| \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t | \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tGratitudeAdvocate\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t | \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\tcreenative-redfox/ 
\n\t\t\t\teverettbloodclaw",
"writing": "[i]Early morning, third day of autumn, chilly. Maxwell, a young pup with adoring eyes and a world of imaginative dreams channeling through his hybrid mind, awakens abruptly. His parents are yelling again, like they sometimes do when they can't agree with things. The shep-coon lad is scared, but assured they won't stay mad at each other for very long. Max swings his paw-padded feet off the top bunk of his bed, leaping down to the hardwood floor and landing with cat-like dexterity. He reaches into the lower bunk to awaken his younger brother, Jordan. The pup groans and yawns, shaking Max's hand-paws free from his shoulders, snot-trails crusted under his nostrils. Come on, baby bro, time for school! Mommy and daddy are fighting again, so now we gotta get ready on our own. Wake up, Jordan! C'mon! The young anthro brothers, Max and Jordan, are inseparable - not just brothers, but the best of friends. Jordan endures many hardships, due to his low-functioning autism. He is slow and often regarded by many as retarded, mentally incapable of comprehending others on a day-to-day basis. Maxwell, however, disregards such nonsense as bogus misinformation. Maxie-poo, just a few more minutes, 'kay? No! We gotta get to school now, bro! Fine, fine, you butt. I'm up, I'm up. Don't call me a butt, you weenie. They giggle at each other's names, sillier than the last. Jordan sits up in his lower bunk, tussling his goldenrod-blonde hair into a mess, wiping his nose clean with the palm of his wrist and standing upright, paw-padded feet relaxed on the soft, plushy carpet adorning the floor of their bedroom. On the other end of the trailer, their parents are discussing financial stresses and transportation woes, disturbing the early morning slumber with their excessive vocal range. Maxwell guides a half-sleeping Jordan into a bathroom connected to their bedroom, shared by the brothers all their lives. The hardwood tiling is cool to the touch on their paw-padded feet. Looking into a mirror, Maxwell chuckles aloud. His hair looks worse than Jordan's head of chaos by far, a magnetic bundle of strands and knots, natty as the day is dim and getting brighter still. The hybrid lad grabs for a nearby hairbrush, combing out the kinks. Painfully removing all tangles, Jordan squirts a glob of toothpaste onto his brush, working at his pearly white mandibles and tongue. Maxwell looks at Jordan's reflection in the mirror, while Jordan returns his big bro's gaze with his own silent stare. Over their parent's bickering, the brothers silently regard one another. Jordan, short and stout with a petite raccoon nose, elegant deep-browed green eyes that far-surpass his age by many years and blackened lips whitened with toothpaste foam. Maxwell, tall and lanky, a broad canine muzzle with heterochromia-laden irises, one eye brown and the other a bright shade of hazel, canine features surpassing raccoon distinctions. Jordan loves his older brother unconditionally, more than anyone else he knows in his very small social circle. Maxwell would give his life to protect his baby bro from any harm, no matter what the cost. Their mother, Suzanne, begins to sob while their father, Harper, runs his mouth non-stop, incapable of slowing down or pausing for a breath. The shep-coon siblings tidy up and prepare themselves for another fine day of schoolyard antics. Max's knuckles are still recovering from bruising endured, caused by punching a rude-spirited bully who teased Jordan for his height and ringed tail, calling the young lad a queer and sissy-ass little nigger-bitch dog while laughing aloud. The older sophomore went home with a missing tooth and a welting goose-egg bruise on his cheek upon that very same day, especially after Max caught the jerk hawking and spitting a large loogie onto his brother's shirt. Some number of weeks later, Max was suspended and given three days of detention upon his return. Jordan was spared of rudimentary teasing from anyone else after the hard-hitting fiasco took place, remembering that his brother is heavily protective and wouldn't hesitate to bust some teeth in the name of preserving the family dynamic. Their parents were furious, but understanding. Harper admitted his disappointment to Maxwell, yet later complimented him on his actions to protect his brother from any further harm. Max nodded and smiled softly, resuming his homework without a single spanking or verbal reprimanding. Suzanne shook her head with frustration, asking Max if he really had a choice in the matter. Max said yes, that he could have walked away and let the bad children continue to pester and make fun of his brother, refusing to mention the spitting. His mom sighed and held her arms our wide to Max, who ran into her warm embrace. She asked him to promise her that he'd not get so carried away next time anything like that happened. Max agreed, even with his finger-paws crossed behind her back. Suzanne, these fucking bills are not paying themselves anytime soon, you know. Oh Harper, what other choice do we have?! I mean, times are rough for everyone, we aren't the only family directly affected by the - oh come on, that's not the fucking point, bitch! We gotta cut corners and make sacrifices if we hope to continue making a fair life for ourselves! Will you pipe down, for God's sake? The children are sleeping still, you'll wake 'em up along with the whole damn neighborhood if you continue to blat on like you are now. And don't call me a bitch, you asshole. So what if I wake the fucking dead? This is SERIOUS, Sue! Serious! You don't think I realize that, Harper?! Holy horse-stew! Max and Jordan exchanged a glance at each other in the reflection of their bathroom mirror, one that spoke of pure compromise, faithful understanding, abhorrent truth and definitive reasoning. When the siblings were finished tidying up, they entered back into their room and got suited up. Max helped Jordan fix his tie and Jordan scratched an unsightly itch upon Max's back, causing his fur to stand up on end all across his thin, lanky dog-coon arms. When they were both set, backpacks loaded up for the new day, coats zipped up tight, hair slicked back and less ratty, Max led Jordan feet-first down their trailer's hallway. Their parents were in the kitchen. The scent of freshly-brewed coffee sweltered in their nostrils, stomachs rumbling from a lack of breakfast. Max opened a packet of Pop-Tarts and consumed them both with a few wide-maw bites, belching shortly after consuming the last piece. Jordan laughed, pulling a banana free from a racked bunch hanging off a hook suspended above their kitchen counter. Suzanne asked the boys if they'd like a packed lunch before they left. Max insisted otherwise saying that he was fine, thanks mom. Jordan agreed, however. The young lad could never pass up a meal prepared by his mommy, no matter what she was apt to give him. Max, straining restlessly, glanced upon a clock hung over the front room's television. It read twenty after seven. School started at eight o'clock on the dot every morning and their bus route usually ran anywhere between thirty to forty minutes on average. This would be cutting it close as could be. Max saw that his father reflected that very idea in his stern, frustrated expression. The grown shepherd man perched himself upon a barstool on the other side of the kitchen's island-counter, sipping at his morning brew, frowning apprehensively. Suzanne proceeded to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for her youngest boy, Jordan's enduring favorite. Max placed his butt down upon the only couch in the home, a fold-out La-Z-Boy with torn cushions and