze form a small, shivering form. It does not look like a bird, but there is no doubt that it manages to Be one. There is a stance to it- a ferocious hollow boned hunger, piercing fury behind a slowly dilating pupil.
Sylvan gathers, then launches at a form. Its biology is compatible enough, but it’s form twisted somehow by a strange regional alteration.
She slips in like the gathering of dew, the previous mind drifting away. It was a tiny, broken thing, with no use but to fuck, kill, shit and eat.
A large Krahl circles the beach below once, spinning in back towards the cliff nests. It blinks, and stops flapping, dipping up and down still with the sea breeze. Sylvan opens her eyes and screams, her unfamiliar body shaking in a loud rasping gooselike honk.
Didin is perched high up in a red pine, preening Mecum and click-clicking her beak affectionately. The smaller crow has half-closed his semitransparent eyelids, basking in the attention. At the sound of the krahl’s call they burst out from their hiding place in a flurry of black down.
Sylvan twists the ungainly new body in the air, trying a maneuver that would be easy had she her osprey form. Instead of pulling up into a soaring upward arc, she crashes against the cliff nests, spilling droppings and twigs down onto the beach far below. A scrabbling, confused moment of large talons and loose gravel resolves it’s self in her settling on an unoccupied ledge. The other krahl look away. Some coiled reptilian instinct may suggest to them the hot smell of salt, sun and sea. It isn’t a krahl smell, anyway.
Mecum thumps to the ground a few feet from the cliff edge. The wrong-bird that had screamed earlier had hurt the inside of Didin’s head. Mecum liked Didin. She had lately been collecting more than her share of twigs, thread and even Bear’s hair. Mecum could smell winter and knew that by the end of it, he would be nesting with her. Nesting seemed nice. It seemed to involve quite a bit more food and sound. Food was nice. Didin was nice. She seemed to really like all of Mecum’s gifts as well, even the mouse-bag full of small wigglies, and he hadn’t been too sure about that one. Prion had said it was lazy food, having been discovered under a dead tree on a small hillock devoid of enemies.
Mecum hops to the edge, and looks down. There is the large form of a well- fed krahl dozing on a deserted ledge below. All of the other birds have retreated at least two hundred feet south of it, perching on new ledges and making new nervous off-white marks down the dark stone.
The krahl it’s self seems to be asleep, bald head tucked beneath a wing, downy underbelly sunk low over curled talons. Mecum backs up a few paces, scratching in the dirt until he has two sizable stones, one in each foot. He bunches.
When the crow vaults off of the ledge, he glides for only a moment before twisting in midair to dive towards the strange krahl. With a flick of his scaled toes he slings each stone, one after another, at the bird’s hulking form, swooping in from the side immediately afterwards in an attempt to knock it from the ledge.
One stone bounces harmlessly off the rock face. The second spins straight into the bird, not breaking anything, but stunning it’s slow mind as Sylvan struggles inside, desperately trying to coordinate wings with tendons with the sludge of this creatures central nervous system.
When Mecum connects with the krahl, his strong talons latch into the feathers at the base of it’s neck. His swoop continues, indeed wrenching the strange bird from it’s perch and into open air. Sylvan regains control. A too long neck twists around, clamping a murderous vulture-curved beak onto Mecum’s glossy underbelly.
He screams, releasing his hold on the larger bird and croaking desperately. Sylvan snaps open her new wings, she flaps clumsily for a moment, regaining height while griping a dark crow form in her crusted, stained yellow talons. Mecum falls limp as she grips his lower intestine in her beak and pulls, scattering blood and feces on the cliff face as she lands once more.

Rekk’s frantic arrival and Didin’s distress at the unexplained absence of Mecum prompt Zeon to lock all the windows she can before shouldering her marlin and stepping out into the falling darkness of the street, skinning knife in hand. Prion clings to her shoulder blindly, having insisted on accompanying the fisher despite his useless daylight eyes.
Umber trots around the corner of the parking garage, tracing the perimeter. Her head hangs low to the ground, nostrils flaring to detect any scent of an intruder. Her belly hangs lower than usual.
Zeon dips low to the ground, long spine bending with ferret fluid movements, skirting around behind the dog between shadows and debris. With the wind at her face, the fisher stretches up against the cement corner of the building and waits.
The knife is sharp, making it so was a mindless pastime good for filling long sleepless nights, and it’s edge had a certain wave to it that made one stroke an inch and a half deep with little effort. It is a little vicious pike, dull silver and sheathed in filth.
Umber knows nothing but a firm palm to her muzzle and a sudden wet warmth, bubbling into her lungs and out of her throat like hot maple syrup.


