Previously on Nerve City:

Shutterfly thought she had a good lead on the X-WEB case, but in order to dig deeper, Lucky had to visit Madam LePew’s House of Fumes. We now return to Le Pew’s brap house, where the brapss come easy, but they don’t come cheap…holy shit, I just fucking typed that. Cool. 😎

6

We travel up a tight staircase, second floor, down a hallway with creaky floorboards, we get to her room and–fuck, ain’t feeling a damn thing, thinkin I need to up the dosage for this one–

“Pardon me, gorgeous, but before we… You know…do the thing, I really could use the little bunny’s room.”

“Sure thing, cotton tail, but make it quick; after five minutes I have ta start chargin’ ya,” she squeaks.

“Drank a grande carrot chai on the way over. Don’t worry, it’ll be snappy.”

She doesn’t smile, just points me down the hall. I tell her thanks and scoot.

The bathroom reeks of dung and disinfectant. I’m holdin my breath, chopping up in the handicap stall. Call me sentimental, but there’s something magical about crushing pills on a toilet lid; takes me back to last weekend.

I snort a little line, not much at all, but it does the trick! –and I’m an inch above the ground–waves of vaginal warmth sweep over me–each more orgasmic than the last–like my soul’s gettin its asshole eatin out–I cut a couple more–stick the rolled bill back into my nose–cut a couple more.

After clearing the final rail, I get tight in the chest–shitfuck–got that feeling like I mighta did too much–gdamnit.

I give it a couple thumps.

Not now, you sonuvabitch.

Imagine them findin me cold in a brap house–it’d be almost too poetic.

A couple more thumps and the piece of shit’s beating regular again. Mark’s cunty ass. I splash some water on my face and take a look in the mirror–wish I hadnt’d done that–

Two fuckin eyeballs–no head–starin back at me–stickin out from a network of thin red lines–like some kinda fuckin subway map–a web–little numbers at the end too small to read–

—-36

—---------72

—--------------------338a

—--------------878b

I shut my eyes–give my face a couple of good smacks–look again–no–gotta get the Narcup–pull the yellow tube out from my chest pack–jam the sonnuvabitch into my thigh–count–10–9–8–7–6–5–3–fuck, okay, I’m…coming…

…back.

Thank Mark.

Never saw shit like that before.

Amp fever–The ‘spects some people called it–I was skirting the edge of the plateau, have to be more fuckin careful, gotta make it back to my appointment, splash some water on my face, ain’t high anymore, aint dead neither.

“You alright?” She says.

I feel more than alright; I’m alive, but I probably look fucked up, which checks out considering I’d nearly OD’d in the bathroom.

“Yeah, yeah, just a little nervous, heh.”

“Why’s your pant leg rolled up?”

Fuck.

“Jeez, sorry ma’am, I had ta do my, uh, diabetes shit. You know.”

She laughs. “Babe, I could tell you were a junk head from a mile away. What’re you slammin anyway?”

“Bullshit–I mean, uh—” calm down, Luck. “Just diabetes, really embarrassing, let’s move on, please.”

“Right, just don’t go cold on me or I’m going through your pockets. Not kidding either.” She throws back her hair.

“So, the full package, huh?” She says, leading me to a red silk lined, full size–cheapskate mice couldn’t even do Queen–hopefully the sheets are clean.

“That’d be swell, honey.”

She adjusts the lights–piss yellow to lipstick red, transforming the room from cheap motel digs to mid tier porno set. Nice.

The mood now set, she lets the robe fall from her bony shoulders, starts twirling her tail real sexy to an old Cat Benatar number, “Love is a Litter Box.” She’s built just the way I like em, thin on top, wide at the hips. Tits are a lil small, but it works.

My leg is involuntarily thumping now, watching her tail swing this way and that way–she turns around, peels off her slip and I get the full frontal. She shoots me this look like I’m a slice of fine Gouda.

Moving like a lynx, she creeps in real close–got this perfume on that smells like carrot cake–all of a sudden I’m coming up with these cheezy lines in my head about “lifting her outta this old Dutch oven and seeing the world.” –crazy what a little tail’ll do to ya.

“No kissing, no squeezing,” she whispers in my ear.

“You’re really makin it a challenge, baby–”

She pushes me onto my back, starts playfully running her claws through my fur. My pecker’s aching for the target–I wanna break into that coochie–full speed ahead–gotta stay in control–think about that time you walked in on Grandma naked on the shitter.

Now she’s above my head, working her body like a contortionist, rubbing those lips against my face, going as far as she can without technically fucking me.

“Just to warn you, I am a little gassy today,” she giggles.

Shit–now I’m think bout how Snowball used to fart up the bedroom after eating Chinese–glad I wouldn’t have to deal with that again.

Goocheese’s tummy grumbles.

“Oooh, don’t think I can hold it in much longer.”

I brace myself. This is gonna be bad.

“Here it comes,” she says, her shaved tail curling around my neck.

She’s grinding her ass up and down my nose now, moaning, hamming it up like for the gastro intestinal climax.

I’m staring right into her third eye now, the brown one, when suddenly, time seems to stand still–

BRAAAPP.

The final act. It ain’t just gas–a spray of hot shit hits my face like a fuckin firehose.

Smell hits like a punch in the gut, fuckin’ rancid–I hold my breath, trying not to let any of the gooey ratshit get into my mouth or nostrils–it’s tough.

Think I painted a good enough picture for ya, whole thing is over in seconds, but the broad was right, the memory will certainly last a lifetime.

“Oopsie,” she squeaks, putting her hand over her mouth. “I usually charge extra for that. Lucky you!”

Cunt–I oughta choke the bitch.

She lifts her ass off my nose all dainty and ladylike–I gulp down the lump of hot bile in my throat. As much as I wanna knock the bitch silly, I “wanted” this after all.