frayed-edge armrests, coffee stains aplenty. Max had lost count of how many accidental spills he and Jordan had made upon the couch, especially after their father had grown accustomed to hitting them upside their heads with a rolled-up newspaper as a result. Once, Jordan was sent to his room in a bawling stupor after nearly setting the place on fire with snapper-pops during a fourth of July celebration. Suzanne intervened by suggesting they go outside and play instead of staying indoors. Harper punched his wife in her face, causing her to fall raggedly to the ground in a semi-conscious daze. Maxwell's heart raced and his panic reached epic proportions, fearing what his father might do to him, what he'd be apt to do next to his brother or anyone else who found it wise to intervene. Nothing else happened that evening though. Harper got drunk on his own supply and crashed on the kitchen floor's tiling, half-nude and slouched against a cabinet. Suzanne snuck into the boy's room and cuddled with Jordan, tending to her puffy blackened eye. Maxwell sat on the couch, watching cowboy westerns until the station signed off, buzzing with a Native American's head centered in a color-placard frozen upon the screen. Mom, we gotta hurry and get to school, otherwise we'll be late! Yeah, honey. Hurry your ass up and make the kid's goddam sandwich already. The truck's still busted to shit and I ain't gonna let these twerps miss another day of studies, get it? Harper, they're your children. Not twerps. Be reasonable, would you? Yeah, reasonable is the dog that butt-humped its way to civility until the asshole began to bleed. Harper! Okay, fine, fine. Max, take this. Harper gave his older son a twenty, which Max stashed quickly into his jacket pocket. Use it for lunch today, and for lunch only. If you come home and I find a cent was used on anything else, I swear I'll - no worries, dad! We'll get lunch only. Thanks again, pop. Yeah, don't mention it. Harper, are you sure? Of course, why else would I even bother, for fuck's sake? Make that goddam sandwich now so these boys can get to school without further delay. Okay hon, okay. She smothered the two slices of bread together and wrapped it up in a plastic baggie, tucking Jordan's delight into a zipped-open pocket on his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles backpack. She kissed both his cheeks and nose with a motherly approach, causing Jordan to groan with embarrassment. Maxwell giggled and Harper shook his head, rolling his dark brown eyes and scoffing aloud. Suzanne, ringed tail elegantly poised behind her blouse, gorgeous blonde hair complimenting her bandit-masked face and bright green eyes, regarded her youngest child with sheer adoration and unparalleled love. She adored both her boys, but Jordan held an extra-special place in her heart. Could it be the distinction of raccoon versus shepherd? Maybe because he was the youngest? Or least likely to get into any mischief like Maxwell was akin to, perhaps. She sent the boys on their way, ushering them out the front door of the Blackburnadeaux family trailer, smack-dab in an RV park located in the confines of Brookings, Oregon. Suzanne would have held onto her youngest son longer and kissed him more if she had known that morning would be the last time she ever looked into his eyes, rubbed his soft bristly fur, kissed his pudgy young whiskery muzzle. Harper would have insisted the boys stay home if he had known their lives would change radically and entirely in just a few short minutes from the time his sons left their humble and low-income abode. Maxwell stomped through muddy splotches of wet grass and dirt, singing aloud and spinning like a top. Jordan hooted and hollered like a crazed monkey behind his older brother, chilled breath trailing from his mouth like vapor. Race ya to the bus stop, cow's ass! You're on, llama balls! Maxwell laughed and snorted as he caught his breath. Llama balls? That's a new one! I know! I heard our neighbor Tony call his dog that after he stepped on Petey's poop-pile! That's too funny! Llama balls. Mine's better though, cow's ass. Cow's ass! Cow's ass! Max! Cows don't have asses, they have flanks! Nah, that's horses, you numb-nuts. So we gonna race or what? Of course! Get in position. Jordan hunched down at the end of the trailer park's gravel-strewn driveway, looking down their stretch of blacktop road, the bus stop roughly a quarter-mile away from their location, clustered with other students both anthro and human alike, waiting to attend the day's schooling. On three, ready? Yes. One, two, hey wait! Jordan took off early, gaining a head-start. Maxwell hollered and ran after his brother, feet clomping upon the pavement, wind rushing against his face, lungs burning with liquid fire. Slow down, bro! Nope! We're racing, remember? Okay, if that's how you want it, you asked for it! Maxwell slouched down and held his arms out behind his hips to provide a more aerodynamic approach. He sprinted heavily, surpassing Jordan like a hare to a tortoise, one of Jordan's favorite stories. Jordan yelled at Maxwell to slow down, no fair, hey Max, slow down! Max laughed and ran on, arms now outstretched, raised above his head, hand-paws clenched into fists, imitating a star track athlete taking the gold. Max never even noticed the swerving vehicle to his right, not until it was too late. He slowed down a bit to catch his breath and heard squealing tires. The sound was abrupt and shocking. Upon swiveling around to catch sight of the strange and alarming noise, Max saw a pickup truck, smaller than his father's by half, fish-tailing off the edge of the road, careening into the nearby shoulder, heading right for Jordan. Maxwell hollered aloud and began to run back the way he came. Jordan stopped in place, frozen solid by the oncoming truck, flying at a break-neck speed toward his very location. He saw smoke pouring from its wheel-well, heard a grating screech of brakes and smelled scorched rubber. Maxwell craned his head down and ran with all his might, ran as fast as he could ever imagine, frazzled with panic and fright. Max held his head up briefly and looked into the face of his younger brother, Jordan, his best buddy and closest family member. In Jordan's expression, Max saw an anguish too great to bear. Though he also saw a somnolent depth of peace. Peace with what came next. Peace with what had already come so far. Peace with knowing how things will be radically different soon thereafter. Jordan looked into the horrified eyes of his older brother with a smile. Even when the vehicle struck the boy and sent him reeling thirty feet into a ditch spanning along the road, arm broken off and flung against his back, legs twisted into a frozen tangle, Jordan's expression stayed the same. Maxwell screamed aloud, bloodcurdling and insane. He stumbled down a grass-strewn hill to where his brother's disfigured body had landed on a pile of granite pebbles, a pool of blood forming beneath his severed arm, a white knob of bone protruding from his shoulder, chapped lips frozen to his gums in a rictus of death. Max looked into Jordan's still-frozen eyes, saw how dilated his pupils had become, noticed the lack of frozen breath emanating from his mouth and held onto Jordan's mangled body tightly, hugging his dead brother, sobbing with merciless surrender, nauseated with fear and panic, barely able to comprehend a single thing other than how at ease Jordan looked, even when he was hit, slammed violently by the out-of-control vehicle. The driver exited quickly, leaving the truck parked and running. He regarded the smudge of blood and widened dent upon the rightmost rear side of his vehicle. The man stood atop the mist-smothered hill, dumbfounded into a polarized state of utmost shock, watching the young raccoon boy's body cradled by his distraught shep-coon older brother, tail curled inward between his legs, tears streaming down his cheeks, shrieking