Synopsis: Doormat John has walked through his entire life being somebody's assistant and never taking any risks. Finally when he risks being beat up for standing up for something humans consider freaks, he realizes the risk and, yes, rewards for representing something and standing up for what you believe.

Author's Note: This short story just kinda came on. I've always thought about what would happen if I were in this kind of situation, be it tomorrow or ten years from now. I figure most of you have thought about this as well. I wrote it down and I hope you all enjoy it. Favorite, comment, spread it around, relax and enjoy.
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The waitress places the cup of coffee down onto the counter in front of me and then places a small white tub of sugar and a pitcher of cream directly behind it. She then smacks her lips and places her hands onto her hips, just behind her white apron. Her eyes look over me as she shakes her head from side to side, her blue-rimmed eyes half open and looking over my clothes.
“Jesus Christ, John, you look like you were hit by a bus.” Delores says to me as she chews on her gum. “What in God’s name does that boss of yours have you doing?”
I stretch my lips into a small frown before relaxing my jaw and sighing. My body doesn’t have enough energy left to even frown. To tell the truth my boss has me doing everything. I mail faxes, take calls, balance accounts, get him coffee, write his letters, send orders down to the general population, hell I run the damned office for him. Too bad I don’t get any respect for it.
That office is open from six in the morning until five in the afternoon and I’m there for opening and stay until closing. My lunch brake consists of the five minutes I get to take a piss and down a half-pint of black, near-scorching brew from the crappy maker in the break room and rush back to my desk to answer the incoming call at his desk.
It’s nearing six o’clock now and I should be heading home, but, I’ve decided to come down to the little diner on the corner just so I can be somewhere other than the office, my bed and my 1987 Thunderbird’s interior. But this dreary little diner isn’t anything more than a glorified bar with a bunch of wooden tables strewn around an open area. There isn’t anyone here except tired businessmen, trodden construction workers and weary mailmen.
“I don’t know, Delores,” I reply quietly, “I run the entire office for a man who treats me more like his secretary than his assistant manager.”
“Honey, listen to me: Don’t work a job that makes you wish not to wake up the next morning rather than keeps you up with excitement. If you live a life like that,” she says as she leans down onto the countertop, “you’ll be dead before you hit thirty.”
I shrug my shoulders and loosen the old tie hanging around my neck until it doesn’t feel like it’s choking me anymore. That necktie never bothers me until the late afternoon until it begins to feel more like a rope than a tie. But I can’t loosen it. If Mr. Morris sees me with it loosened, or even the top button of my suit jacket unbuttoned, he would fire me in an instant.
“I need the money, though.” I say. “It pays way too much for me to step out of line. And if I do something that Mr. Morris doesn’t like, something he sees as too unorthodox, he wouldn’t hesitate to fire me.”
“Some boss . . . has you run this fancy prison for him and wouldn’t hesitate to fire you because of a stain on your jacket from the coffee he needed so badly.” She groans. “If I had to work like that, I’d more than likely tell my boss to go screw himself. Isn’t that right Phil?”
Delores lifts her head up and peeks over her shoulder, to a window that looks in to where a heavy-set man cooks food. The man turns his head and, with one-eye closed, looks through the big window to her. His big, filthy jaw hangs limply open and his open eye is big as a dinner plate.
“What’s that you want, woman?” The man asks quickly.
“I said if you ever treated me like crap, I’d tell you to go screw yourself and quit!” She cries.
“Ah, shut-up you batty old woman.” He says and swings his head back.
Suddenly the sound of cooking meat returns to the somewhat quiet atmosphere of the old inner city diner aptly called El Lobo. Around me the diner quiets down a little bit as the tired individuals that have gathered here forget about the two screaming employees nearby. A quiet chatter lifts up and the dark interior is returned to what it was before.
“I love you too, Phil.” Delores says with a chuckle. “Anyways, I just say that you can’t live your life as a doormat, you can’t keep letting everybody tell you what to do. If you do, life will just pass you by. Besides, every time you come in here you look like you went through a washing machine on heavy load and didn’t go through the drier right afterwards.”