“Oh wow,” I say with a tear rolling down my cheek. “A scat finisher free of charge? What a–(gag)–deal.”

“Clean up on aisle seven, hehe.”

She gets up, starts waddling to the dresser, her ass still dripping shit. She flings a towel and some wet wipes my way. “Just throw em wherever; I’ll have the stork clean em up after.”

I do my best to scrub the shame outta my fur.

“If you liked that, we should definitely do this again sometime.” She coos.

“Actually,” I say, my dick soft as a spaghetti noodle. “I feel like we were just getting started if you, eh, catch my drift?”

“I think you already cleared me out, baby. You wanna golden shower?”

“Actually, maybe we could try something else. You see, I’ve got this problem, and I’m hoping you can help me solve it.” I pull the wad of cash from my pants pocket and start pawing through it.

“You wanna blowie, that’s 100, stick it inside, that’s 250 for thirty minutes. Gotta wear rubber too,” she says. “Tokens only.”

Tokens, untraceable creds printed on silicone chips–this was how they got around the Emperor’s kink tax.

“Okay, let me check my coin purse.” That’s when I pull out the badge. “Officer Lucky, FCPD, you’re comin’ with me. Tax evasion.”

“What! You filthy fucking–” The look on her face tells me it ain’t her day.

“It’s a dirty business, Goo, and with the new conservative DA and all, well, I think you might be looking at a couple years of unpaid leave. Might fuck your employer too.”

“No, no!” Here comes the waterworks. “Please, it’s not what you think. I had no idea, I just–please, I can’t go to jail, I got ten pups, preschoolers!”

I pull the cuffs outta my trousers.

“Don’t worry, sweety, I’m sure the State will feed em–and if not, well, that’s none of my business.”

She drops to her knees like a nun. She’s crying, sobbing into my pant leg, telling me about how she’ll suck free of charge; she’ll even let me cum in her ass. It’s hard not to take advantage of the situation; she’s already naked and ready to go.

“Actually, as long as we’re bargaining, I might have something else in mind, a deal we’d both benefit from,” I say. “Course, you only got one chance to take it, and if you don’t, I found this under the bed.”

I hold up the baggie, a little Amp still in it.

“Please, please!” she begs. “I’ll do anything–crooked bastard—whad’ya want from me??”

“I like your attitude, kid. Now, here’s what I need…”

I ask her where I might find the office room, place where Le Pew does her taxes. Say I’m gonna keep this secret; she will too. She tells me the office is just down the hall, the one I’d noticed earlier. Now, all I need to do is slide in, pop this little Chinese USB into the computer for a couple of seconds, and I’m out. Goo says she’s 99% sure Le Pew’s outta the office today; hopefully her cheese-riddled recollection is accurate.

“Thanks a million, toots,” I say. “Just don’t let your boss catch wind of this.”

Heh.

Goo’s key gets me inside. The office is a mess–the small wastebasket by the desk crammed with snotty tissues, old food wrappers, crusty yellow Q-Tips, desk space piled with unopened envelopes. I walk to the window, take a look through the blinds. Shutterfly’s van’s still waiting patiently at the end of the block. For some reason, this surprises me.

Ok. Have to make this quick–where’s that fuckin computer?

I look under the stacks of papers, then under the desk. Nothing. I slide open a filing cabinet–bingo: a GaZell Notebook with a splatter of crusty orange hot sauce on the lid. I set it on the desk and jam in the little doohickey Shutter gave me. There’s a round black button on it. I click it, the light starts pulsing. Hopefully it’s got what we need, cause I ain’t doin this again.

While the stick does its thing, I take one more look out the window–my balls suck right up into my stomach. There, slinking out of a shiny black sedan is the fucking boss lady herself, Le Pew. She’s hiding beneath her long coat, wide brimmed hat, and sunglasses, but I’d recognize that bushy black and white fluffer from a mile away–so much for bein “outta the office today.”

I check the thumbstick. The light is yellow. Fuck does yellow mean?

I rush back to the window. Le Pew and her two gorilla goons are at the front porch. I have two options now: wait for that fucking stick to change color, or pull it out and pray it’s got something good on it. Got my fingers on the stick, ready to pull.

I hear the fart of a 600 pound gorilla downstairs; they’re getting closer.

Still yellow–fuck it. I pull the stick out, shove the laptop back into the filing cabinet.

Sloppy Job, Luck, Gruff whispers in my ear.

Time’s moving fast, way too fast.

Footsteps outside.

I open the window–just big enough for me to wiggle out of, not a bad drop, just have to catch the concrete right and–

The door creaks open.

I jump.

.

.

.

SLAM

I miscalculated the fall, braced myself a tad too late, and land all retarded.

Mark’s fucking ass.

I’m hobbling back to the van on a broken foot as fast as I can. There’s shouting behind me–focused on the van, Luck.

Seeing me coming, Shutter peels out, zips around, comes barreling towards me. I throw my arms up, thinking the haybrain is about to run my ass over.

As the van skids, drifting at me in Howlywood slomo, the passenger door slides open, inches from my fuckin nose.

“You got the goods, daddy-o?”

I roll inside.

“A broken foot is what I got. Let’s jet the fuck outta here.”

Door slams, don’t even got the nerve to check how far back the goons are. No gunshots; they must’ve been spooked.

“Oh man, something stinks,” Shutter says.

I pull my leg up and see my fucked up foot, everything turning purple.

“Did you find Le Pew’s computer?”

“I think so, but first I need this shit taken care of.”

“Ten-fur, buddy!” Then she gives me this look. “Hey, is that a cheese crumb on your whisker?”