and yowling aloud in a frenzy of suffering grief. Max looked up at the man and yelled. The young shep-coon and older brother of the hit-and-run victim howled with a maddening roar, eyes bloodshot with rage, teeth bared, body trembling with freezing tenacity. Maxwell wanted to kill the man. He wanted to kill the man so badly right then and there. He wanted to push the man into oncoming traffic and watch his body flattened by a semi-truck. He wanted to drive a car into the man, breaking his body upon impact, sending his dismembered parts reeling into a nearby gutter, squishing his cranium beneath thickened car tires. He wanted to kill the man so badly, so fucking badly. The school bus arrived late and Maxwell never got on, nor did Jordan, no Blackburnadeaux ever got back on the bus again, never ever again. Police dispatch vehicles arrived with an ambulance in tow. EMTs carried a stretcher down to the accident scene, where deputies had to restrain Maxwell with brute force in order for the white-coats to collect Jordan's frozen-stiff body, carrying him upon a plastic gurney stretcher, hoisting him to their ambulance, what their father called the meat-wagon. Maxwell raved and tried to bite the arm of one of the cops to be closer to his brother. Max didn't want to see his baby bro hauled off in a fucking meat-wagon. The shep-coon's worst nightmares had instantaneously become a sordid reality and he couldn't deal with the pressure, couldn't deal with the stress, didn't want to cope with the grief, would refuse - actively refuse to come to terms with the loss, so sudden, so unprovoked, so accidental, but there he was, he was there, they were both here but now Max was all alone, nobody else to befriend him, to comfort him, to scratch those annoying itches on his back and make up silly names back and forth and race him to the school bus. He was there, he was alive but Jordan was not, Jordan was not there with him, not here, not anymore. No more. Jordan was simply not-[/i]\n\n\"Here. We're here, Max. Wake up, sport.\" Gus said, nudging Maxwell's shoulder. The shep-coon sat up in a daze, realizing he'd been enduring a deep memory, a terrible nightmarish dream that had truly happened, purely non-fictional. He blinked, then winced and cupped his hand-paws into his eye sockets, gently sobbing. Bradley and Maile were sat in the front of Gus's touring van. They both cast an alarmed glance at each other, hearing their band-leader crying aloud in the back-seat. Gus, buckled up and perched behind Bradley, leaned over to be closer to his devoted anthro-bassist. Maile could feel Max's fear emanate freely with simmering waves from his body, even while still as a stone statue in her passenger seat.\n\n\"Say, bud. You okay?\" Gus asked, wrapping an arm around Max's shoulder consolingly. Max shook his head, sniffling and wiping tears off his cheeks with a nearby blanket.\n\n\"Dreamed about Jordan again, Gus. It felt so real this time… like I was there all over again.\" Max said, wide-eyed, totally distressed. A deep shade of blue glowed from behind his orange eye-patch, cold to the touch. Gus frowned, lowered his head and hugged Max tight, comforting the shep-coon's shoulder against his neck with paternal care, paying no mind to the excess frost from Max's socket brushing against his cheek.\n\n\"I understand, kiddo. I sometimes dream about my first wife, even still. It's perfectly normal to have reoccurring dreams about those you've lost in life. You'll never lose sight of those who you loved the most, not ever. Let it all out as much as you need to, Max.\" Gus said, voice wavering at the edge of sadness. Gus supposed this time of year was a particularly difficult one for Maxwell, since he'd lost his brother roughly a few days or so after their scheduled concert date. The shep-coon kept his composure well enough for the most part, but sometimes he would break down and feel the stinging hatred of grief's poisonous tentacles penetrating his soul. Tonight was just one of those arduous evenings for him. Gus cleared his throat and asked Bradley if there was still any parking available. Brad yawned, nodding to Gus, looking at him through the rear-view window, gamboge eyes aglow with whitened dashboard lights.\n\n\"Sure, Gus… I mean, this place isn't exactly packed, per-se.\"\n\n\"It isn't entirely wide-open either. Let's try around back, perhaps.\" Maile replied, flexing her arms and picking at a rough edge on one of her cloven hooves.\n\n\"Guys.\" Maxwell said with a quivering, slightly weakened voice. The others remained silent and attentive. \"Look, whatever happens, wherever we go, what counts is that we are here now, right? We can get out and relax a little, which is cool because I swear, my goddam nuts are soooo numb right now!\" Bradley and Maile laughed, nodding in agreement. Gus chuckled and patted Max's shoulder, bulky arm wrapped around his neck, cheek smooshed against the shep-coon's forehead. Maile pointed out a reasonable parking space near the back-end of the venue, to which Bradley rolled up to immediately. Maile hopped out right away, stretching wide and long, back cracking like popped knuckles, tail ruffling outstretched. Brad caught an eyeful of her midriff and averted his gaze, stifling a thick blush. A ragged metal door reflected the van's headlights, situated right next to a large air-conditioning unit behind Monty's Midnight Mix-up, Louisiana's finest backwoods swamp-laden rock-hard nightclub. The entire building was smothered in clumps of ivy and moss, aged and decrepit, wood panels rotten with moisture and mold. A neon sign was illuminated in front of the ramshackle building, flickering steadily on and off, reading: [b]LIVE GIRLS XXX - MUSIC - BOOZE - SERVING ALL SPECIES![/b]\n\n\"This is where we're playing tonight?\" Max exclaimed aloud, jaw agape, staring wildly with disbelief. Bradley stepped out from the driver's seat after parking the van and shutting the engine off, pocketing Gus' keys. The fennec-hybrid walked around to the back and swung open a pair of double-wide doors, reaching for an amp and guitar case, rolling his neck free of excess kinks from sitting still for so long. \n\n\"Hey, at least it isn't like, a whorehouse or something. I mean even our little grunge group has standards, right?\" Brad said, walking over to the building, placing the amp and case down beside the AC unit. Maile shrugged complacently and Max shook his head.\n\n\"Man, I dunno.\" Max said, sniffling deep and clearing his throat, drying his sinuses of excess tears and snot, spitting off into a tangle of trees. \"This place just looks… seedy, y'know? Real worn-down, campy, slightly redneck… just… um… I might prefer a whore-house to this dive, can ya dig where I'm coming from, man?\"\n\n\"Strangely enough, I can. Hmm.\" Brad cocked his brow and gave the building a less-than-stellar judgmental gaze. \"This place is really, uh…\"\n\n\"[i]Perfect.[/i]\" Gus mused, finishing Brad's statement for him. Max regarded the old man with a look reserved for only the most ignorant frat-boys. Gus laughed and looked at both Brad and Max wildly. \"Nah, man, this place is perfect! I mean, we're playing a totally private venue, small turn-out, no bright city lights or after-hours curfews, no restrictions to the audience in question. I've done just right by us, methinks.\" Gus said, striking a pose of sheer pride, fists propped against his hips, legs spread with a smug used car dealer's grin upon his bearded face. \n\n\"You fuckin' kiddin' me, amigo?\" Max asked, shrugging his shoulders, squinting his nose into a sneer, head cocked with disbelief. Maile found the pose comical and giggled under her breath.\n\n\"Max, maybe Gus is right. I mean, sure it looks like shit… but most old, worn-down places have the best acoustics around, so I guess this works.\" Bradley insisted.\n\n\"Yeah, and who knows? There might be some sexy-ass turn-outs in the audience tonight. They can't all be a bunch of meth-heads and incest-laden hillbillies, am I right?