by Phil Rot

As we compound falsification in the name of escaping it, we are only doing what comes naturally to us, as the heirs of Adam and Eve, except that, whereas in the past the illusion was attired in the incomparably resplendent beauty of antique fairy mystification, it now heralds the end of the revel through the banal mask of Microsoft plastic.

—Michael A. Hoffman, Preface to the 1995 edition of Secret Societies and Psychological Warfare

“My occupation now, I suppose, is jail inmate.”

—Theodore Kaczynski

Prelude

The cum scented rain pounds against my windshield—she lulls me into an unsettling euphoria—outside my car the city yiffs like a pegged labrador—I watch it all go down—two Golden retrievers DP a squirrel in Mark’s Park–the old lady outside the Barkmore Hotel is waving her pussy at a group of cubs walking home from school–the city yiffs–I watch it all go down like a twice-jaded cuck–

An hour earlier I’d been in the pisser turning my pockets wallet and socks inside out–the Zebra the one with the tits she’d ran off with my bag I just know it–woulda gone back to the station smelling like arsenic to raid the evidence locker–that is, if I hadn’t already done that the night before—have plenty of stuff back home–but I don’t wanna go home–never go home–

–why does it hurt?

I get out–let the car run—walk past the gambling joint on Pawthorne–a thumb drive full of confiscated creds in my jacket pocket–no harm no foul–the drunk outside says something about my ears–you talking to me–flash the .44–I think–he says do it and I laugh–something happens next but I can’t seem to remember what–wish Gruff coulda seen the look on that fluffers face–but he’s workin late tonight–his loss–

Stomach hurtin like I swallowed a crowbar–sidewalk feels itchy or maybe its my shoes–this ostrich bitch steps out in front of me–asks if I like feet–you hidin a bag between your toes I say–no–but if it’s not these toes crushing your ballsack then whats your pleasure–Amp, I say–dust or whole–she says follow me my boyfriend gots plenty–I say fuck it lead the way sister–

–I don’t remember.

Follow her down an alley–mousetrap graffiti on the walls–that’d get you locked up in most states but not here–not yet–someones old dragon headed dildo in a puddle of energy piss–she stops walkin opens this door next to a dumpster and I almost step inside like I was born last week–almost–

What’s your boyfriend do I say–he owns this hotel she says–and you gotta work outdoors I say–I like the fresh air she says–she says–something ain’t adding up–Lupo, she shouts–got a guy who needs something from ya–someone shouts back through the door–okay you trying to score or just fuckin around she says–I know I shouldn’t–I know I’m an idiot for it–but my hearts poundin and my palms are sweatier than a hippos asscheeks–I step inside–

–ever find yourself doin somethin strange?

The first wolf knocks me across the skull with something that feels like a sock full of quarters–the second jabs me in the ribs–time slows down and I’m falling in reverse–hand hits the piece like I’m scratching a testicle–full set of jaws lock in on my forearm–my gun’s in the other arm–upswing–finds its first target–the wolf’s chest spatters–pink cloud of dead yip–the next two gunshots aren’t mine–the next six are–

I could tell you were a fucking cop she says–I can tell your boyfriend’s dead shitneck I say motioning to the pile of soggy red meat that took a bite outta my arm–you think hes got some Amp in his pocket or do I have to kill you too–she says check him I don’t fuckin know–no I say–you’re gonna check him–she reaches her fingers into the dead pricks pocket but I step on em–crunch–she squawks like she just laid an egg–check him with that nice beak of yours I say–

–is this really me?

While her head’s down there fishing around the dead wolf’s pockets I get to feeling up her underfeathers–she’s warm–a little damp from the rain–nice piece of ass–finger finds her egg hole–she makes a noise I don’t particularly like–now she feels the barrel against her head–she braces herself–I was looking for a fix ma’am–instead I got two homicides on my paws–the least you could do is take that dick like a good bird–she cries–I’m hard–

I finish up–she thanks me for not killing her–little early to be thankin me I say–finishing in a whore usually calms me down–maybe it’s the withdrawals–I knock her head like a sandbag–scramble her brains so good probably forget this ever happened–I won’t stick around to find out–

–wet fur.

Stop by Roary’s Liquors on the way home–grab a pint of Jack off the rack–pull a pack of Mellowz off the rotating display–the lion behind the counter gives me the side eye–workin late? he says–shut the fuck up I say–I pop two Mellowz right in front of him–wash em down with the Jack–right in front of him–he doesn’t say shit–

All out of cum and all outta Amp I make my way back to the car–the city is my bitch–I don’t care what anyone thinks–I got cloaca goo on my cock and the Mellowz almost get me there–I don’t care what anyone thinks–Fur City’s my bitch–and I fuck her the way I like–Amp or no Amp–

–no Amp.