“Mark’s fuckin ass…”

←Chapter 5

Previously on Nerve City:

Lucky came home to his wife swinging from the shower curtain. Unable to process the situation in an optimal manner, he decided to bury her in the backyard, but not before shooing his son out the door to stay with his Aunt, Wendy. Now, Lucky and Shutterfly head to Madam Le Pew’s brap house to get intel on the Mouse Mob and their X-WEB operation. Be warned, dear reader, things may get…filthy.

5

As me and Shutter haul tail down Bearverly Boulevard, all I can think about is Snowball’s cold black eyes staring me down like the last fry on the plate. Of all the fuckin day, Mark’s ass, why’d she have to do it on a Sunday?

I pop a couple Amps at the light. Shutterfly is busy profiling a pair of slutty giraffes showin leg by a bus stop. Five more minutes ‘til the Amp kicks in. Then the shakes and nausea will disappear–maybe the Snowball flashbacks, too.

I take a look in the mirror. I’m all dolled up like your average John: civilian drab, a cheap watch, even had my fur dyed.

“Do you catch a lot of UTTs around here? You know, ‘Under the Tables?’”

I’m thinkin: Yeah, caught a lot of VD too.

“No shit, we call this block ‘Lover’s Lane.’”

“Tee hee. Cute. Mouse Mob terf?”

“No, the Mice pedal the pricier merchandise; broads you gotta buy dinner first. Lover’s Lane here is your bottom of the barrel meat market. Some of them ain’t even got a pimp to smack some sense into em.”

“Got it, chief.”

“Yeah, those giraffes look fresh off the Ark, prolly crawlin with AIDS.”

She sticks her tongue out. “AIDS? Yuck-o!”

I shrug. “It ain’t so bad; they got a treatment for everything now…uh, not that I would know about that.”

Shutter’s eyes light up. “Ooooh, is that Le Pew’s?”

The large, pink, Victorian-style estate comes up on the right. Among the rows of drab, weed-littered office buildings and government kennels, the place stands out like a sore tail.

“That’s the one. Wow, the memories. My dad took me here on my thirteenth birthday. Caught a bad case of pink eye.”

“Cool beans–not the pink eye part though–teehee. You think I’d like it?”

“I’m not the guy to ask. Call me I’m old-fashioned. Just gimme a hole to fill and I’m good.”

“Lame-o-rama,” Shutter says, rolling her oval eyes. “You really gotta get in touch with your kinks.”

“Don’t get it twisted, sweet hoofs. Maybe after work I could show you how us rabbits get down.”

Shutter giggles. “You sure your colon can handle all of this?” She gestures toward the bulge in her tight little police shorts–yikes. How had I not noticed that before?

“Three beers and all bets are off, but I got this thing where if anything goes up the poop chute, I feel all lightheaded and pass out. ’Vasovagal response,’ my doc calls it.”

“Tee hee, no problem-o, partner! Wouldn’t wanna trigger your ‘bagel’ response.”

She gives me a wink, and for a second, I wonder if I could, ya know, after a couple Amps–ah, who am I kidding, of course I would.

We pull into a space at the end of the block in our nondescript thirty-year-old Mark-V dual-web, dented doors, Furtallica stickers and all that working-class slob ephemera.

She hands me a little flash drive. “Here ya go, partner!”

“What’s this? I already got this thing on.” I tap the little camera tucked into the fur behind my ear.

“It’s a data extractor, silly goose! Just pop it in a port, wait for the light to turn green, and presto: one cloned hard drive to-go.”

So, the scheming little bitlicker is upping the ante.

“I thought I was just shakin’ down a pawstie, not playin hacker. Without a warrant, I could get some serious heat over this.”

“Oh, don’t be a scaredy bunny, teehee. This will be great! Who knows what we’ll find in those files?”

“Look, I don’t got a problem with a little extra-judicious justice, but copping data without a warrant is a bold move. If Chief Diddy finds out–”

“I’ll give him a blowie! No problem-o.”

My hands are shaking. This could get messy. I pop another Amp.

“Hey, can I have one?”

“What?”

“Those mints you’ve been munching, silly! What, you thought I didn’t notice? Are they the minty or the fruity kind?” She says.

“It’s, err, my heart medication. Gotta take it all the time or I die.”

“Oh wow, how’d you pass health review with a bad ticker? Seems like a liability to me.”

“Your ass is a fuckin liability. Now give me a minute, I gotta mentally prepare myself before gettin farted on.”

She pinches her nose. “L-O-L, stinky time!”

“One minute you’re tellin me I gotta get a kink, now you’re bustin my balls.”

“Well, you know what they say: in a society where everything is permitted, only the purest of human expressions make it through the collective digestive track; meanwhile, Morality, like a disease, rots away the stomach lining, ultimately paralyzing and slowly killing its host. Teehee.”

“That’s… one way to look at it,” I say.

“Sorry, sometimes I get kinda philosophical,” followed with a giggle.

There’s somethin real wrong with this broad, better not tell her too much.

“Alright, give me a minute, I gotta relax, slip into character.”

“Oooh, good idea!” she says. “I’ll keep my lips zipped.”

She makes the zipper motion across her mouth. Cute.

Fuck–heart goin hummingbird, need to calm down. I lean the seat back, try to think about nothing. Just close my eyes and enter that dark tunnel where time no longer exists, a mental vacation to the abyss–developed the technique as a kid, something to do while daddy was beatin mom’s ass. The move came in handy, especially after gettin married. Mark’s ass–who was I kidding, thinking I’d ever be a family rabbit? Thought having a wife and kids would make me straighten up. Boy, was I retarded. Well, Snowball took care of herself and left me with the mess. As for little Jack, he’ll figure it out, just like I did after Mom got pussy cancer.