\" Maile asked with a smirk and a wink of her panda-goat hybrid rectangular-pupiled eye. Max shrugged.\n\n\"Right you are, Mai-Mai!\" Gus exclaimed aloud, pointing a finger at his little drummer girl.\n\nBrad stood upright, arms folded in front of his chest, admiring the nostalgia of the ramshackle building. He wondered how many acts have performed in this place. How many bar-fights had been broken up within, how many over-excited young swamp-rats were conceived in the very same parking lot where they now unloaded their gear for their own night's performance… essentially, Brad reflected upon the history of Monty's place, both the dire and desirable, with an open mind and curious intent. Brad's own father once held a live poetry seminar in this place, way before it became a back-woods honky-tonk.\n\n\"Hey, could someone help me with my kit? I know I'm a demon from hell and all, but this shit is mighty heavy. Gus? Max?\" Maile asked passively.\n\nBradley broke his concentration away from the run-down old building and redirected his attention to his fellow band-mates, including Gus, retrieving equipment from the van. He lifted Maile's bass drum and shouldered a couple snare drums, receiving a kiss of thanks from Maile, causing him to blush even deeper than before.\n\n\"For a grunge-rock show, we don't need much gear, do we?\" Gus asked.\n\n\"Not like you can afford much of it anyways, old-timer.\" Max replied, reaching into the van to pry his worn-out bass, jack-cords and hollowed cedar amplifier. \n\n\"He could probably afford more if one of us didn't break something at least once every other show, guys.\" Maile said matter-of-factly, hoisting a couple snares upon her back and toting cymbals in one hand-paw. Max smiled with guilty reprieve, curling a corner of his lip, unsure of what she meant - or trying to, anyways. Brad chuckled beneath his breath, reminding himself of the last guitar he impaled through Maile's now-replaced bass drum. Gus scorned at Brad and Max, as if he was prepared to chew them out all over again for their latest hair-brained antics. \"I mean, it's fun to go wild, but we can do that without facing a gigantic instrument replacement cost, right?\"\nGus just raised his brows and rolled his blue-tinted eyes sarcastically. As if, his gesture denoted.\n\n\"We'll mind ourselves tonight. I promise.\" Max said, then glanced over at Brad and walked to him, laying his arm down upon the fennec-hybrid's shoulders. \"We promise. Right, Bradley-san?\" Brad nodded and gave Maile and Gus a reaffirming smile, angelic and honest.\n\nThe rear door burst open and out strolled the host of the evening.\n\nThe man named Monty was exactly what one came to imagine, considering the owner of such an eccentric nightclub in a secluded location, nestled deep within a voodoo-laden backwoods Louisianan swamp. He walked with a shambling strut, very pimp-like. Gold caps on half his teeth and a cinnamon-flavored toothpick grazed between his earlobe and nappy-haired head, a purple fedora with a large crow feather stuck in its band, Monty Eldridge held his long, gangling arms out to the band and smiled, producing a sizable gap between his two front teeth, white as ivory.\n\n\"Welcome, y'all! Glad ya could show up on such short notice, tru'dat!\" He cackled aloud, accent thick with New Orleans' seventh ward native emanating freely. \"Gus, my man! Ain't seen y'all round deese'ere parts in some time, man. What's shakin-bacon?\"\n\n\"Monty, my favorite motherfucker! You're looking as sharp as ever, like the natural-born poontang magnet you are.\" Gus exclaimed, keeping the anthros enthused with raised eyebrows and soft laughter beneath their breaths. Gus and Monty exchanged handshakes and shoulder-pats, a very bro-friendly greeting. \n\n\"Sho'nuff, my elder-brutha! Come'ere n' give yo favorite nigga some sugah, baby!\" Monty puckered his thick lips and smooched the air, flapping his ringed fingers at Gus, who just chuckled and flung his wrist towards Monty. Then, almost in a flash of a second, the nightclub owner lost all his gusto and straightened up into a serious demeanor, becoming business-like. \"Ain't you heard the news though? I mean, no doubt I'm happy to see you's again and yo musical group here be lookin' sharp as hell, man, really… but…\"\n\n\"But what?\" Gus insisted. Max cocked his head alarmingly.\n\n\"Well, we be double-booked, man. Y'all ain't the only live act to be performin' here tonight, ya dig? I mean, dese'ere cats, dey already got all dey equipment set up inside n' everything. I mean, y'all more than welcome to stay awhile, but if you be all set on performin', ya'll gonna have to wait yo turn shortly after, comprende?\"\n\nMax scoffed aloud, head tilted, looking at Monty with his single eye wide open, jittery with envy. Brad frowned and stared closely at Gus, begging for a reasonable explanation. Maile put her snare down upon the cracked blacktop surface of the driveway and stood motionless, gazing into a nameless void of nothing, comprehending what she'd just heard.\n\n\"Monty, what the fuck you [i]t-t-talkin'[/i] about?\" Gus asked, breaking into a nervous stutter.\n\n\"Yeah, man, I thought you'd have heard by now… apparently y'all didn't though? Damn, dude. Sorry.\" Monty shrugged his shoulders up to his neck.\n\n\"What the hell do you [i]m-mean[/i], 'double-booked'? Who's this other b-b-band anyways?\"\n\n\"Some rock group, I think industrial metal or somethin'? Call themselves 'Immortal Warriors' or some shit like dat. Yeah, d'ere be five of 'em, big burly anthro mofuckas.\" Monty leaned in close to Gus and Enim-Noinu, whispering aloud so as not to be heard. \"Dey real hard-case too, don't take no shit from just any motherfucker. I think dem cats done seen a whole lot in dey lifetimes, though I can only a-speculate, y'all catch mah drift?\"\n\n\"Loud and clear, man.\" Brad said aloud, staring down Gus questioningly. \"Uh, Gus? What's this all about?\"\n\n\"Um… hey Monty, could you give us a moment to ourselves for a f-f-few?\" Gus asked.\n\n\"Of course, of course! Y'all take all the time ya'll need to work things out, a'ight? I'mma be inside, servin' some cocktails to some fine young honey-mamas. D'ere gonna be a whole lotta vixen-ladies up in 'ere tonight and I aim to make a little interspecies erotica, if y'all catch my drift! Haha! Hoo-wee!\" Monty gestured a thorough blowjob with his tongue perked out, winking deviously. Gus and the three band members stood in utter silence, as if honoring a fallen loved one. Monty nodded, quit behaving erratically and just as silently returned back to the confines of his humble little club, apparently booked for the evening.\n\n~\n\n\"Well… now what?\" Max asked Gus. \n\nThe three anthros were sat in green plastic break-room chairs leaned up against the back of the building, ash-tray on one side and tobacco-spittle pot on the other. Gus stood in front of his band, pacing back and forth, canister of chewing tobacco in hand, shaking its contents with a patterned rhythm like a cheap man's maraca. \n\n\"Beats me. I mean, do you want to just play on anyways? We can wait for the other act, I suppose, or we can even talk with 'em ahead of time to work out some sort of a duet-act if you wanted to try tha-\"\n\n\"[i]Bullshit![/i]\" Bradley exclaimed. Maile and Max averted their eyes to the fennec-hybrid, startled by his sudden outburst. \"Our contracts clearly state that we are to play in a tri-piece group. Three of us! One, two, three.\" Brad counted off with his finger-paws. \"Look, Gus, I'm just as into sharing the stage with guest musicians as anyone else, but when such things as this are unprovoked and so sudden, I want to ensure I - no, we all get our fair share of the performance cut!\"\n\n\"I agree.\" Maile replied. \"I'm just surprised you didn't consider this earlier, Gus. Didn't you receive word ahead of time that this place would be booked for the evening?