The tiles in the museum bathrooms extend right to the ceiling. The sinks do not drip or leak, taps being long empty and therefore as useless as the elevators and automated lounge music that once mumbled to itself in the lobby.
Zeon has eight wine bottles lined up beside her, each filled with a mixture of detergent and gasoline that sparks a strange nostalgia in Prion. He says nothing though, captivated as the fisher drains the dog’s blood into a five gallon bucket. She even hugs the animal to her chest, squeezing Umber like some great hairy fruit until even the slowest of drips has stopped.
Laying out the dog’s body, she slides the knife under the thin skin on her belly, revealing the tight, intact organs beneath. The dog’s uterus is bulging. When split open, eight sleeping forms can be seen. They are nothing more than spines and a few transparent organs themselves, with big alien heads and dark blue eyes. Prion rumbles longingly as Zeon lifts one between a thumb and forefinger, sliding it’s tiny form into the first wine bottle. It hangs in the mixture, the detergent thickener cradling it as if it were still in the womb.
When each bottle is full, Zeon tears a towel into strips, stuffing the ends of the bottles carefully so its contents soaks into the rag, ascending to the frayed edges as if eager to prove its capabilities.
On the roof, the half moon has begun its journey under a hailstorm of stars. Across the street atop the parking garage, Zeon can see the agitated dark shapes of the dog pack. They are no longer content. Yips and growls and a low, mournful whine dominate as subjects being discussed.
Zeon hefts a wine bottle, strikes a match, and hurls the flaming cocktail. It arcs high over the heads of the dog pack, causing them to scatter and crash landing in an explosion of embryonic flame in the center of the only exit. Zeon throws another.

Drukk is hunched over, as if his organs have been replaced with a black hole. He makes no sound. He pulls himself to his feet, shoving aside the wildly barking Dawn and striding over the broken glass and flames to the van below. In his wake, fiery footprints flicker and die.
When the roar of the engine below is joined by a squeal of tires, Hezron scoops up the two mutts and leaps after him. Scratch begins to follow but is held back by Phil. She grips his upper arms, pulling his elbows behind his back firmly.
Scratch thrashes. “Where’s Umber? Let go of me you hairy cunt… Umbe-!”
Phil releases one of his arms, spinning him to face her as she slaps a rough palm over his mouth. “Shut it, boy. We need high ground. The big dogs are going in, and while they are, you need to look for some stones or something- anything that can possibly be made into ammunition. I don’t know where your little bitch is, but we can help her by helping the rest of the pack. Do you understand?”
Scratch goes limp, beginning to shake. “Wh-where…”
She slaps him hard. “Get. Ammunition.”

Drukk slams the van out onto the street, swerving wildly as another cocktail smashes against the roof. The flaming mixture sprays out behind them as he whips around the museum, jolting to a halt below a retracted fire escape on the east corner of the building. Hezron leaps up impossibly high, the rusted steel of the staircase screaming as his immense form drags it lower, allowing Drukk to clamber up. The mutts streak back around the building at the big dog’s bark. They slip unnoticed into the museum’s dark depths, slinking into the stairwell to ascend into the bowels of enemy territory. Dawn pauses to lick a spot of coagulated blood, grinning pink at Dick. Umber came this way.
Hezron spits on the hood of the van in disgust. Drukks mad testicular thought processes tend to end in loot for the pack, but here, on another’s territory, the wolfhound has serious misgivings. The fire escape above rattles as Drukk swings out to avoid yet another flaming missile. Burning gasoline showers down onto the van, but Hezron has vanished around the side of the building.
Around back, the wolfhound lays a calloused paw against the steel of small security door. It’s lock is old and disused, flattered easily by the stroke of a fingertip, and it clicks open easily at Hezron’s request. The corridor and room beyond is of little use, empty but for a dead computer and the rags of a deader guard’s skeleton slumped over the dark screen. This being the first human remains he has seen since entering the city, he pauses a moment before plucking a plain silver wedding band from its finger and exiting into the stairwell beyond.

Zeon slams the roof access door. She treads consciously along the corridor, scuffing thick padded toes along the floor as if weary. The rank odor of the fisher clings there, burning on linoleum and wood floors alike. She half closes the door behind her.
Stuffing the canvas rucksack with ammunition and medical supplies, she pauses at the bookshelf. After the notebook there is only room for one book, a thin hardcover that has lost its title from the greasy corrosive fingers of time. The Marlin jumps at her side, restless as a landlocked pike.
Swinging the door almost shut, the fisher gathers the remaining embryos, carefully lining them up along against the top of the frame. She lights a candle just inside the door.
The crows are circling on the other side of the building, where, from the sound of it, one of the dogs is gaining altitude. Zeon tightens her straps and slips out of the window, coiling and weaving along the side of the building towards an old drain. Virginia creeper, the once loathed coy-dog of invasive plants, ripples with thick sinuous strength as Zeon proceeds downward in a screech of talon on tin.
The Monte Carlo waits, coiled patiently to spring forth with a roar.