Folks act like they’ll live forever–like some deranged maniac won’t blow his cool one day and fill them full of hollowpoints–life’s a lot simpler when you realize how fucked up it is–eat, shit, fuck, and deny everything–that’s all there is to it.

“Mark’s ass,” I scratch an itch behind my ear and almost knock the damn camera off. Shutter’s staring at me like a blank screen–ain’t asking me to hurry up or anything.

“Okay, time to get to work,” I say, slippin out of my seatbelt.

“Wow, you looked like you were trying to solve a super hard math problem.”

“Everything’s a math problem.”

“Hey Lucky–”

“What?”

She looks towards Le Pew’s.

“I don’t wanna sound like a weirdo or anything, but…do you ever wonder what it’s all about? Like, why are we here? I mean, me, a cute little pony in a car with you, a grumpy rabbit preparing to shake down a fart brothel–sure seems kinda…random when you think about it, right? Tee hee.”

“Shutter,” I say. “That’s the most retarded shit anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Well, my parents always told me I was special!” She makes the derpy face.

“Watch it with the abelism, my kid’s a retard. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta date with a colon.”

“Okay, have fun!”

I hop out of the van, slamming the door a little too hard. Remember to breath, Luck. What was I so damn stressed about? Oh, I remember: my wife killed herself, and my son hates me. The only thing I have going for myself is getting high and barebacking fluffers. If the Amp ever ran out, I’d likely be joining Snowball in hell.

Well, at least I’m not my son–that kid’s life is gonna be a mess.

Walkin’ up to the old brap house, I notice an outline peering out from the upstairs window. A mouse, judging by the ears. Sizing me up, no doubt. I play it cool–not too cool though. I’m no newbie, but today I gotta act like one. This way, no one takes me for a pimp or a fuzz–just your average fart hound looking for a sniff.

I’m buzzed in. The place is decked out like a kitschy gambling joint, type a thing the mice think will hypnotize the rubes. I walk the worn Greek key rug to the aging Stork at the counter. She slides a menu through the protective glass.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Yep.”

Let’s take a look at the services: A fart in the face, that’s 40 creds. Dance plus fart, 75 cred. Dance, massage and fart? 175 cred. Pricey, but fully legal and above board.

“Yeah, I’d like the, uh, full package. Who will be providing the, uh, services? I’m a little new to this.”

“Sure ya are.”

She directs my attention to the video screen behind her with a lineup of some of the ugliest whores you’ve ever seen on Furfax avenue, caked in enough makeup to make a tranny blush. The one that catches my eye is a mouse working under the name “Goocheese.” If any of these whore’s have insider information, it would be the mouse.

“Ooh, I never made it with a rat before.”

“Careful, guy, she’s hears you call her that, you might get your head caved in.”

“Ah, yes, sorry about that.”

“So, we’re going with Goocheese today?”

“That would be fantastic.”

“Alright, just sit anywhere you like and she’ll come get you.”

The stork makes a forced smile that doesn’t quite land. She’s an older gal, probably used to be one of the braps on tap twenty years ago.

I glance around the lobby. In the corner, there’s this Lion in a trenchcoat reading an issue of Doggystyle, I believe the dalmatian edition. Think I recognize the guy too, pretty sure he’s on the sex registry, but he’s got the magazine up over his maw. Hard to tell them lions apart anyway.

I take a seat near the old coomer–just curious to see if he’s the same cat. Before I can get a better glance, a poodle in a miniskirt opens the door and calls, “Hey Simba, I’m ready for ya.”

He sets down his magazine, shoots me this look like “the fuck you want?” then makes off with his dame.

I pick up the Doggystyle he’d been reading, skimming for money shots. A couple of the bitches look okay, but nothing to write home about.

I set the mag down to admire the decor, charming stuff: faux-marble statues, beads, flamingo feathers. There’s an old-timey boudoir photo of Madam Le Pew herself. I can tell it’s old because her knockers aren’t mopping the floor. That being said, she had some serious tail back in the 70s.

Just as I’m about to check the time, the door squeaks open, and this mouse no taller than a cunt hair is fingering me over. She doesn’t look half bad in that silk robe and baby doll.

“I’m here for the rabbit, that you, cotton tail?”

“That’s me, gorgeous,” I say.

“Good. The name’s Mindy, I’ll be the one sitting on your face today.”

“Lead the way, beautiful,” I say. “I’m Buster, by the way.”

She smirks.

“Okay, Buster Bunny, let’s make today memorable.”

←Chapter 4

Previously on Nerve City:

After fucking the brains out of a snakestitute, Lucky caught up with an old street hustler named Smokey to score a bag. After a prolonged absence, Lucky is finally returning home to face the family. Will Luck skate by on his charm, or has his long suffering marriage finally hit rock bottom? We now return to Nerve City, where life is cheap, and death is a bargain.

4

Fur City to Unveil New Koalacaust Museum Downtown

Anna Gorgonzola

Tony Cheddar and the Cheddar Family Foundation are finally bringing a much-needed piece of history to Downtown Fur City. On Sunday, March 31st, Fur City will unveil its first ever Koalacaust Museum, bringing the horrors of the past to life in vivid detail.

“People are forgetting what happened, and when you forget what happened, chances are, it’ll happen again,” says Margaret Gouda, the Cheddar Family Trust Board of Director.

Ever since FCPD unveiled its shocking species related violence statistics last year, prominent civil rights leaders have been demanding the Emperor do more to bring awareness to the dangers of discrimination.

“I know I’m not the only mouse that feels unsafe in Fur City–why, just the other day I was walking out to my car after work, and there, right in front of me, a freshly spray painted mousetrap right there on the mailbox!”