\"\n\n\"If I did, I most certainly would've re-arranged our schedule.\"\n\n\"But you didn't, and we're here now, ready to play, gear out and prepared.\" Max said, pointing to the bundle of instruments and accessories, now placed beside a grimy dumpster. \"Let's just go in and talk to 'em already! I mean, how hard-ass can these guys be, anyways?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't bother, Max.\" Gus said. \"I've heard through the grapevine, so to speak, that this group is intense… somewhat difficult to get along with, unless you've got the right price. I think we should just head on out and seek ventures elsewhere-\"\n\n\"Oh what, and throw away all those pointless hours of driving and navigating, back-tracking and questioning our directions, trying to get here? Gus, I literally drove into a goddam ditch a couple days ago! We could have drowned in a fucking swamp! Now that we're here, we should totally make the most of it.\" Brad placed his hand-paw on Maxwell's knee. \"I'm with Max. Let's go in there and try to reason with 'em. At the very least, maybe we can negotiate some sort of a trade? A few of their songs spared to accommodate ours? We don't need to play for very long, just twenty, maybe thirty minutes at best.\"\n\n\"We'd have to re-arrange the set-list, then. Maybe play a couple rarities that we don't often perform on a routine basis?\" Maile insisted. \"But then we'd have to ensure excess time to rehearse, since I don't know if I'm at the top of my game now. Fuck, Gus! We've really been thrown for a loop with this one!\"\n\n\"I know… I know, guys. I'm sorry, okay? This is totally my bad, my doing. God, how dumb was I to not even [i]n-n-NOTICE?![/i]\" Gus slapped his forehead with frustration. Max stood up with haste, grabbing ahold of Gus' shoulder, calming their elderly manager down a spell. Gus laughed at himself and cradles the shep-coon's hand-paw in his own grasp.\n\nAfter a quick breather, Gus looked at Maile, then to Bradley. He flicked a few rogue dreadlocks off Maxwell's forehead, like a considerate mother opting to keep her son prim and proper. \"Okay, guys. We'll go in, exchange greetings, introduce ourselves and hope for the best. At the very least, they'll just tell us to go to hell, which if that is the case, then we'll camp out here for the night and be on our way first thing tomorrow morning. Okay?\"\n\nMaxwell kissed Gus' cheek. \"You're a good man, Gus.\" Max said. Maile and Bradley stood up simultaneously, walking hand-in-hand to their makeshift-father figure, hugging against him. \"It's true, Gus. You really did fuck up this time, but we forgive you.\" Bradley added. \"We're always in this together though, man. All of us. We'll make it work out.\" Maile insisted.\n\n\"Thanks, guys. I'm very lucky to have such a reliable bunch under my belt.\" Gus said, teary-eyed.\n\n\"Yeah, better keep them coconuts well-guarded for the long haul, old man.\" Max said. Gus laughed and rustled Max's chest-fluff, grinning through his sentimentality. \n\nIn the desolate swampy thickness, it listened to Enim-Noinu with heavy regard and attentiveness. When the group broke up from their huddle and proceeded to bring in their gear, it watched with sincere curiosity. After they entered Monty's Midnight Mix-up, it cackled with glee and deceit, possessing a rotting swamp rat so as to gain entry and put a stop to the filthy whores once and for all. \n\n~\n\n\"Gentlefurs, allow me to introduce ourselves. I'm Gus Stevenson and these three are my band, Enim-Noinu. Maxwell on bass, Bradley on guitar, Maile on drums. Also, they all share vocals.\"\n\n\"Whoop-de-doo! So do we, eh?!\" The rat of the group cackled beneath his breath, receiving a flung elbow against his chest from a burly wolf sat down beside him. Gus regarded the outburst passively and continued.\n\n\"We're from Oregon, we play grunge rock and I think there's been a slight foul-up in the booking here tonight, a misunderstanding if you will. So, we come to you in hopes of negotiating a deal. Can we work out a deal?\"\n\nGus stood in front of five brute anthros as he delivered his introduction and stage-sharing prospects, slick as a vacuum cleaner salesman. Max, Brad and Maile sat behind him in a ratty old couch big enough for five skinny butts to fit comfortably. They stared apprehensively at the other group sat before them, on the other side of the room. Devoid of enthusiasm, barren of expression, they remained silent and dead-still, frozen like stone statues, returning gazes of their own upon the portly old man before them. Maxwell tapped into their thoughts, or tried to at least, before the head-honcho set him straight with rudimentary verbal force.\n\n\"I wouldn't try that telepathy shit on any of us if I were you, pup.\" He said, a red fox with a stern face, heterochromia-laden eyes glistening. His shared irises of blue and purple glared with incited rage upon the shep-coon, silently threatening his mental advances. Max smirked innocently.\n\n\"Oh, my bad, man. I don't often have much control over it, you see? Sometimes I just read others without even realizing it.\" Max said with a nervous undertone in his voice, trying to hide his true intentions. Brad and Maile looked at Max with dawning hostility, urging him silently to maintain himself.\n\n\"That's nice. Just don't try it again.\" The fox said, crossing his arms, settling the dispute. Max nodded and Gus tried to reason as best as he could. Max scrunched his nose and shook his head complacently, not exactly catching a friendly vibe with the band that had already reserved a performance slot in Monty's Midnight Mix-Up. Brad cleared his throat and took the reins, speaking up with a slightly squeaky voice, even with Gus giving him the stink-eye.\n\n\"So! Immortal Warriors, huh? Love that name, dudes. You guys certainly do present an immortal presentation, no doubt. Nice cross necklaces too, did you make those yourselves?\" \n\nMaile nodded with a silly grin upon her own face, hoping to set a good first-time impression with these rough-and-tumble anthro-dudes.\n\nThey just stared at Brad as if he were the biggest dumb-bolt in all of creation. The fennec-hybrid took a silent hint and sat back down again, rubbing his kneecaps, feeling his heart envelop into a blanket of sheer embarrassment.\n\n\"So what do you say, fellas? Can we work out a deal?\" Gus replied, brow cocked, regarding all five of the Immortal Warriors.\n\n\"Afraid not, old man.\" One of the musicians said, a fossa with jaded green eyes. He was exceedingly tall - they all were, really, but he was more-so. \n\n\"You want introductions, ol' chap?\" Another spoke up, this one a rabbit with brown eyes and an onyx-black fur coat. \"We'll give you the down-low. I'm Kaviezel, the operating programmer and synthesizer-player of this indelible group of avid musicians. This striking young lad beside me is Estevez, hailing from the depths of the great Down Under - that's Australia to you rogues - and our especially talented percussionist. This black-furred, blue-eyed wolf beside the Wonder from Down Under is Emilio, a rather skilled bassist and prominent member of our band. To his right, we've got the rat.\" \n\n\"Damn straight, motherfuckers.\" He replied with a sinister grin, green eyes ablaze with righteous intensity. Maile smirked at the fellow's fancy-pants demeanor, or lack of it.\n\n\"Ethan is this chap's given title and he's but one of two guitarists provided unto us. He's also a real sweetheart behind closed doors, but don't let that fool you… he's something of a rough-neck and a risk-taker while on-stage.\"\n\nThe rat swung his tail, long and spindly, covered in bristles of fur, through the air behind where he was perched and smacked Kaviezel in the back of his fool-hardy lagomorph head. The rabbit giggled aloud while Ethan just chuckled. None of this enthusiasm was shared among the other three, however.