Delores stands up and begins to walk away. I follow her with my eyes, shake my head and then roll my eyes. Looking down to the coffee sitting in front of me, I reach out with a tired, almost trembling hand, and lift the pitcher of cream. I pour in just the right amount but nearly spilling half of it on my lap in the process.
As I let the little white glass pitcher down onto the dusty countertop, I slump forward onto the wooden counter and yawn. Everything in front of me seems to spin around in front of me and everything around me seems to get louder, then softer, than louder once more.
My eyes blink shut for just a second but when I open them, my head is hanging forward. I blink twice more and then lift my head up, my lips hanging open. Running my fingers, stretching and moving them in an attempt to keep awake, I look to the coffee and sigh.
It’s so late and I can hardly keep awake. Maybe I should just go home, you know, so that I can get some more sleep than I usually do. Tomorrow maybe Mr. Morris will finally look over the paper I submitted for a raise. I’ve been working under him for nearly seven years now and I feel I deserve a raise. But then again, maybe he won’t. He keeps calling me Bobby.
Behind me I hear the group of construction workers begin to laugh, which catches my ears, but, I don’t get to hear any of their jokes. Turing my eyes towards them, trying not to move any of my lethargic body, I see them sitting a table and relaxing as much as they can.
Beer cans fill the table, some of them crushed and empty, the others clutched in their hands and ready to be sucked dry. They are all middle aged men, one with a thick mustache like me, but all of them wearing heavy clothing that covers work clothing. At least they have somebody to share the time with.
As I turn my eyes away from them the door opens to my right and swings open, but, I don’t take any notice to it. I turn my eyes back towards the cup of coffee sitting in front of me, a thin mist rising up from the now nearly white-colored surface. The sugar still needs to be put it, which makes me chuckle. I’ve never spent so much time just to drink a cup of coffee. Usually I suck it down on the way out to work.
“Look at this, fellas, can you believe this?”
“My God, I can’t believe one of them would be in here.”
“Jesus Christ.”
I reach out and grab the little spoon sitting next to the cup and shovel three spoonfuls of white crystal sugar into the frothy liquid and begin to stir it. The spoon knocks against the sides of the cup repeatedly, making almost like the sound a hand bell makes.
I knock the spoon against the glass rim and then lower it to the napkin. The door shuts quietly as I wrap my hands around the sides of the small cup. Lifting it upwards, I pull it to my lips and suck down a sip. Shoving the cup away from me, I cringe in pain as the steaming hot liquid rushes down my unprepared throat.
Letting the cup back down onto the saucer, I cover my lips and moan in pain, wondering why this happened to me. But then I lick my lips and begin to forget. Footsteps echo behind me a few times and the diner becomes quiet. Lifting my head up, I turn and look down the counter, suddenly aware of the stark silence.
Slowly I turn my head and look to the person that is standing behind me, the one that just came into the room. My eyebrows lift high and my lips hang open a bit in surprise. All the eyes in the room have turned upon this newcomer, but not for anything good, as I can tell.
The lady that just walked in is someone that we like to call an anthro. As of late it has become extremely popular for those of the rich and upper-middle class to pay to have their bodies altered to slightly resemble that of an animal. They can have anything from a simple ear reconfiguration and fake whiskers implanted to have their entire bodies surgically altered.
This lady is one of the latter forms of people. She is a small girl, probably only twenty years old, and is about five foot and six inches tall. She obviously has been altered to look like a common housecat, most likely her favorite animal. Her fur, thick and course, is white all over except with black splotches everywhere. One is over her left eye, another is under her chin.
Her entire face has been augmented to resemble a common feline, with a tiny pink nose on the end of a cat-like muzzle, slightly black from the fur patch. Long whiskers stick from thick cheeks and sharp teeth show through her slightly cracked lips, most likely surprised at the response.
She has no hair, or headfur, on top of her head. Instead large ears poke up from the fur-covered scalp and don’t stop until they are almost pointed like a bobcat, with a tuft of fur sticking from the tips of each. A big black splotch is on top of her head as well. Below, her feet have been totally replaced with digitigrade-like legs that were basically, for lack of better terms, grown in a lab.