Margaret isn’t alone in her concerns, and it’s for this reason that Emperor Mark gave The Cheddar Family Trust the go-ahead to convert the recently bankrupted Barkman’s Childrens Hospital into something the community “desperately needs.”

“The plight of the Koalacaust is something us mice resonate with deeply.” Foundation President, Tony Cheddar, tells me over the phone. “Imagine it, an entire species wiped out in the blink of an eye! It coulda been us! That’s why their memory is so important, that’s why we must never forget what they did to those poor bears.”

Tony went on to describe the nasty accusations and libelous slander he, as a mouse, must contend with every day. Though debunked, there is still at least 35% of the Fur population that believe the eucalyptus poisoning was carried out by organized mice criminals.

“If it was us that did it, then tell me this, why are we building them a museum in their honor? It’s utterly preposterous, and we will sue,” Mr. Cheddar says.

The grand opening of the Koalacaust Museum is slated for February 3rd of next year, landing on the mouse high holiday of Prrr-im.

— Fur City Examiner, 15 March 2036

I get home and Jack’s on the couch. He’s got his cassette player out, watching that fuckin anime cartoon for the eleven thousandth time.

“Hey champ, heard you kicked some tail at the track meet yesterday,” I say. “Sorry I couldn’t make it. I was out hunting down some AIDS patient rapist. Blew a hole the size of Mark’s Cathedral through his sick head. Here ya go, champ.”

I toss him a Low Rider magazine I picked up on the way. “It’s no Playbunny, but the girls on the front got big milkers.”

He gives me the Silence. Kid doesn’t even look me in the eye.

“Alright, well, fuck you too.”

He grins, seems to like that one. Real funny, huh?

Maybe I oughta do you like the mice did Chippy Kirk.

“I gotta take a shit.”

I start to hoof it upstairs.

“You said you were taking me to Blockbuster tonight.”

Oh, so now he’s talking.

“Yeah, get your shoes on, I’ll be a minute.”

Plenty of tail to oggle there. I make it to my room, bust open the bathroom door–Mark’s cunt–I nearly shit right there on the carpet.

Snowball, my wife of twenty years, hanging from the shower curtain, hanging by the cred Store scarf I’d given her last Emp’s Day.

Mark’s fuckin cunt.

I run to untie her, thinking she still has a chance.

I feel a squish. The bath mat is soaked in piss, topped with a pile of pellets.

I’m too fuckin late.

I’m frozen, iced veins; I don’t know what to fuckin do. All these years I’d been praying for a way out of this shit; but now that she was…she finally…feels like the other half of me…is…–no, keep it together, Luck!

I untie the scarf. Her body smacks the tile like a rag doll, head slams against the edge of the tub. Woulda hurt like hell if she weren’t…you know.

Stand there for a minute, looking at her cold, blue face, all puffy, all sick. There, taped on the mirror above the sink, I see the folded piece of paper. A note. Of course she left a fuckin note.

I’ll spare you the half-tailed attempt at grammar; to sum it up, everything was my fault, and she wishes she’d never met me and blah blah blah.

Bitch.

I tear up the note, flush it down the toilet. No one needs to read that shit.

If I were in a better headspace, I’d be dialing 911, I’d be on the phone stuttering, absolutely devastated and all that shit. Instead, I panic. I mean, they say it’s always the spouse, fuzz’ll go through everything, how could I be sure–

I do something kinda crazy.

“Come on, kid, get your shit together. You’re staying with aunt Wendy tonight. Maybe for a couple nights.”

“What the heck, dad?”

“Don’t argue, wheres your damn toothbrush—screw it, use hers.”

He gives me some back talk, I give him the back of my paw. He goes flying. Conversation over.

I stuff a handful of his dirty clothes in his backpack, an applesauce, and shove him out the door. He can play with his carrot outside while I’m calling Aunt Wendy.

Wendy answers, perturbed, but not surprised. She was used to watching the kid during some of me and Snowball’s domestic situations. Sounds zonked, probably on her prescriptions. She doesn’t ask any questions.

I tell her he’s already waiting outside, so she’d better hurry. She hangs up. Ya know, I fucked her once–before she got fat. That’s neither here nor there.

I wait for her to pull up, and soon as Jack’s tail hits the passenger seat, I’m in the backyard, digging like a goddamn terrier. Once I’ve got something roughly four by three feet deep, I go back up for Snowball.

Yep, she’s still dead.

She’s a lot heavier than she looks. Her empty head smacks every step on the way down. I drag her out the back door, up to the two bit grave, and heave-ho.

Thump. Her body thuds against the dirt, bent up like an acrobat. The bug eyed expression on her face makes me gag. I get down in there, move her arms around a bit, make it so she’s facing the ground. That’s better.

Starts raining as I’m digging; I barely notice it. By the time I’m done covering her up, it’s right about drinkin’ time. I head to the kitchen and grab a sixer, a head of cabbage, and hit the couch. Been a long fucking day. Maybe I shoulda said a prayer for her–no, she didn’t believe in that afterlife crap. At least she had some sense.

Mark rest her soul.

←Chapter 3 Chapter 5—>

Previously on Nerve City: Lucky’s old partner is dead. Enter: Shutterfly, a bubbly pony with a nice set of kickers. Now the bossman, Chief Diddy, has hipped him to a troubling new development, one involving highly volatile energy generators called X-WEBs. Shutterfly already has the scoop on a potential lead: the historic brap brothel, Madam Le Pew’s House of Fumes. But with LePew’s being closed on Saturdays, Lucky is tasked with checking in on a petty untaxed snussy operation in the shitty part of town. Now, we return to Nerve City, where life is cheap, and death is a bargain.

3

The snake had a way with dick–truly a professional.

