The birds, the bees, and every other woodland animal: Act IV

I was awoken from my slumber by someone poking me with a broom like I was roadkill, and let’s face it, in that moment I was worth less than roadkill. At least Jeffery Dahmer’s doppelganger would have found some use for animal corpses. I was a mess, I had come here to uncover what I believed to be an untouched gold mine of journalistic potential, and all I found was a murder case that I was now wrapped up in, colleagues that had probably hit the asphalt and left me to fend for myself in this concrete jungle, and the worst of it was, I couldn’t blame them in the slightest, this assignment had been a disaster. Laying limp on that grass, feeling the morning sun on my skin, I could feel my ghost leaving it’s body and, in that moment, I saw a sad, hungover man, laying face first in a Burger King parking lot. It was an ugly sight to say the least, something that would stick in the mind of a child for the rest of their life if they saw it, having nightmares about the dead one shoed man with no pants from Burger King. It wouldn’t have surprised me if I blacked out and killed that man Columbo led us to, I had so much unjustified spite for the furries, and I never had a reason. Maybe it was jealousy, perhaps I didn’t appreciate the fact that they can spend all their money on elaborate sex suits and legally walk down the street in them pretending to be “children’s entertainment” cause I swear, when I try to walk down to the Walmart wearing my full body, skin tight, butter slathered latex suit, I’m charged with indecent exposure, but thinking less of the furries because they can get away with what I can only dream of is childish, I should be happy for them if anything. Maybe it was simple ignorance, the fact that I had turned stubborn and refused to understand anything about what furries do for the longest time, instead building my own narrative around a cult story. I didn’t even have any evidence for that claim, I’m a sham, a lying son of a bitch, wait, I already told you that earlier, so it’s your own fault for believing me, for shame.

NO, enough of the excuses, it’s time to be the journalist you were born to be, to tell the truth, and finish the assignment you started Bernard. This was my moment to regain what little bit off credibility I had left, to step into redemption and be reborn. First things first, I gotta wake my lazy ass up and get a move on. It took some time, but I eventually regained control of my limbs. I sat on that grass making my plan of action for how to salvage this sinking ship that was my occupation. I ditched the one shoe still on my foot, along with my socks to go for the hippie aesthetic. If I wanted any hope of embedding myself into this community, I would need to get myself the right set of threads, a real zoot suit to blend in with the scenery. It had to be something with more fur than an artic dwelling mammal, and as luck would have it, one was right in front of me. A pimp, strutting down the street, complete with cane in hand and cavalier hat atop his crown. The coat was the main course of the buffet of fur in front of me, you would have thought he was wearing an entire brown bear’s skin. It was time I embraced my fursona and became the bear I was always meant to be. Seducing that pimp into parting ways with his coat three sizes too big for his body was easier than I expected, but if a half-naked man came running at you with his hand down his underwear screaming for you to, “LET ME JIZZ ON YOUR JACKET!” I’d drop the coat too and throw my cane at the crazy wanking homeless man’s face, giving him a black eye, but it was all worth it for a bear coat that went down to my ankles and a bitching cane to occupy my one still working hand.

I caught a glance of myself in a shop window, and I didn’t recognize the man in that reflection. Eye blackened, hand still bloody and bandaged, feet bare like a Joan Baez wet dream, I looked so fucking dishevelled and nightmarish, that I knew it couldn’t fail. In the competition of gaining people’s attention that was a furry convention, I would certainly have heads turning towards my general direction. In a furry’s book, that’s called winning. All I had to do now was make sure I didn’t step on any AIDS ridden heroin needles on my way back to the convention. This was no world for the barefoot.