\n\n\"Also the fox is Everett, our guitarist and front-man. Take it away, Ev.\" Kaviezel insisted, sitting back down solemnly in his seat.\n\n\"Right, so now you know who we all are. Hate to be so direct and blunt, but you three, including your manager, can and most likely should kindly take a hike. We don't share the stage with anyone, especially not some has-been low-par…\" The red fox snickered sarcastically. \"'grunge' band. More like a polka revival, to be honest. You guys are lame as elderly trousers. No offense, but I wouldn't want to be caught dead sharing any performing stage with the likes of you.\"\n\n\"None taken, man. I mean, why would we bother rocking on-stage with a bunch of body-building egocentric fuck-faces anyways, right?\" Max replied, maintaining an irreverent edge to his come-back.\n\n\"At least we can see out of both our eyes, you jacked-up furry-murry-purry freak.\" Ethan cackled at Max with a mocking smile.\n\nGus stared wide-eyed, shocked beyond reason. Max began to emanate a crimson-red aura from behind his eye patch, incited with a glorious anger that could rupture entire continents. Bradley looked at Ethan, who snickered at the fox's statement, feeling a cold bellowing pit of hatred in his fennec-hybrid heart. Maile was twirling a drumstick between her finger-paws while listening to their introductions. After Ethan delivered his profound statement, she grasped ahold of the wooden instrument and snapped it in two within her palm, eyes glowing green with repulsive distraught, tail curled, fur stood upright. \n\n\"Excuse me?\" Gus said.\n\n\"I said no. So you can all pack up your shit and get the fuck out of here. We don't cater to the likes of you and we won't play alongside a bunch of… grunger morons.\" Everett said, never stuttering or breaking stride. Now the other members were glancing upon Enim-Noinu with hilarity. \"Also what kind of stupid name is that for a band? Enim-Noinu? I mean, how much dope did you smoke before coming up with that one? They must have very good weed from your neck of the woods, I take it?\"\n\n\"Hey, at least we don't call ourselves some lame-ass Sunday morning cartoon-inspired bullshit name like the [i]Immortal Warriors[/i], what in fuck's name is that all about?\" Maxwell replied with disgruntled hostility. He felt low pangs of heat simmering upon his cheek.\n\n\"You'd do well to mind your manners, you skinny little asshole.\" Ethan replied.\n\n\"Blow me, rat.\" Max threw back at him.\n\n\"Name a time and place, fuck-face.\" Ethan retorted.\n\n\"Guys, guys, now let's cool down and behave like civil adults, shall we?\" Maile said, brushing splintered wood particles off her hand-paw. \"Obviously we're intruding on your peace of mind, I understand that and do apologize, but is there no way we can easily split the differential earnings between us?\" Estevez, the fossa, nodded in agreement with the panda-goat demon hybrid girl. From one drummer to another, he possessed profound respect and admiration for the young anthro-lady. Everett didn't see fit to possess the same amount of respect though.\n\n\"No, there's no way. You can just pack your shit and head back to Oregon, little ring-tailed horn-headed bitch.\" Emilio said, sneering.\n\n\"Now guys, there's no need for that sort of language, is there?\" Gus spoke up. Maile's eyes glowed brighter than ever now, teeth revealed in a snarl. Her fur bristled and appeared to shift, as if the real demonic creature housed within had insisted to show its face, to smite the five offensive punks before her very presence.\n\n\"Fuck yourself, old man. My mate has spoken and that's what we've settled on.\" Ethan said.\n\n\"Nobody talks shit about Maile in front of me, you jack-off bastard.\" Bradley said, breaking his stride, ceasing his good-guy nature, standing up from the couch and stomping towards Everett, hand-paws clenched into fists. Max stood up and held back the fennec-hybrid, trying to keep civil obedience intact while stifling the will to give into a serious break-neck fight himself.\n\n\"That's nice. I don't think it's wise for anyone to march into our performance space and try to jerk us around either, you bunch of dip-wads. Why don't you go somewhere else and let them hear your wanna-be rock music?\" Emilio proclaimed, snarling with his teeth fully exposed. \"Or is your mommy waiting somewhere in the audience to cheer you on? Maybe give you a nice pat on the back and a kiss on your cheek after the show? Do you still collect allowance for your shows, little girls?\"\n\n\"I'm going to fucking kill you!\" Max hollered, pushing Bradley aside and charging the wolf head-on, arms outstretched, eye-patch glowing brightly with a red glare, no longer exactly orange. \n\n\"Not if I can help it!\" Everett yelled, rushing the shep-coon. He swung a fist through the air and it connected with Max's cheek, sending him spinning like a Russian toy top into a nearby wall, knocking down a framed picture of two puppies bopping noses together, dreadlocks twirling against his shoulders. Max bounced off the wall and flung himself towards Everett, delivering a flurry of punches into his chest and gut, groaning and grunting aloud. His eye patch had been knocked loose and his socket was blinding with a bright, vermilion effulgence. Everett grabbed hold of Max's neck and gagged the shep-coon into submission, causing the thickened red glow in his socket to flicker into a stagnant yellow. Brad ran and kicked against Everett's side, then elbowed the broad fox's head with aggressive force. Ethan hollered like a mad crazy Native and tackled Brad to the ground, pushing Maxwell and Everett against the ratty couch, gnashing at the fennec-hybrid's neck, providing a thick collection of bite marks beneath his green fur. Brad yelped and shook his head spastically, trying to brush the crazed rat off of him. Maile got up and rushed Ethan, grabbing his tail and biting down hard upon it, causing the rat to scream and groan painfully, muffled by Brad's chest-fluff. Estevez and Kaviezel reeled back from their band-mates, then immediately tried to push into the fray, hoping to break up their scuffle. Gus was also pulling at Maile, trying to reclaim the peace among his band-mates. They turned the small dressing room into a wrestling ring in the space of roughly half a minute.\n\nAll the while, outside their private room, a woman with pale-white skin and glaring yellow eyes stared into the void, identifying the eternal life forces of the anthros, recognizing their contempt and grinning excitedly. Her hands squirmed, skin moving with grotesque liveliness as parasites swarmed in her bloodstream. A cockroach plopped free from her nostril, drenched in a croupy white substance, like glue or infected snot. She smiled as maggots squirmed from her rotting pestilent gums. She leaked earwigs, not tears, from her sunk-in eyelids. Fire ants swarmed inside her body, hideously bloating her belly, scuttling from her navel in small clumps. Leeches were pressed against her limbs, feeding off her lifeless fluids, sucking and sucking. Silently, she opened her pulsating jaws and laughed without issuing a sound, for her larynx had been torn free from her neck, eaten by a crocodile in a nearby swamp. She laughed so hard that she began to vomit beetles and festering clumps of frog bones upon the ground below her, malnourished feet shriveled like prunes from prolonged exposure to warm moist outdoor conditions. The body of Gloria Luxembourg had been missing for months, until the demon sought refuge in her decaying vessel. Now it had found the fox bastard and its kin. \n\nBut first, it had to deal with the other band. The three anthros. Enim-Noinu, they'd called themselves. They needed to be cast out to the abyss, moved aside; dealt with. Starting with the raccoon-shepherd mix. The demon sought out his telekinetic abilities. Not to mention the whore in disguise who betrayed his advances so many years ago, coincidentally belonging to the very same musical group. After searching long and hard, it would finally seek sweet revenge for such a virulent act of rejection, pitiful and offensive.