Stone statue Emperor Mark staring down at me–Eat pellets, fluffer–you don’t own me, Mark–no one owns me–Fur City is my bish now–I fuck her the way I like–

I get in the vehicle sloshed–vision spinning–eyes crossed–not a problem–this badge is my drunk driver’s license–look out world–here I cum–

1

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Fuck. They’re still playing the old ads? the ones with the old men pushing kids on swings, partying on the beach, dancing at weddings. Ampersol. Amps. I popped a couple this morning. Haven’t vomited or hit my head on any hard surfaces yet. I almost feel normal–given the amount of booze I drank last night, I’d call that a miracle. If it weren’t for the dry blood caked to my fur, I’d think it’d been any other kinda night.

That’s the miracle of Amp–one or two, and all the weight of the consequences of your own actions melts off like hot wax. My doc’d set me up good with a three month supply, wouldn’t give me shit when I came in asking for a refill after only six weeks. The ride was good while it lasted, but like all good things, some Lynx had to go schizo, slice up his whole family, set fire to his home, and, essentially, fuck it all up for everyone.

In steps daddy government to solve the problem.

A couple months ago–or was it six?–Emperor Mark, typical control freak, banned the sale of Amp in all of Fur City. I was part of the clean-up crew. On the Chief’s orders, we confiscated over twelve shipping containers of the stuff coming in from Dog Kong. If you couldn’t have guessed, I–ah shit, forgot my manners.

The name’s Lucky. Not a nickname. Mom actually named me that. She sure had a sense of humor.

I’m a cop, if you hadn’t figured that out yet, the only rabbit on the force. Despite the stereotypes us longears get, I’ve heard some refer to me as the meanest son of a bitch on the force. You might’ve heard about me in the local news, “Sex, Lies, and Trafficking in the FCPD,” “Cop Kills Innocent Leopard Teen,” a pack of lies cooked up by the mouse run press. The Department’s got my back, so they can all go fuck their mothers–but I digress.

The old Amp ad ends, cuts to a local fluff piece about some teen triathlon. I guess some kid got a medal for running fast. What a fucking accomplishment. Nice to see a news story that doesn’t involve me for a change.

I zombie walk to the can—the first shit of the morning. Already know it’s gonna be a long wait. Been backed up like a whorehouse shitter since the Muts won the World Series. Maybe it was the nachos–us rabbits’ guts ain’t built for cheese, but goddamn if it ain’t worth it.

I get out my cell phone. Might as well jerk it while I wait. What’ll it be today? I’m thinkin Doe’s.

Before the DeerTube ‘for me’ page can load, fuckin call comes through–FCPD.

“What?”

“Lucky.”

It’s Diddy. The Chief.

“I’m off today, in case you hadn’t bothered to check.”

“No, you’re not. New schedule went out last Friday.”

“No one told me.”

“It’s posted every fucking week in the breakroom.”

“I don’t use the breakroom, too many cops in there.”

“Not my problem, dipshit.”

“True.”

“Hey, I got some heavy shit for ya. Are you sitting down?”

“I’m taking a shit, so yeah.”

“Gruff’s dead.”

The twelve inch turd in my gut drops like a grand piano.

“Whaddya mean, ‘Gruff’s dead’?”

“He got whacked. Last night. He and Frisco and Denny were shaking down a low-level ratfuck. They busted a studio apartment on 3rd street, looking for something big. They found the goods, but not the suspect. Well, Gruff gives the guy’s kitchen a second sweep. This cunt faced fox pops out from under the sink, stabs him in the back, right through the fuckin lung.”

A fox. Of course, it was a fuckin fox.

“Tell me you’re joking–April fuckin Fools, right?”

“It’s June, Lucky.”

I check. He’s right.

“They were lookin for smuggled WEBs, not the regular kind either, these new ones. X-WEBs. Not the shit you buy at the grocery store. How the bastard got his hands on it, Mark only knows.”

“Where’s the hen humping sonofabitch that sleep’d Gruff–”

“He’s in the hospital. Denny managed to shoot him in the spine–thought he’d sleep’d em, but the ambulance arrived just in time to save the stupid fuck.”

Gruff, the guy who had had my back after the Jolly Mart mix up (accidently off’d the store clerk), the guy who defended me after the Fur City Park incident (the kid was waving a water gun, but it sure as hell didn’t look like no water gun), and he’d even handled my situation with the Bust A Predator guy (hard to catch predators in a wheelchair now, isn’t it?) and Gruff never had a problem with my habits, so long as I got the job done. That’s the kind of partnership you can’t put a price tag on.

“So that’s it, huh? Some asshole snuffs my partner, hell, my best friend, and he gets off with just a scratch? Ain’t no fucking justice in this world. None.”

“Ain’t it the truth. Hey, saw your kid on TV this morning. Congrats.”

“What?”

“Yeah, kid won that big triathlon thing, right? He’s a champ! Tell the little scamp I said congratulations. You must be proud.”

I check the local news on my phone and, sure as shit, there’s my boy Jack, getting a gold medal over his neck by a busty cat in a green bodysuit. Damnit, that’s why Snowball kept calling yesterday. She’s gonna be pissed. Instead of showing up for him, I’d spent the day strung out at Ardy’s Bingo Parlor, and after that, I–

“Uh, yeah. I took him out for carrot shakes.”