Drukk tears the roof access door from its frame and hurls it lengthwise down the stairs. It smashes into the hallway beyond, Dick and Dawn leaping aside with ears flat. Drukk stops beside them for a moment. Then, nose twitching trots off in a cloud of red hot breath. The Mutts follow in submission ten paces behind.
The door is open a crack. He lays a palm against it. There is silence in the room beyond.

Hezron is on the third floor when he stops. The hair between his shoulder blades begins to rise. The wolfhound turns immediately and streaks down the stairs, taking the stairs to the front entrance hall. He pauses by the door. The street beyond is devoid of life, the parking garage across it silent.
The doors creak when he slips through, clanking shut behind him like fifty bucks worth of tin cans.
The van explodes.

Dick leaps at the door, turning slightly as he connects as if to deflect a blow. He rolls into the room beyond and leaps upright, snarling. Drukk is surprised by the crashing tinkle of glass, and again by a soft wetness that is almost soothing, the candle flickering and jumping like an eager watchdog, lonely after a day home.
Drukk bursts into flame. He falls, writhing, into the pile of broken jars, staggering up to gouge deep cuts into his footpads. Dick barks tearing the fisher’s nest up, running from corner to corner. The polecat is nowhere to be found.
A deep boom from below shakes the building.
Drukk falls into the doorway, screaming in an unearthly way that drives Dawn’s tail onto her underbelly and sends her yelping back down the stairs. Dick dashes back and forth, whimpering as Dawn vanishes. Drukk thrashes, burning, stuck in the doorway in a heap of fire and blood.
Hezron leaps into the street, dashing on four legs around the side of the parking garage to a side street strewn with weeds. There, a large rusted dumpster screeches and rattles while vomiting bent stop signs and steel cable. The wolfhound smiles grimly.
Good to see the two of you at work.
Phil lets out a yelp from inside and Scratch’s sweat soaked forehead appears over the side. He is holding a steel plate from the side of an old drinking fountain like a shield.
Phil clambers out, a three foot length of metal pipe in one hand. She zips up her leather coat and glares around the alleyway. “Hezron. What the fuck is going on? Who is out there?”
Some pissed off mustelid. I believe a murder of crows is involved. He lifts a length of cable, feeling its weight in paw thoughtfully. Drukk is… incapacitated.
Scratch clambers down. “How so?”
Dead soon, I am sure. A combination of gasoline and stupidity.
Phil presses her fingers against her eyes, sighing. “And the mutts?”
In answer, Dawn comes tearing around the corner, bleeding from one eye and shaking uncontrollably. Scratch looks up into the sky to see a large black bird wheel off into the sky, something small and shining in its talons.
Hezron is crouched holding the trembling mutt. Head cocked, he seems to be listening to something vitally important, some news from the hysterical dog.
When they exit the alleyway, Dawn hugs the building opposite the museum. Hezron crosses the street. There, among a halo of shattered glass, the body of dick lies broken. Desperate to escape the flames the mutt risked gravity. He is very dead. In fact, the mutt has achieved a level of deadness few beings get to experience, save for mosquitoes and roadkill.
Drukk’s body is badly burned. The room around him is littered with pieces of underdeveloped puppies, what would have been his and Umber’s young, had the pack never come to this city. Drukk is covered in blood, having finally cut his own throat to escape the burning. Hezron lifts the huge form of the dog onto his shoulders, wrinkling his nose against the rank stench of burned flesh.
The coast is not too far, but even so it takes a few hours for the four living to bring two dead to the cliffs. No words are said. Phil and Hezron swing first Drukk and then Dick off into the sea, turning away as scavenger birds begin to scream and spiral towards the feast.
The howl begins low, rumbling in Dawn’s chest before breaking up through Phil’s downy white throat, ringing as Hezron’s electric mind weeps and ending in the cracked scream of Scratch. Beyond, the city glints a fiery red as the relentless orb of the sun slinks lower, seeking land further west to torment with a new day. The landscape grays in twilight. Old broken ghosts flit from shadow to shadow, dark wings flicking clouds of dust higher.
In the distance, such a cloud rumbles from beneath four spinning tires. A sleek black shape swoops in an open passenger side window. The bird settles in, shuffling scaled toes amongst the other crows, Zeon holds out a hand. Prion drops a small slippery sphere into it and settles into the seat.
The fisher smiles, dangling the dog’s eye above her nose for a moment, inhaling the salty metallic scent of it.
It pops like a juicy red grape between her teeth, squeaking as she rolls it over with a pink tongue, slicing through the iris with a sharp canine. Zeon shifts into fifth gear and accelerates into the burgundy sky.