As the convention centre came into view, I could feel memories of last night flooding my head, being with that D&D group, being consumed by the pile, my decision to make a late-night trip for food, how I felt about all these things were being questioned internally. A sudden feeling of sickness overcame my body the closer I came to proximity with the metaphorical dungeon of mythical fire breathing creatures, only instead of fire it was bodily fluids. The thoughts of everything they would do to my body if they got their grubby paws on it, having to relive what I went through in that room, it all made me question whether I could go on, but then fire breathing creature reminded me of my mixtape, so I re-looped that in my head to take my thoughts off the trauma. I was beginning to believe I had planned all of last night’s ending so I wouldn’t have to face this nightmare again, my lashing out at Alis, it was rehearsed, I knew he’d punch me since I did it myself, my glass covered right hand was there as the only evidence I needed. I had been trying my best to hide away from my duty, to dodge my draft instead of facing the music. Was I trying to avoid my fate cause deep down I knew, I enjoyed what went down in that D&D club? I never felt as though I was close to death, quite the opposite, it was like being back inside the womb, feeling so safe and secured while buried underneath flesh and fur. Maybe I stopped it cause I knew if I didn’t, I may never have came out of that pile willingly. I had to own up and accept the facts, it was aight. It didn’t bother me that it happened, it bothered me that I wasn’t bothered by it. I’m not saying I would consider myself a furry, but I am saying they got amazing sleight of hand to get my pants off and rob me of my jenkem ciggies, and as much as I hated to admit it, I admired them for it.

With my fur suit and tie around my neck and back, and thin boxer briefs covering my pussy and crack, I felt relatively confident that I wouldn’t be getting licked by any otherkin women trying to disappoint their fathers to the maximum. I got my strut on and walked through those hallways once again, only this time looking like royalty that had suffered serious domestic abuse. A lot of people hugged me while I walked down those halls, and I was beginning to believe it was out of pity for the injuries I had accumulated throughout this assignment, all I knew is that I would be taking a well-deserved vacation after this was all over and done with. Somewhere with gigolos on call from the front desk and all the jenkem one man could ask for in a lifetime. I began enjoying the attention, accepting the friendship from complete strangers that had also paid an extortionate amount of money to be here, just to hug and gawk at those with enough money to buy a fursuit, or like me, rob someone of their fur suit. I was starting to think of myself as Cruella de Vil, in this oversized coat, and while looking through the pockets for cash, I found sunglasses that would only be worn by Elton John. All I needed was a pillbox hat, and I would have had Halston turning in his grave, wishing he could have thought up with this ensemble.

My attention drew closer to a room with quite a large amount of activity through the doorway. Expecting another disappointing Disneyland Magic Mike show, I was pleasantly surprised to find a marketplace fit for a medieval village. I removed the sunglasses to take it all in, breathe in the air of capitalism at work. As I ventured into the back section, containing phallic objects of all shapes and sizes, fit for any hole on the human body, whether they be used for intercourse or not, my observations were interrupted by the distinct scent of Cuban cigar smoke intoxicating my airways, “My wife, she loves these things, the Dealer’s Den that is. She can buy everything a woman needs here, clothes, craft beer, gloves, hats. But there’s one thing she can’t get anywhere else, penile spiked dragon dildos. She loves those things, but I can never understand why, she says she wants to try this thing called “pegging” which is when…” Why is Columbo explaining anal sex to me? Why is he smoking indoors? How does this man get away with acting like an oversharing autistic child, “…but sometimes I think she’s forgotten that I have a perfectly good working penis myself, oh wait, silly me, she wants to fuck my ass, I’m sorry, my mistake.” I stared into those seductive eyes for at least a minute without blinking, trying to think of a way I would be able to explain my strange fashion.