\n\nThe demon had its work cut out for a long haul.\n\n~\n\nShe entered into Monty's establishment while the barkeep and owner himself was busy counting over performance dividends, splitting the cut between all five performers. He'd be damned if he were to peddle out an additional three performance slots to those other honky-tonk anthros, no matter how convincing Gus proclaimed himself to be. Just because they'd done business years before didn't mean Monty was a man who'd be apt to sport a free ride to the aging bald old fuck and his three jacked-up hybrid-anthro musicians, who appeared to look washed-up and unprepared enough as it was. \n\nAs the long tall gentleman licked at his thumb to separate folded paper bills, she sat herself upon a nearby barstool, smacking her hands flat against the rough wooden countertop. They plopped down with a squishy wet sound that could revolt a dying dog. Monty severed his concentration and glanced up. He did a double-take, looking at the whitest woman he'd ever seen in his life. She was as pale as a ghost's undies. The man didn't know whether to call for an ambulance or feed her raw meat so as to put color back into that smooth skin of hers. Then she looked at Monty and he reeled away from her gaze with startled unease. Her eyes were bright yellow, deathly sunk-in and jittery - rare as hell and yet even stranger still, she appeared to hardly even notice, calm and comatose. She even grinned at him, friendly, maybe even feverishly attractive to the right man.\n\n\"Mister, who's performing tonight?\" She asked Monty, voice bubbly and croupy, as if she had come down with a serious illness in her lungs, bronchial infection times ten. \n\n\"Uh, well sugar, we done got dis'ere wild-ass industrial rock group performin' later on. Call deyselves the Immortal Warriors so dey do, ain't that a mouthful?\" Monty said with a fat grin curling up the corners of his mouth, stretching out his puckered lips in a duck-bill. The woman kept staring, silent and unexpressive, as if she'd awaken from a month-long slumber, barely comprehending. He resumed a somber face and went back to counting his bills out, dividing the currency into five separate bundles, refusing to honor her presence any further. \tShe coughed aloud, a wet gagging noise. He jumped literally a foot into the air in reaction to the startling sound her throat made, like a hyena crossed with a pneumonia patient.\n\n\"Are they… any good, mister?\" She asked. Monty looked back at her and noticed that her dress, pitch-black and skimpy to say the least, was soaking wet and dripping water all over the floorboards beneath her barstool. \n\n\"Aw hell, woman! What're y'all doin' outside anyways, swimmin' in the swamps?! C'mon now, I can't have y'all be lookin' this dirty in mah establishme-\"\n\nBut she wasn't there… not anymore. From the moment Monty glanced at her drenched outfit, then turned around to grab for a nearby towel - which took no longer than roughly five seconds at most - she disappeared from sight. Monty stood perfectly still, mouth wide agape, uncertain of what to say. There were other patrons at the bar as well, a few older folks outside smoking cigarettes, younger folks inside strutting their stuff, both anthro and human alike… but nobody else seemed to even notice her approach, her existence. Her very presence was like that of a ghost, or an invisible relic unforeseen by the naked eye. If so, then why was Monty able to see her so easily? He laid the towel over his shoulder, placed the money gently upon the counter beside an opened cash register and walked outside the barkeep zone, pushing a small aluminum gate open, swinging on squeaky hinges. He peeked below the counter where the barstools were lined up… at nothing. There wasn't even a water trail or wet puddle where she sat. Monty noticed the seat itself wasn't even wet.\n\n\"Never trust white women, man… you gotta remember dat shit like da back o' ya hand. Never, ever trust a white bitch!\" Monty whispered to himself before resuming bartending duties, taking orders, refilling empty glasses and splitting performance dividends, all while questioning his very sanity, considering the possibility of a month-long vacation as soon as heavenly possible.\n\n~\n\nIn the dressing room, both groups somehow switched seating positions entirely. Picture frames and decorative vases lay in broken shambles upon the carpet, propped upon scuff marks and fur patches. The Immortal Warriors sat on the ratty piece-of-shit couch, while Enim-Noinu were perched on a series of bench-warmer seats. Gus stood in the center, arms held out wide, backed up against Estevez, who also held his arms out wide between the feuding bands. Kaviezel was in a corner, rubbing Emilio's shoulders, trying to help him take the edge off. Ethan and Everett were busy adjusting their tussled clothing. Everett spat a wad of blood into a nearby corner of the room, giving Maxwell a stink-eye gaze, while the shep-coon was rubbing a freshly-formed bruise on his muzzle, welted and plum-purple. Bradley tended to bite marks on his neck with a paper towel, trying to ignore Ethan's presence and failing miserably, continuously watching the rat's every move. Maile sat cross-legged between her two guys, giving Emilio a disgruntled look of pure hatred, eyes sharp with madness, utilizing every aspect of her will to refrain from any further violence.\n\nThat was when the room's only door opened.\n\nThe woman walked in with luminous strides, barely even walking - levitating, more so. Gus stepped back from the door as it creaked open. The anthros all averted their eyes toward her oncoming advance, slow and somniferous. She looked dazed, muddled in a dream-like state. Her eyes were hollowed globes of white, not a hint of iris or pupil could be seen. Her skin glared pale and blinding under the tubes of fluorescent lamp-light. Max noticed that her clothing - or what was left of it - was simply drenched, water dripping non-stop upon the beige carpet. There were patches of moss clumped upon her shins.\n\n\"I have come to pay my respects to the band.\" She said.\n\nMax, Brad and Maile looked at each other with avid confusion. Even the Immortal Warriors possessed a hint of uncertainty. Everett, however, looked at her cautiously and with dire intent. \n\n\"What's your name?\" Everett asked her.\n\nThen she began to change. Without another word uttered, Everett hoisted himself up and ran to his band-mates, standing beside them in a defensive pose. Maxwell felt an upsetting feeling in the air, a rough unbalanced degradation. He shook his head and pressed his palms against his eye sockets, bending the patch inward, sustaining a desperately potent sensation of nerve-wrecked pain.\n\nGus stared and nearly fell head-over-heels at what he witnessed.\n\nThe woman's legs buckled, thinning out near her ankles, growing musculature in her thighs. Her dampened blouse tore free and came rustling down upon the carpet in a sloshing pile of rags. What remained of her chest was albino-white with a large circular hole carved into her right side. Her left breast was perky with bite-marks portioned randomly around her nipples. Maile could see strange crawling movements underneath her skin, like a thin bedsheet filled with scampering insects. The gaping hole in the woman's chest dripped with filmy bile and swampy muck, emanating a horrid stench of decomposition, causing Gus to gag aloud. The old man turned his head away from the abominable sight while the others - especially Everett - stared on in crazed awestruck horror. The woman's mouth opened wide and wide, until her jaw cracked and her mouth literally enfolded itself over her entire head. Her tonsils squirmed with maggots and her arms were smothered with fat leeches as they flailed madly against her body. Her throat was teeming with ivory-white sharpened teeth, jagged and serrated, carved with irregular patterns. A pale white orb began to slink and slither through the pulped, fleshy hole that could have been her esophagus. This orb popped out through her neck and the skin tore down the center, ripping her swamp-decomposed body in half. Her arms fell limp and gangly, shriveling into tiny bristling twigs of flesh. The thing that exited from the swamp-rotted remains of Gloria Luxembourg stood with merciless righteousness, eyes holding an icy pale blue glow, chest ripped and milky-white, lacking nipples and a navel. It looked at Everett and his gang with a curling smile, bending the blackened corners of its lips into small spirals. Its eyes shifted briefly, flashing a pale somniferous yellow before reverting back to neon-blue.