Seagulls scatter as the Krahl dive towards the feast. Among them, a large krahl flaps madly, tearing at the dogs flesh in a crazed, vengeful manner. Sylvan croaks, gulping down strings of meat in triumph. The bird god’s mind has mutated. Twisted around the degraded instincts of the scavenger, she is taken in by the form. All that is left is the sea.

With a fake personals ad. I'm a very nice young cowboy lookin' fer a good time. Well spoken, though. Believes in inner beauty, specially if it's naked.
Hurr. Let's see how much potential this gives me to destroy.
FUCK
KILL
DESTROY

So I've been writing one. And some of it is on here... but there aint no comments so- you fags- if you read it, and liked it, (or not, either way) lets expurge some feedback.
You sticky lazy used lollipop sticks.

Talk to  40ozHyena
I hear we'll do some collective wandering about, should be fun. Spread that shit!

Japanese people.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p88r.....xp_stronger_r2

They seem to be multiplying like rabbits up here, spreading like a good jam across the toast of my land. Toast. land. Land toast. EAT DIRT.
I've been dragging my feathered ass around to them, anyway. It's been great. Critters collecting things, pirating on a ten foot deep pond, stealing mangoes at 6:30 in the morning. Large debates on cannibalism.
I got in a pretty involved scuffle with some drunk guy. Grateful to fight of course, though.... for the joy of it, you know? Sometimes it's good to roll around in the mud and get hurt.
Anyway, incredible trips, all around. Thought I'd share.

I have totaled my little 1983 Civic.
Sadly enough, the little flying experiment ended in wrapping my bad self around an awesome telephone pole.
Hmm...
Well, all's well that ends well I suppose.

Some stoic pigmented creature is slapped up on the wall above creaking grubby white dinosuars, their static screens buzzing silently in a war across the hall. The books harbor a burning hatred for them.
This building is silent. Broken beneath a hundred years or so of molding struts and tiny rubber boots. The man slapped up on the wall here has watched it all. From an existence born solely of toxic oil paint, he observes the sweaty palms of pubescent boys skating over communal keyboards, printing out grainy representations of curves their peers do not yet divulge.
Hidden between frozen sanded two-by-fours, the books whisper filthy secrets to eachother. If asked, they will gladly divulge all manner of Oedipus complexities, catering to whatever hot dark dampness reeks in dark corners.
Someday,this will all be but a memory. I am sick to death of coming here, of slinking in dripping and unknown in my own stagnant hometown. I am a stranger here, while an encyclopedia of all the back roads and hiding places.
I stand silently between the bookcases and salute the man leaning above the Library computers. We have not been introduced.

In a good way. Some fool has posted some creation of mine on it.
DUDE.
And now, ye shall lick the salt from between my toes. Your god has spoken.
Seriously, though. This is pretty cool, for me.
Mmf.

The Yena found this sick crow in the road
propped him up on the bank...
the yena fooled about and dropped his load
but the crow soon stank
of some worrisome possible bird flu
perhaps salmonella goo
because the green poo
was the best clue
Yo.

Seriously, I've got this dead crow hanging outside my window now. Birdsign says: watch your butts everyone.

So yus... If you are going, and want a tail or some art, (Or would be willing to trade) Let me know. I'll just be packing a bunch of random tails and ears anyway.
See ya thar.

I've done something terrible to the Bumble. You know- from the toymation Christmas special? I'm really sorry- kind of.
I don't even know if I can bring myself to post it here.
Go, rule 34! GO!!!

Everyone I know is sick.
This is no good.
And I await the throwing up myself, so off to my next course I go with a bucket.

On the upside, I've got new ink, and more tattooing to come.

I've been writing. Heres a fragment. Happy january.

To the east, and inland again, cliffs shake the skeletons of trees up into the sky. The current swings trash into this little inlet and dumps it there as if weary of the treasured bones of human waste. The beach here is a mere pile of stones, multiplied many times over and coughed up at the ocean’s feet.
No osprey lives in this bay.
On the cliffs above once stood a city, resplendent with lights, music and the smells of millions of happy people; fried food, fish gut, coffee, sewage, smoke, fennel and spice.
In the center, just under two miles from the cliff edge stands a tower once bright with mirrored sides. Now it is dark and shattered. At midday, however, when the wind picks up the fog and throws it out to sea like a gaseous skipping stone, the furious sun strikes the tower like a bell of pure light.
The biggest Shiny there ever was.