“You don’t have to explain yourself Bernie, I know you’re not a cop,” I couldn’t tell if he meant that in a good way or a bad way, but as he said it, my ass puckered in preparation to be fucked, “I knew you guys weren’t detectives, but I had a good hunch that you would be fit for the job.” I hadn’t had someone believe in me this much since I did track and field in high school, but that ended with me crying with a twisted ankle at the starting line, so I was expecting to also be crying here, only with more severe injuries. “Frank I uh, I don’t know what to tell you, I’m a mess, my assignment is a disaster, my colleagues are God knows where, I’ve got an unusable hand, a black eye, no shoes or pants and nothing written for the piece I’m supposed to be writing, but here I am, looking at exotic dildos with you. I came here trying to uncover a cult, not commit acts of masochism on myself.” He wrapped an arm around me, but I didn’t give much reaction, “You look exhausted, why don’t you come back to my room, I’ll make you some breakfast, get you some pants, it’s the least I could do,” his generosity is all I needed in that moment, but I had to decline, “Frank, thank you, really, but I’ve got to get back to my team, Alis, Verlaine,” but he brushed me off and insisted on helping me in my hour of need, “Oh I don’t think they’ll mind, and I’ll call them and tell them you’re with me.” He was everything I needed in that moment, a shining star, sent to give me purpose in such a confusing time. We walked back to the hotel where he had an anecdote about the elevator floor buttons, “You know what I like about these buttons, you don’t have to push ‘em, they go off with the heat of your hand,” Oh Frank you’re pushing my buttons with all the heat emanating off you. Why can’t more men have opinions on elevator floor buttons, I was nearly beaten by one, but you, you’re a master of the elevator, a pure testament to the power of testosterone.

I freshened up and dressed my legs once again with Columbo’s donated trousers. I kept the coat on, only open now, no longer having to strike fear into people near me with the prospect of me being a possible flasher. The built-up exhaustion had forced my hand and I unbuttoned my top collar along with loosening my tie, people would know now not to bother me, less they face my wrath and die at the hands of a man with too much on his plate. “I swear to you, I’m a terrible cook, but you ask my wife, and she’ll tell you I make a hell of an omlete,” I was beginning to feel there was a catch to all these acts of kindness on Frank’s part, “Columbo, please, you don’t have to do that,” but once again, he carried on without acknowledging my resistance to his kind nature. We sat and ate together not too long after, giving him the opportunity to help me emotionally further. “If you don’t mind me asking Bernard, what is it you came here looking for?” His angel eyes were the most effective deterrent to any hope of me lying to him, mostly because they had the same effect on me as Lee Van Cleef’s, striking me with the fear of what he could do to me if I didn’t say what he wanted me to. So long as our pupils were meeting in mid-air, I was under oath to tell all the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, “I’m not really sure about that myself. I think I came here looking for the story that would make my career, but now I’m thinking of whether I should change my choice of occupation, I might not be cut out for this line of work.” I reached into the inner jacket pocket out of instinct for a ciggie, only to remember the petty thievery I had been a victim of last night. Frank was quick to lean forward in his chair with words of wisdom, “You know what I think? I think you haven’t really looked at this place from a fresh perspective, ya know, really thought about why everyone’s here. You can’t write a good piece of journalism if you hate what you’re writing about.” Everything he said made me subconsciously nod along with the words, only I looked up, eyes squinting now, “How did you know I was a journalist?” I couldn’t have expected a better answer, it was a sentence that would make you believe you were dreaming, “I’ve read some of your work, I wouldn’t say I’m a fan, but I think it’s good what you do.” The pieces of the puzzle were coming together, Frank was trying to help me all this time. He gave me a murder case to report on, gave me his pants, cooked me breakfast, he was just a kind man, something I hadn’t seen in such a long time, but it was something I needed. I knew what I had to do now, I’d have to clear the slate, look at these furries like I had never seen one in my life and come to a well-rounded conclusion, even if it took all day. “Thank you Frank, for everything, I don’t know how I’ll repay you but I’m sure there’ll come a time,” and as I walked to the door he took one last puff and whispered, “Oh I know there will.”