If you ain’t had a 130 pound boa in cheap lingerie curling her forked tongue around your carrot stick, forget about it. Just gotta keep real still, or she might just fang ya; some of em got that venom, ya know what I mean? I had this rattler back when I was just a greentail, fuck, cunt nearly pierced a hole through my nuts. Lucky for her, she was dealing with the old me, back when I thought there were consequences to my shitty behavior.

“No cop’sss ever fucked me like that,” she says, uncoiling from my achin’ fourteen incher.

“Was your pops too fat for the force?”

“Huh?”

“It’s a joke.”

“...”

“About you fucking your dad.”

I crack myself up.

“Eat a dick, pig,” she says. “You think we workin girlsss jussst exissst for you’re amusssement, like we don’t…”

She keeps yapping, but my mind is elsewhere right now, thinkin’ about Gruff, how’d he let a lil henpicker get the jump on him so easy? On the bright side, he’d finally graduated from this shithole, on to something more real…permanent.

They say all dogs go to heaven; for his sake, I hope they’re right.

“...and my kidsss living with hisss dad right now, court thinksss I’m still on the…”

And this Shutterfly situation, ponies on the force? Gimme a break. Might as well’ve partnered me with a marshmallow–it don’t feel right. Someone has it out for me.

“...so that’sss what I gotta deal with all fucking week.”

“Sounds rough. Got anything mellow? Maybe oughta loosen up a little.”

“Sure thing, Jack.”

Me and her split a Trembunox, half up her keister and half up mine. It’s the only way to ride with ‘nox. I can hear her saying right now, “You pick up that trick from the screwtails, Luck?” Yeah, maybe I learnt it from…screwin on the…your asshole…mom’s place…fuck…gettin…tired…my cock…

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

–phone’s buzzing in my trousers.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

Snowball–the old nag–probably wondering where I was yesterday–Jack’s big triathlon thing–fuck.

I pop a few of the scale slit’s Amps without asking and hit the hardwood.

“You better pay me for thossse.” She hisses.

“Damn, I’m all outta cash. You take cum shots?”

She hurls a mean streak of slurs. What the fuck do I care? I’ve heard them all; I ain’t lettin this two bit whore make me lose my cool–Smack–I give the bitch the back of my paw. Damn cop reflexes, guess I oughta follow through. I send another one across her face; she dodges this one. Damn snake reflexes.

“You want me to turn you and your no good pimp boyfriend in?”

She wipes the blood from her snout, glares with cold blooded contempt, but she knows better than to open that mouth of hers now.

“Here,” I say, tossing a sixty cred on the bed. “Tax free, bitch.”

I check the phone–Snowballs sent a pic of Jack getting his gold medal–the kid’s a champ, there’s no denying it–then, “Call me when you can.”

I turn around, see Selena washing down whatever pills she had left with a handle of Jack Rabbit.

I hop over just in time to snatch the bottle from her jaw, take a swig for the road.

“Ssstew meat,” she hisses.

“You wan’t another one?” I say, wiping my mouth with a bedsheet.

She recoils, slithers off to her dresser.

I watch the scaleback’s tits jiggle as she squeezes them into something sexy.

“Sssixty cred won’t get you far these daysss, and I still gotta give Robby hisss cut–”

“Shut it, calling my boss. Say one more word, and I’m booking you right here, got it?”

She shuts it. I can feel her sourpuss face without even lookin. Not my problem.

I ain’t callin Diddy–he’d see me whe see me–I’m callin Snowball, the other boss.

She answers.

“Lucky?”

“Hey toots, sorry I missed Jack’s thing yesterday, got called in last minute, guess some knife-wielding maniac thought it would be fun to take a couple of pups hostage and–”

“And you shot his fingers off before he could slit their throats.”

“Wow, how’d you know?”

“Because it’s the same story you told me last week.”

“Damn, good memory. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to him. Tell him I’m taking him out for carrot shakes. I’ll buy him a Playbunny. Hell, I’ll buy him a cigar, a Cuban.”

“I’m tired, Lucky.”

“So, take a nap.”

She groans. “It’s not that kind of tired, I just can’t…”

“Just can’t what?”

“I just don’t think I can go on like this. The STDs–”

“I would never!”

“–the pills–”

“That’s the old Lucky!”

“–and little Jack, it’s like he hasn’t even got a father. Have you seen his wrists? He’s all carved up! He says he got them slicing a zuccini, but I don’t believe him. He needs love in his life, Luck, a father’s love. He’s crying out for help, he’s…he’s in pain!”

“He ain’t turning gay, is he? He’s dead to me if he ever goes screwtail!”

“Fuck you, Lucky.”

She hangs up. For a fetish model turned housewife, she sure acts indignant.

I get dressed, snort an Amp in the bathroom, and blow, skippin any and all pleasantries. Don’t wanna be around when that snake realizes the cred card I left was junked.

Checkin my watch, the time’s already 6:15–shift ended fifteen minutes ago, and I got a stop to make on my way back to the precinct.

All that Amp I’d nabbed from last month’s big bust, well shit, I was down to my last little bottle. I’d been crushing up ten a day; what some might call a habit. For better or for worse, I manage it well.

There are some furs out there, all zonked out and kookoo kola; they’re seeing shit–crazy shit that ain’t there; the gey paranoid, start offin’ loved ones–wake up the next morning and they can’t remember nothin.

There was this koala last week; he was so spaced out, took ten bullets to convince him his coworkers weren’t all a bunch of pedophilic, demon worshipping space aliens. Some jokers just can’t handle themselves, ruin it for the rest of us functional types.

But what’re ya gonna do?

On my way to the station, I take a detour down Pawthorne, past the Litter King and the abandoned VFW, and to that most degenerate of territories, Scat Row. If I have to place a bet on it, that’s where I’d find who I was looking for.