They are long and narrow, but hold her body strongly. Coming to end at large paws, they are still covered by strangely-crafted shoes that wrap around her new legs. No doubt an industry has risen up to fulfill demands for proper gear for these people. New Balance is written across her white and black sneakers.
Up jeans-covered legs, I see a long tail sticking from the base of her behind, curling around and around like a cat’s tail until it ends in a thick, black puff of fur. The rest of it is purely white, with a few black freckles here and there, and a ring or two. Her body is covered with a thick black jacket and nothing is on her head.
I quickly turn away before she can turn her green eyes towards me and hold onto the counter. I had never seen one in person before. I heard the surgeries, which began about ten years ago, were so expensive only celebrities, power Wall Street businessmen and leaders of countries could afford them. But that was ten years ago, maybe they’re affordable now.
I hear her breath deeply and then step away from me. Out of my peripheral I see her walk down until she takes a seat at the counter. The waitress quickly goes to her, obviously not bothered by the strange form of the customer. Maybe she’s just stopped caring about external features over the years.
“I don’t believe this.”
Suddenly a loud scratching fills the air and everything becomes quiet. I turn my head and see one of the men has stood up, his eyes, fiery and angry, have turned upon the new anthro. Slowly he begins to walk forward, his pace strong and wide, obviously very set on his actions.
“Hey,” he cries as he nears the girl, “I don’t work a job for fifty-six hours a week to have to share a dining room with a freak like you! Now take your rich ass out of here!”
He doesn’t stop until he is directly behind the girl, but even with the words out in the air, she doesn’t move. The waitress continues to take her order, which she whispered to her, and then tears off the paper. Turning, she shoves it into the spinning metal wheel and turns it around until the short-order chef can see it.
Finally, she turns around and stands akimbo as she looks towards the man who has voiced his opinion on this matter. Her lips are pulled down, almost pulling the wrinkles out of her face. Her eyes are still half-open, but life burns through the irises. She steps forward and places her hands down onto the countertop.
“Zeke, you better get your ass back to your seat before I have to call the cops on you again.” She commands him. “I’m not going to have you fighting with anybody in here.”
“I’m not gonna fight in here, woman, now leave off!” He cries and then grabs the anthro by the shoulder.
He spins her around on the bar stool and then presses his finger into her chest, trying to make his point. His eyes are wide and angry and his face seems dark and gritty, dirty even. She leans back and looks to him, but has a look upon her face as if she has seen this before.
“You have some goddamned never to come in here, you know that?” He screams to her. “You think you’re gonna come into this world with a silver spoon shoved in your ass and then wear your money on your sleeve like this! Well, I didn’t watch half of my business go down the drain because your daddy and mommy screwed this country!”
He lowers his hand and his two buddies rise up in their seat, but don’t approach to assist him. Instead they watch with almost blank faces. They don’t smile, approving it, but they don’t seem to frown or seem angry by the whole situation. It’s almost like they’re there, but they’re truly not there.
The anthro pulls her left hand up onto the counter, but quickly this Zeke slams his hand down onto the countertop to keep her from getting away. When she pulls her hand back into her lap, her chest rising and falling in quick succession by the fear, her eyes wide open and almost glittering with tears, he stands back up straight and lifts a hand up into the air.
“Enough!”
Suddenly the room becomes quiet. The two men by the table turn their dark eyes towards me and this Zeke slowly rolls his head to the side, until I can see the whites around his irises. His body is rock steady, his right hand high in the air. I’m not sure what he was going to do, but he’s stopped it now, and I’m the one that did it.
“What did you say, suit?” He yells to me.
“I said enough.” I say, almost stuttering, not leaving my seat. “Don’t you d-dare lay a h-h-hand on that woman! We don’t hit women!”
“You consider this freak a woman?” He cries to me, turning his body slightly towards me. “Sit down and shut up you office monkey!”
I look to his face and then quickly look down towards the table, turning my body back towards the countertop. I look to my reflection in the tan coffee and see it bobbling about, my face covered in sweat. I hear the material in the man’s jacket as he lifts his hand higher, and suddenly my face becomes as granite, my mustache pulling downwards into a frown.
