The Park pt1
by Jambalaya the Pit

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    That smell, sour, pungent, and oily; the kind that sticks for days no matter how much soap is applied. Early morning sunlight banged on the backs of her eyelids like a landlord to a deadbeat’s door.  Squeezed shut she tried to will it away, fall back into that comforting darkness that was her unconsciousness. Well… comforting might be making light of the miserable tedium of her dreams, but it beat what was waiting for her beyond her lids.  Aching muscles and bruised ribs spoke of the late night before. With a wrinkled nose she caught the odor again, as if it were hard to miss, it permeated nearly every facet of the room.  Shame should have come attached to it since she knew what it was, but her Dignity could not be bothered to get out of bed.  Her sense of Envy would have lusted after her Shame’s indifference but it too was snoring loudly with that whore Apathy. She stank, it was not as if she had not had a bath or scrub in a week.  Nightly routines included stripping to her fur the moment she got home, stuffing all her soiled clothing in the wash with a double dose of detergent, and then jumping in the shower for a thirty minute scrub, followed by a vigours drying outside in the fresh… city air, and then a healthy spritz (read: soaking) in a blend of essential oils.  Yet… that... Park clung to her like shit to fur.  Agitated electronic sounds came from her ancient digital clock across the room.  With a sigh Biscuit opened her eyes, that effluence had woke her before her alarm.  

    Staring blearily at the ceiling she scratched with purpose at the sweaty crevice under her bulbous breasts. The movement beside her was followed by a series of snorts and farts nearly indistinguishable from one or the other save the toxic smell that overpowered her own fragrance.  Rough pads and blunt claws kicked at her as the feral bulldog tried to push himself under the blankets and out of the waking world.  Scratching her C-section scar below her ample belly she reached over and dug her nails into that little spot above the stub of his tail. His grunts of appreciation were the only answer Biscuit received over the sound of the grating siren of her alarm.  

    Scalding water cascaded over her as she scrubbed vigorously at her short fur.  Stiff muscles and deep bruises gave up their effort to rack her with aches in the face of hot water.  Scuffed and scabbed knuckles stung somewhere in the back of her mind from the intrusion of soap. Like many houses built before the Second Collapse her bathroom opened on to a covered porch; The sliding wall was open enough for the cool morning air to invade the scalding water creating a thick humid mist.  Conceptually the intention had been to give a body a sense of being in nature once again.  Psychologists had invested a lot of effort to convince folk to get back to their “primal essence”, but it seemed they had also invested in a series of real estate and plumbing  ventures as well.  Regardless of its intent Biscuit enjoyed the ability to walk straight outside after her business.  Especially after a tumultuous fight with her bowels, age was not kind to a digestive tract filled by a mouth that could not stop its youth.  Turning the water off she pushed the water out of her fur and then stepped out of the shower, slid the wall open, stepped into the cool morning air and slid the wall shut behind her.  For a moment she stood taking slow deep breaths watching the sun finally clear the two story dilapidated series of duplexes behind her decaying fence. With a grunt she shook, from the sole of her paws to the tips of her ears she let go.  Her bulk and great breasts slapped back and forth out of rhythm with the rest of her body.  With a final shudder her tail cracked like a whip and she had gone from wet to slightly damp.  

    Nipples stiff she leaned up against the enclosure support hearing the aging wood groan.  Digging around above her she fished out the familiar worn box and from it removed a stub of a cigar.  Worn and crewed at one end and blackened at the other she struck a match and lit it puffing generously.  There was a pawing at the bathroom wall and with a movement of her paw she slid the wall open enough for Ajax to squeeze through.  Snorting he trotted past her and into the wild yard to get started on his morning.  Biscuit idly scratched at the overgrown thatch of fur between her legs.  Puffing on the cigar and rubbing herself with no more intention that that of a unconscious tick she started with unfocused eyes at the residential decay of economic collapse and recovery, followed by collapse and recovery, followed by economic stagnation. Not that these things were on her mind, what thoughts she tried to avoid were that of the new spring help.  

    Ajax was already asleep in a beam of sunlight as Biscuit left, so much for goodbyes and farewells. Not exactly lovers even though they often filled one another’s needs, not exactly roommates except that they had lived together for the better part of two decades, best friends only fit in some sense but they were so much more than that, definitely not brother and sister however they shared that bond, expressly not mated even though they’d both been married and divorced, an odd couple to say the least.  Ajax had been married once, and mated twice, had eight living children that Biscuit knew of and currently had a geriatric corgi as his side piece. Really had a thing for docked tails.  Retired Synth Sniffer with more time on his paws than he knew what to do with, he was beginning to seem more like a “pet” (animal companion for those offended by the “P” word) than he’d ever admit. Spent a lot of time sleeping, and eating when he wasn’t waddling down to the track to watch the squirrels run. 

to be cont...

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