I’m driving down 33rd, bobbing my head to a Whisker Dü record–an old punk band I used to catch playing at the Cat’s Paw, back when I was slinging Zoot and handing out free ass kickings. The guitar player and drummer were homos, but the fruity basst with the big handlebar mustache wasn’t. Go figure.

I turn left at the stop sign–when I see him: Smokey. The six foot seven dragon is strutting down Martin Lemur King Blvd in a tube top and fuck-me shorts, lookin’ like a hate crime waiting to happen. Unbelievable.

I roll down the window.

“Hey, fluffer, how’s the butt business?”

Up close, the guy’s a fuckin wreck–eyes dark and swollen, scales all scabbed and flaky–

“Hard at work, Mr. Policeman?” Smokey says all fruity. “Or should I say, Mr. Pain?”

Mr. Pain, huh?

“Cute nickname, Smoke. How much of the good stuff can I score for this?”

I hold up a wrinkled cred code I’d nicked from some punk’s leather Jacket. He plucks the slip gingerly from my paw, holds it up to the sun to make sure it’s legit, then stuffs it down his crotch.

I can’t believe my own eyes, the puffer sticks his hand behind his tail, squats, and pulls out a short bag of orange powder.

“You just pull that outta your fuckin ass?”

“Be careful, Mr. Pain,” he lisps, tosses the baggie into the passenger seat. “The world is dying–slow now, but faster every day!”

“Sure, puffer, whatever you say.”

I stick the goods in my pocket, trying not to think about where it’s been.

“Say, you ain’t happened to hear anything about the fox who retired Gruff the other night?”

Smoke shrugs, says, “Sounds like your old partner got an early ascension. Must be nice.”

The way that motherfucker says it–I hop out, wind up, and slug the son of an iguana in his scaly gut. A puff of smoke blows out his nostrils. He folds like a bad hand.

“Choke on a tail, ya goddamn yiffer.”

Just to drive the point home, I kick him square in the dick. He yowls, clutching his baby carrot.

Violence, the official language of Fur City.

“Process…” Smokey manages to choke out. “...You’re just the…hngh…process.”

On my way to the car, I say, “Don’t you ever talk about a dead cop like that again. Acension. Fuck off. He’s gettin processed like everyone else in this rat trap, and with this new attitude you got, you’re lookin to be next in line.” I start rolling the window up, then roll it back down. “And if this shit you sold me is kibble, I’m coming back to finish your greasy ass off.”

The bastard doesn’t even get up. Just lays there on the sidewalk like he’s making a pavement angel. I got half a mind to back up over him, but that fruitcake’d probably be grateful for it. That’s when I catch myself smiling. For the first time in months, I’m actually fuckin smiling.

Mr. Pain. Yeah, that’s me.

On the drive back to the station, Smoke’s words are weasling their way back into my brain–was that gonna be me someday? Two years ago, the puffer was riding high, every week, he was pulling in sugar daddies, yiffers with fast cars and three hundred-cred haircuts.

I got a special place in my trunk for yiffers, so naturally, I kept Smokey hot on my radar. After his seventh bust, he finally learned how to stay out of trouble. Always kept an extra bag with my name on it.

He’s cooked now, brains leaking out his double wide asshole all over Pawthorne. I swear, I could do twenty mils a day, and I’d never come out that fucked–and if I ever do get to that point, I just hope someone has the decency to sleep me fast.

←Chapter 2 Chapter 4—>

by Phil Rot

“We will make WEB so cheap that only the rich will burn bio.”

— Friedrich Von Antelope, co-inventor of the WEB

“Sex, Lies, and Cred: FCPD Officer Accused of Shaking Down Untaxed Prostitutes in Lucrative Extortion Scheme”

— The Daily Fur, April 1st, 2037 edition

2

“You look like the shit I took at Mardi Paws,” Chief Diddy says. “I don’t know if I should give you the news or tell the janitor to come in and scrub your ass off the floor.”

“First, you can let me know the name and location of the shit rag who sleep’d Gruff.”

“A no good screwtail from the South side, that’s who, and he’s napping in a body bag right now, so what’s it to you?”

I damn near stamp a hole through the fuckin floor.

“You said the fluffer was in the hospital.”

Diddy leans back in his chair, sounding ready to snap under his weight. Despite his girth, the monkey’s all muscle, which includes the inside of his skull. Brains or not, size equals respect, a commodity in short supply around this precinct.

“Found the rat smothered to death this morning. Looks like someone beat you to it.” He lights a banana leaf cigar, tosses the match on the floor. “If you’re out for blood, I could actually use your killer instinct right now. Seems the no-good cock snout might’ve leaked a little intel to one of the nurses before the goons hit his snooze button.”

“No shit?”

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the political shit going on right now, ISIS–the feline terrorists who hate our freedom and commitment to the protection of Micerael–all that crap–seems they’ve been trying to secure these hot new shits called ‘X-WEBs,’ WEBs so strong they can power an energy bomb with a blast radius bigger than six Fur Citys.”

“X-WEBs, huh? You think I could snag one of those for my shit bucket? Thing’s about ready to shit out at any minute.” I ain’t kidding, a new WEB for my ride’d set me back 2000 creds easy.

“Spare me your poverty, Lucky. Here’s the deal: the Mouse Mob’s somehow gotten access to these new X-WEBs, and they’re looking to sell to the highest bidder, and word on the street is it’s ISIS. Why they’d sell bomb making materials to a people who want to destroy their species’ holy land is, to me, fucking confusing. But I’m no geopolitical strategist, I’m a fuckin gorilla with a comfy salary, so what do I know? Now, if I haven’t said it yet, my condolences about your old partner, he was a good cop, despite the, uhh, allegations. Mark rest his soul.”

We both bow our heads respectfully.