New perspective on the whole assignment, that’s what I needed. I’d have to re-learn what it meant to be a furry if I had any hope of saving my ass from a swift resignation. I made my way back to that convention grounds one last time, ready to roam the halls and observe. The difficulty came in trying to uncover a reason for why any of these people would do this. If it wasn’t for cult related reasons, and they were doing it out of their own free-will as I had come to be convinced of, then what would make them want to spend all this money organising this event to walk around in scorching heat for hours. My first assumption became masochism, but there were far better and less convoluted ways of getting your rocks off to a bit of pain, like joining the Jackass crew. The second reason I could ponder up was that it was an easy way to spice up their sex lives, but why bother with all this daytime shit if it was only for the sex? There was something I was missing. I wandered the halls aimlessly, trying desperately to understand the meaning of it all, what it was all for. I passed so many rooms of general entertainment, the same rooms you would see at a Comic-Con or DashCon, musical acts singing songs ripped from a teenager’s iPod from 2004, a room with one GameCube, 1 official Nintendo licensed controller and 3 third party controllers, each with a “turbo” button. I could’ve gone anywhere for these things, I didn’t need a furry centric convention to be able to experience Evanescence live covers or getting into arguments about the legitimacy of someone beating me in Super Smash Bros Melee, when my controller is apparently made for the Sunny Playsystem. I walked in circles, waiting to see that one thing that would make it all click for me, and with enough time, it came to me, in the form of a fursuit performance panel being held in the ballroom of the convention centre. At first I was confused as to the point of such a panel, fursuit performance? You’re not Daniel Day-Lewis, you’re a guy in a cartoon animal bodysuit, but curiosity got the best of me and I thought I’d be able to laugh at wannabe Hollywood actors trying to recreate their favourite sex scenes in films like the one in The Matrix Reloaded, or The Godfather, I was fully expecting them to do the one in Gone Girl. I took a seat in the back and listened in on the teachings from the hostess, it was one petite young woman surrounded by fur suited and booted individuals, and I swear, from where I was sitting, it looked like the start of a porno.

I sat watching that panel to the end, having found the third and final reason as to the point of this whole thing, miming. Not one of those fursuiters said a word the entire time I was there, not even any kind of animal noises like a bark or a meow out of any of them, it made me sad to think about, a bunch of mute animals performing for my entertainment, that sentence would get me assassinated by PETA if I wasn’t carful, they’ll murder puppies, why would they have any mercy for me? But it wasn’t that they were mute, far from it, I know cause Columbo could talk my ear off and he’s the biggest fur Freddy I’ve seen roaming this place. I couldn’t believe I didn’t see it earlier, but these fursuiters were keeping the old French performance art of miming alive, that’s what this was all about, they replaced the clown makeup and berets for something far more bone chilling. They really are the modern-day clowns more that I think about it, they act like every paint huffer I’ve met, they walk like they shit themselves, they’re reaction to anything new is met with as much curiousness as a baby, and last but not least, they always want to be children’s entertainers, but they don’t realize that children are fucking terrified of them. All we need now is for Stephen King to write about an alien demon that inhabits a fursuiter to vore kids, and my theory will be accepted by the public, it’ll be like Cujo on two legs. I walked to the front of the room where the host was wrapping up the show, but before she could, I had to give my words of encouragement, “Listen guys, I love what you’re doing here, you guys are keeping the art of clownhood alive in today’s non-clown loving society, you’re really doing God’s work. The last time I can think clowns were this popular, would probably have to be when everyone was dressing as Heath Ledger’s Joker for Halloween back in 2008.” The room fell into silence, and I knew my work had been done to the best of my ability, before taking my leave.