Slamming my hands down onto the table, I turn my body towards Zeke and stand up, my hard-bottomed shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. I widen my stance and then lower my one hand to my side, while holding one up next to my chest. One of my fingers is erect.
“What kind of man are you to hit a woman? If you lay a hand on that woman,” I say loudly, “I’ll—I’ll—”
“You’ll what, office slave . . . hit me?” Zeke asks sarcastically, turning his eyes towards me. “It’s because of your type that this country is in the shitter like it is now! It’s because of people like you that the banks are taking businesses like mine that my loan rates have spiked, that so many people are homeless! I should come over there and beat the living shit out of you.”
“You do it, you backwoods, redneck piece of cousin-fucking trailer trash.” I say loudly, laying my raised hand down onto the countertop.
Suddenly Zeke turns his attention away from the poor anthro and comes charging towards me. His lips are open and his teeth are clenched in a fashion that I haven’t seen in years. His clenched hands are at his side and soon he is nearly upon me. As he nears me, I begin to breathe deeply, but my mind, whatever was set off inside it, is set in its decision.
As ne nears me, I snatch up the steaming-hot coffee and pull it in front of me. Throwing the hot liquid upon the man’s face, it slaps upon his skin and immediately begins to burn him. Surprised and frightened, he throws his hands up to his face and begins to scream in pain.
Before he can react, I swing the coffee cup through the air and smash it into the side of his face. The broken glass strews all over the floor and Zeke tumbles towards the ground. His heavy body slams onto the wooden floor and he is still. The coffee begins to run through into the ground and soak into his clothes.
Lifting my head up, I look to his friends at their table. They stand and look from me to their defeated comrade before they sit down at their table and act as if nothing happened. I look through the silenced diner and begin to slowly back out. Drawing money from my pocket, I drop it onto the counter and begin to rush out.
Thrusting the door open, I march out onto the cold street and begin towards my car, where it is parked along the sidewalk. Sinking my hand into my pocket, I search for my keys as quickly as I can. But as I step down onto the street, I yank the keys out too fast and they fall to the black pavement.
I moan and kneel down beside the driver’s side of my car and begin to search around on the ground. My hands run over the cold ground but don’t find a thing quickly, if at all. Suddenly they touch metal and something jingles loudly, but that isn’t the only thing that I hear. From above I hear the door open again and footsteps quickly step out.
I lift my head up and see the anthro walking towards me. She sees that I see her coming and quickly comes to a standstill, her eyes pointing downwards towards the sidewalk and her fur-covered fingers clenched together in front of her body. Her eyes are wide open, but they never turn towards me.
Finally, she slowly lifts her eyes up and looks to me, her lips pulling backwards until they are in a half-smile. Her fingers work around and then finally part. I kneel quietly and watch her, wondering what is going on. My heart beats quickly and I feel hot despite the chilled air.
“Thank you.” She says to me. “Nobody else would have done that.”
“I . . . I didn’t think I would either.” I reply sheepishly.
She chuckles a little bit before becoming quiet once more. Her eyes turn towards the ground and she works at something in her hands. Slowly she begins forward and steps down off of the sidewalk. Lifting her right hand up, she offers me a piece of paper she has clenched between tiny black claws.
Lifting my hand up, holding the keys around one finger, I turn my palm towards the piece of paper. She looses her fingers and the paper falls into my hand where I quickly clench down to keep it from blowing away. Almost immediately I slowly lower my hand and look towards her.
The anthro smiles, chuckles a little bit and then steps back up onto the sidewalk. Giving me a gentle wave, she turns and begins to walk up the street. I follow her with my eyes, watching her tail dart around behind her tiny frame until she is nearly out of sight. Standing up slowly, I turn my eyes to my hand.
Lifting my fist up to my chest, I open my fingers and quickly begin to unfold the piece of paper she gave me. Upon opening it, I see she has written down with pen her name and a phone number. Smiling, I turn and put my back against the side of the car, making it rattle and creak under my weight.
“Anne,” I say to myself and smile. “This is what happens when you stand up for something.”