“Well, tell the kid I said congratulations. Again, sorry about Gruff. He was one tough motherfucker–and a damn good cop. One more thing.”

“What?”

“The media ain’t letting the whole whore thing go, or you shootin that dumb kid. If you’re caught shakin down one more prostie, or pullin that weapon on any underprivileged furmunities, you’re finished.” Could tell by his tone that he meant it this time. “In the meantime, this whole ‘X-WEB’ business might be a boon for your reputation, take the attention off recent indiscretions. That being said, you’re on thin ice with a dumbbell tied to your nuts. Got it?”

“Diddy, my old partner’s gettin reprocessed. Can’t the threats wait til tomorrow?”

“Not a chance. See you soon.”

Chief hangs up. What a fuck.

So not only had my best friend been off’d, I’d missed Jack’s race thing to boot. The wife’d give me hell for that–a fall down the stairs could solve that problem–fuck, there I go again–as if violence could solve all my problems.

I pull up my shorts, open the drawer next to the sink. The old Men’s Multivitamin bottle rolls into view. I’d filled it full of Amps a week ago, best hiding spot in all of Fur City. I shake three pills into my paw–naw, two will do for now. I put one back, then take the rest to the bathroom counter. Crush em up, snort em up.

I take a look in the mirror. It ain’t pretty. How the fuck did I age twenty years in one goddamn night–my ears are droopy, tired. I got panda eyes. My nose is all swollen, too. I wipe the excess Amp off my shnozz, lick it off my palm. I pluck an ingrown whisker out. It’s a bleeder. I stick a toilet paper tab on it.

Then, like a drunk husband, it hits—a rush of euphoria, itchy paws, total body orgasm. I’m melting...

…the cold tile feels good. I spot a couple of nail clippings under the sink. Snowball ain’t cleaned up the place in months. Cunt.

Somethin’s watchin—two little yellow orbs–fuckin lemur staring at me through a crack in the wood–creeps out all quiet like–gets right up in my face—I’m too weak to swing—lemur says, “You’re a piece of shit, Lucky. You know that?”

“I’d say I probably know it the most.”

“But you’re a very special piece of shit. You’re gonna do something amazing for me. You wanna know what that is?”

“No, I like surprises.”

“Here, look at this.”

The lemur holds up his phone.

I get up off my back, and I’m standing head to head with a fucking toenail-sized primate.

He hands me the phone–there’s a video cued up–fuck it–I hit play–the video opens with a row of tables–people on em–dull, sterile lighting–the things on the tables–they look fucked–look like hairless apes–no, not quite apes–something else–a little pig-like in the face–flat faced–ugly.

Two guys–lemurs judging by the eyes and tails–in scrubs walk in and hoist one of the… things off the table–video cuts to this dimly lit, grainy doctor’s office, liminal, like a dentist’s office after hours–lemurs come in–plop a pigface on the operating table–leave.

“What’s this?”

The lemur motions to the phone–guess I gotta watch–

Something silver–a metal ball on a pole–descends from the ceiling–moves slow, stops a couple of feet above the pigface thing–a tiny arm pops out of the orb–little scalpel at the end–another robotic arm comes in from off camera–a small spinning saw.

Flash–the arms plunge into its guts–hacking, sawing–the fuckin thing wakes up–thrashing–panicked–trying to struggle from the clamps–real grimey snuff movie shit–

“Tryin to spook me, cocksucker?”

I hand the phone back.

The fuck says, “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“What about this?”

It tries to hand the phone back. I smack it out of his hand.

“I ain’t watchin’ anymore of your shit. My buddy just died.”

It scowls.

“That’s assault,” the lemur says.

It snatches up its phone, hops onto the sinks, scurries through the wall. Unbelievable.

My body shakes–tremors–I shoot up off the ground–puke in the sink–tastes like Jack and carrot–

After a puke, I feel great, like I’d just gotten a full body massage. My mind’s warm, cozy, wrapped up in a warm blanket–fresh out the dryer. Whatever the fuck that was, I feel a whole lot better now.

It’s the weekend, so the wife and Jack should be home. I tiptoe out of the bathroom, down the stairs, feeling like a teen sneaking off to see her boyfriend. Why should I give a shit? They already hate my guts.

The house is dead silent. Maybe they moved out? Then I notice the note slapped to the front door. High as I feel, I have to squint while I read it, as if it could soften the blow of whatever bullshit I was about to learn–

Taking Jack to the dentist.

Please be home tonight.

The dentist. How much would that bill set us back?

Poor Jack–strapped in that chair, drills and saws in his mouth–screams–lemurs in medical masks hunched over him in cold excitement–

I feel my heart palpitating–is that the word? Palpitating?

Work would get my mind off this lemur shit–the routine, the drudgery–that’s what I need right now.

And maybe, just maybe, pimps’d have some new girls workin today.

As my hand twists the knob, I think I can make out, faintly, the whir of a dentist’s drill coming from Jack’s room.

Next Time, on Nerve City — Lucky meets his plucky new partner, and learns about the dangerous development threatening the entire population of Fur City…