Before I left this place for good, I had to mark my territory in the lavatory. When all was done and I exited to wash my hands, cause I’m not an animal, I had neon colours poking into my peripheral vision, I didn’t need to look to know it was some sort of technicoloured fox or canine derivative that was now staring at me. I held off on looking directly at them for as long as I could, but I wasn’t planning on starting a bathhouse in the men’s bathroom so I would have to leave eventually. My eyes met the figure in the doorway, only before I could ask them to shift their ass out the way, they spoke in laboured breaths of contempt, “You, you dirty bird, how could you? You think we’re clowns? I’m no clown Mr. Man, do I go down to the feed store in town and honk my big red nose at the clerk? And at the bank, do I kill 30 boys and hide them underneath my Christing floorboards? What you said was a bunch of cockamamie and I’d like for you to apologize right now, Mr. Man.” I wasn’t intimidated by someone wearing a rainbow fursuit, so I tried to make my way past them. My attempt to leave was met with a swift punch, and they must have been wearing brass knuckles under those paw gloves they had on, cause it didn’t feel like soft fur in the slightest. I spat a mouthful of blood onto the walls and floors, seeing double of the world and an echoed voice call out to me, “I’M NOT A COCKADOODIE CLOWN!” I took refuge in the bathroom stall, locking the door to try and give myself some time for my vision to no longer be fucked beyond recognition. As my senses came back to me, the door also swung open from a hard kick, bringing the lock off it’s hinges. The only thing my eyes were drawn too now, were the exposed pussy lips on the crotch of the woman standing before me, breathing and growling like a bitch In heat, and then the sickening realization of just how much shit I was in hit me, “You’re the killer, aren’t you? You suffocated those men,” my inquiry into her manslaughter prowess was met with a cackle fit for a Salem witch and a subsequent confession, indicating I was soon to be joining them on the blue lips list, “I did, and do you know why? Cause their time had come, as has yours. Don’t worry, I’ve prepared for what must be done, I slathered some peanut butter on it to make the experience more enjoyable and less macabre for you.” This was it, I’d be dying in a bathroom, most fitting place if I was honest with myself, shit life in a shit place. Maybe all the furries would remember my name at least, they’d all remember the snatch suffocated journalist from Anthrocon. “If you ever write a taunting letter to my family or the police, can you please tell my wife, I will haunt her until Bill Murray performs an exorcism on the house.” I don’t think she respected my last request, cause before I could blink, I had my wrists pinned to the wall and my face being straddled by a peanut scented pussy. I felt the life draining into that bottomless pit of a poontang, I saw my life flash in seconds, all the greatest moments, with my colleagues, we did have a good run while it lasted. Then came the light, and not being one to be fashionably late, I intended to meet my maker tout de suite, but all was delayed when the sound of metal cracking against bone rang out and my face was uncovered allowing me to gasp for air once again. The world came back to me in a haze as my brain tried to come back to reality, being disappointed that the prospect of death was once again out of reach. My saviour stood before me holding a fire extinguisher, standing over the now limp snatch killer, “V-Verlaine? How the fuck did you find me?” I wiped my face, making sure I hadn’t actually died and was now having some sort of Lonely Bones post death hallucination, “I sensed the strong aura of a lesbian in the men’s bathroom, so I became concerned. I asked Alis to check it out but he’s busy trying to flirt with Columbo at the dildo stall in the Dealer’s Den.” It took everything in my body to not let out a fourth scoff at the mention of lesbian telepathy, but if it wasn’t for that ridiculous power of hers, I would have been another victim on Columbo’s case, “Next time I scoff at you saying that, make sure to remind me I’m not dead cause of it, I’ll probably repress this experience by tomorrow.” She nodded and helped me to my feet. As we looked down at the murderer on the floor, Columbo entered the restroom with Alis in hot pursuit, “Alister, you really don’t have to follow me to the toilet you kno…what the hell happened here?” We all now looked at the unconscious fursuited body on the ground, “That Frank, is your killer woman.”