“Alright, let’s cut the sentimentals. I’m ready to hit the beat. Whose civil rights am I violating today?”

“I ain’t sending you to Scat Row, stew meat, I’m putting you on the X-WEB case.”

“What?”

“That’s right, Lucky. You’re getting a promotion. No more trap houses and tug joints for you. You’ve got talent,” he’s really buttering me up here, “I need you on this case.”

A knock at the door.

“Ah, perfect timing, come in!”

As the Chief says, “Lucky, I want you to meet your new partner,” in trots the perkiest little pony you ever laid eyes on. She’s got that classic mare next door charm, soft coat, eyes big as beach balls, and curves in all the right places. She prances across the floor like its made out of marshmallows, and suddenly, the whole office smells like cinnamon rolls.

“Lucky, this is Detective Shutterfly. She’s just transferred here from East Cloppington. She’ll be working the X-WEB case with you.”

She may be a pony, but the mare is a knockout. Long, rainbow hair, Big ol’ blue eyes, an ample tuckus, and a cute little mouth I wouldn’t mind filling–guess I got a thing for ladies who stand on all fours.

“Hi, Lucky!” She squeals. “It’s, like, so good to meet you!”

The bitch is bubblier than peroxide on a stripper pole.

“You too, sugartail.”

“Hey, have some respect, stew meat. Shutter here’s a decorated officer, she’s the one who busted up Jonny Claws and the Panther Gang.”

“Six tons of cub porn confiscated!” she chirps, clearly giddy about her accomplishment. “Oh, and ten whole pounds of Ampersol!”

Ten fuckin pounds–just the thought of that much Amp gets my paws itchy.

“Excited are we, Lucky?” Diddy says.

“What? Oh, yeah. Can’t wait to bust this case wide open,” I say, eyeing my new partner’s ass…ets.

The pony catches me staring at her tattoo, a cross between a pentagram and a heart on her hindquarters. She must like it up the ass.

“Yeah, I’m totes excited too! Looks like that fox was able to give up a name before boarding the processing plant express.”

“Oh yeah?” I say.

“Uh huh! Madam Le Pew. She runs the House of Fumes! Guess he was bragging to the nurse about all of his sleazy connections.”

“Ah, jeez, the brap house?”

“Yeah! I did some digging through the files, made a couple of calls, and guess what? It turns out Madam Le Pew is the widow of Mickey Rat, head assassin of the Mouse Mob!”

She jumps, clicks her hooves in the air.

“That right?”

“Yep, and I’ve got a super great idea! We’ll dress you up like a regular John, and you can ask one of the brap girls for a little under the table, then, if she agrees, bammo–start talking or face the wall!”

Mark’s ass, this chick’s air-head shtick is getting old quick.

“And when do you propose we pull this little number off?”

“Well, they’re closed today on account of Cat Nippur, so I don’t know how about hmm…tomorrow??!”

“Chief?”

“What,” he says between puffs.

“You think this is a match made in heaven, huh?”

“She gets results, Luck, that’s what matters. Now, you two beat it and find me a lead on this X-WEB business. Fur City is counting on you, capisce?”

“You got it, Chiefy!” Shutter squeals. The spunky mare clops out the door like she won the shit eating sweepstakes.

The chief, perhaps noticing the look in my eyes, says, “Hey, keep your dick in your fucking trousers.”

“Course, Chief, what do I look like, a scumbag?”

“Yeah. Also, this is your last chance, Lucky. Nab these X-WEB smugglers, and you’ll be the hero of the fucking year, but if you cause another embarrassment for the force, you’re getting shit-canned. Got it?”

“Wow. Thanks for believing in me, Chief.”

“I’m sending you and Shutterfly to Le Pews first thing tomorrow. In the meantime, go check in on that operation on Silversnake. Word is, a certain python is serving up untaxed snussy to anyone with the cred. See about making an example of her. Just don’t touch the merchandise, got it?”

“Message received.”

“Good. Now get lost.”

Prostitution is a perfectly respectable line of work. In Fur City, no sex act is above commercialization–so long as the government gets a bite. This wouldn’t be an issue if they didn’t ask for such a large slice of the pie. Fur City is lousy with girls trying to make a quick cred without the hassle of filing. Thankfully, fine officers like myself were more than willing to uphold the tax code–I mean, who do you think pays our salaries?

Still, 25% is a pretty steep cut, so I got my own program set up, kind of a charity thing: the girls let me sample their merchandise, and I might look the other way while they pocket a little textbook money. That’s called giving back to the community.

There’d be none of that charity work today, though. Diddy had laid it on thick with his dress down back there. As I pulled out of the station, the last thing on my mind was fuckin up any harder than I already had. But Diddy had said to check on that Silversnake operation—and a little untaxed snussy was just the thing to clear my head before hitting the brap house tomorrow.

No–that was the old Lucky, the new Lucky, I’d been handed a second chance, I could crack this new case, get on the front page of NewsHub, maybe even hatefuck my new partner, all I had to do was keep my nose clean–

Ah, who am I kidding?

I snort an Amp off the dashboard and hit the freeway to Silversnake Drive…

Next time on Nerve City: Snake sex, a hopped-up homosexual dragon, and more vulgar language as Lucky’s world slowly descends further into madness…

←Chapter One Chapter Three—>

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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*Studies have found that using Ampersol regularly can potentially lead to depression, anxiety, mood swings, dysphoria, euphoria, trouble sleeping, trouble staying awake, rapid onset tooth decay, brittle bones, waking nightmares, losing grip on reality, homicidal ideation, weight loss, and weight gain, matricide, suicide, and death. Consult your physician before ingesting Ampersol. Call poison control immediately if you think you have accidentally ingested Ampersol.”

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…

Chapter 2—>