It felt like the end of an era, killer caught, story made, all the memories we wouldn’t be able to include in the article as to not get side-tracked. The only thing left to do was reveal the identity of the strange costumed criminal, like a the end of every episode of Booby-Boo Where Art Thou? Columbo reached down to unmask the fiend, and shock overcame the room. Laying unconscious on the men’s bathroom floor was none other than Kathy Bates, bodacious butch bitch extraordinaire. It all made sense now, oh who was I kidding, none of this made any fucking sense. Kathy Bates, Oscar winning actress had turned into a fursuited, snatch murderer, I wasn’t sure whether I should wake her up to ask for an autograph. “You can’t breathe a word of this to the press, ya hear? Not until we’ve proven her guilt.” I understood what Frank meant, and agreed, the last thing I needed was Kathy Bates holding a grudge against me for 30 years to come, only to wake up one morning with her suffocating me to death with her vulva. 30 years was me being positive, she could say those men she killed wanted to go out the same way they came in, and that would get her a manslaughter charge, with that she’d be out in 10 on good behaviour and a hefty load of bribes. What happens at Anthrocon, stays at Anthrocon, we wouldn’t be mentioning this anytime soon. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve had enough of these fur loving fucks.” My colleagues gave me a smile and we hugged once again, having just escaped the cold grip of death for yet another time in our eventful lives. No matter where we went, disaster and excitement followed, which is fun at first, but concerning after years of the torture. We gave up a long time trying to explain it, and have accepted that we either have a hex on our asses, or unbelievably shitty luck, like, destroyed a mirror shop bad luck.

Alis and Verlaine helped me hobble my way to the car as we made our departure from this hell on earth. It would be a long drive home, but once we were there, the task of writing about the happenings of the assignment became a difficult one. How the hell could you describe any of this? Most of the people that read this shit, only do it at breakfast on the off chance they might see something interesting that they can bring up to a co-worker later in the day, they weren’t looking for a smut novel. As hard as we tried to formulate one sentence that would not have a mass boycott of the magazine, we just could not do it. Why the hell would they send us to a fucking furry convention, we’re the guys that are supposed to report on paint factories, that way we can make it sound fun somehow. If you send us to a furry convention, it’s your own fucking fault for getting an article filled with sodomy, what else are we supposed to do there? We have to try really hard to get sex at a paint factory, but here, all we had to do is step through the door and the clinically sex crazed were all over us like white on rice. After the third day of writer’s block, I realized it was no use, we’d have to give them the honest truth. I got up and walked to the communal typewriter, eyes on me like a hawk in anticipation of my next move. 19 keys rang out into the room to make 5 simple words, that’s all it took for me to leave satisfied with the entire article. Alis and Verlaine were quick to peer review my work, looking up at me and down at the page, not knowing what to say, “Bernie, we can’t publish this.” I lit myself one last jenkem cigarette to celebrate our latest creation, “Why not? It’s the truth, and that’s what journalism is all about, telling people the honest truth. You won’t get more honest than that fucking article you’re holding right now. If you have something you’d like to add, by my guest, but if not, send it to Boss.” They hesitated but knew there was nothing more we could do. We sent it off for publication and because of the lack of professionalism in this particular magazine we worked for, nobody thought to do anything about the nearly completely blank front page of the latest edition until it was printed and shipped to over half the country. It didn’t take long after that for us to get a call about our termination from the company. As much as Alis and Verlaine were shitting bricks at the news, I was waiting for a second phone call, and it didn’t take long, less than 6 hours actually, to inform us we had been rehired. You see, our article had resulted in the most sold copies of this God forsaken magazine since they lied about Michael Jackson still being alive in Brazil. A shit eating grin plastered my face as I heard those words ring out from the phone, “We’re sorry,” it was all falling into place now, and I had the front row seat to knock it down, “Hey Boss?” I could hear him leaning forward with those manic breaths of his, “Shove it…up…your ass.” You smell that? Smells like freedom. “And what the fuck are we supposed to do now?” Verlaine asked, concerned as ever, “We’re famous now, we’re going freelance baby! No more editors, no more censors. People will know to be on the lookout for whatever we write next, cause who would want to miss out on it?” You’re probably wondering what that article read now. It wasn’t much, just 5 simple words, printed on an A4 page.

“Best sex I’ve ever had.”