\n\n\"You know who I am, Everett. Don't act so obtuse with me, boy.\" The thing said in a deep, horrible voice that could give the devil itself a thousand night terrors.\n\nEverett frowned and snarled, looking into the deep, hypnotic blue eyes of the demon.\n\n\"Utalga. I should've known.\" He replied, smirking without much surprise. \n\n\"I knew I never should've smoked that reefer earlier, man, holy shit… holy moly monkey-shit…\" Max said. He reeled back from the demon, face scrunched with disgust. \"What in fuck's name IS that?! Oh man, bad trip ahoy. BAD TRIP INCOMING!!\" He hollered aloud. Brad maintained a defensive stance and Maile's eyes glowed eternal green, heat literally simmering off her ocular surfaces. \"What! The! FUCK!!!\" Brad nearly screamed. Maile kept a wary eye on the creature, floating in mid-air, grinning madly.\n\nEthan and Emilio stood up and gathered behind Everett, hand-paws placed against their leader. Utalga laughed aloud at their petty show of defense then pointed at Gus with an extended claw.\n\n\"I didn't come for you bastards anyways. I'm here for… them.\" The claw bent and curved toward Maxwell and his humble collective.\n\n\"Like hell, you freak! Go back to the bowels from whence you came! You don't fucking scare me, I know what you are and what you stand for!\" Maile replied to Utalga with a deep, rumbling voice. Max and Brad directed their gawking stares towards their little drummer girl, surprised beyond comprehension. She raised her hand-paws and they shifted into long spindly claws with sharpened nails and sallow skin between the webbings of her talons. Gus had practically shit himself from this amazing yet unexpected sight. Maile was, after all, a demon herself in disguise.\n\n\"Go back or face the consequences of Baphomet and Beelzebub. I shit you not, you'll beg for mercy in an instant if you try anything funny with me or my boys. Just try me, you ugly fuck.\"\n\n\"This isn't your battle, girl! Do not appease the entity!\" Everett hollered aloud at Maile, while staring without interruption into the demon's deep-pitted eyes, slender nearly-nonexistent nose and obscure alien smile. Utalga frowned, eyes flickering with red and yellow flashes.\n\n\"Misbegotten demon whore! Do you even comprehend the treachery of which you speak of? The mutiny you now commit?!\" Utalga shouted in an otherworldly voice, not so much heard as imagined. Its eyes spewed forth rivulets of glowing blue and orange flame, shifting between stifling heat and frost. Ethan and Emilio locked arms in preparation for the worst.\n\nMaile held out her red panda arms and spherical fireballs appeared in the palms of her clawed talons, spinning and shifting, crackling and sizzling. Gus, Max and Brad watched all this with dawning amazement, then Bradley and Maxwell stood hand-in-hand on both sides of her, hand-paws clenched into fists and legs spread in bracing stances. Max's eye-patch was trembling with a bright red light flickering behind it, coming from his caved-in socket. Bradley's breathing grew more rapid and extreme, almost hyperventilating. The fennec-hybrid's biceps bulged and his muzzle was scrunched, exposing a snarling patch of teeth. He wasn't about to witness any harm come to his second family, no matter what the cost. \n\nUtalga swung its almond-shaped head back and laughed and laughed, nearly crying from its ravaged sockets, lacking any visible eyelids. Everett ran at a sprint towards the demon's back-side, ready to strike it down with a flurry of wicked punches. Ethan and Emilio followed closely behind, arms swinging, teeth exposed, eyes furious with impending destruction. Utalga swung its spindly arms upward in a circular motion and when they came thrusting down to its bony hips, the carpet beneath the levitating demon tore open, exposing a wide ethereal funnel. \n\n\"HOLY cow, get back! GET BACK!\" Emilio yelled at the top of his lungs, waving Enim-Noinu away from the center of the room in a desperate struggle. Max flipped the bird at him, amazingly. \"C'mon, this is no time to be fiddle-fucking around, we have to keep a wide berth from this bastard's port-\"\n\nBefore Emilio could finish, Utalga had reached down from where it now hovered in place and wrapped its jagged talons around Emilio's scruffy neck. The wolf flinched his head back and didn't quite evade the demon as it tore a dangling chain with a bronze-encrusted glass cross pendant free from his safe-keeping. The wolf howled with anguished defeat, shedding crimson tears. Utalga spun the chain around on its long gangling fingered claw, twirling the elegant cross, reflecting esoteric glows cast forth from the opened portal. Then the demon upturned its dirty palm and faced towards Emilio's fellow band-mates. Four more chained crosses, complimented with silver, gold, copper and platinum, shot free from their necks, drawing to Utalga with magnetic-attracted force. The demon held a delighted expression of victory in its eyes, greedily accepting the five crystallized crosses, laughing hysterically. \n\n\"There! Didn't expect that to happen so soon, now did you?!\" Utalga squealed with delirious envy. The bastard rubbed the crosses against each other and encased them in a sludgy clear substance, gluing them into a spherical orb possessing a clear surface that rippled at the slightest touch. Everett and the others began to throw shards of porcelain and splintered wood chunks at Utalga's head. One piece nicked a corner of its temple, drawing a glowing white substance - perhaps blood, or some other life-force entirely. It just shrugged and laughed even harder than ever before. Everett and the others stood their ground, staring overwhelmingly. \n\nMax lay on the ground and watched Everett and his posse assault the demon with projectile objects while lightning flashes sparked with mad intensity from the bowels of the open hole, blowing nestled clumps of dirt and debris in a counter-clockwise rift. Ripples of endless void reached beyond insurmountable distances, giving the hole a feeling of forever. The couches tumbled into the hole and spun alongside the cyclone, battering and breaking into fragments. Dust and grime shot up out of the portal, carrying a scent of burnt carrion and mildew into the air. Utalga spun through the room, cartwheeling and cackling aloud with insane deep-throated laughter. The hole became a gigantic vacuum portal, howling with a deep bass-laden hum, sucking everything within its proximity deep into its forlorn mass. Max's dreadlocks blew violently toward the portal as he grabbed onto a nearby water pipe jutting from one side of the room's wall. He screamed aloud but could hardly hear himself, drowned out by the sound of the throbbing bass-hum. Maile held her ground as she best as she could, sliding on her cloven hooves, nearing closer to the widened inner-dimensional opening. She grit her teeth and knelt down, ram-horns resting upon her knees. Brad and Gus locked arms and grasped each other tightly, slipping, slipping. Kaviezel and Estevez latched arms onto pipes upon the other side of the room, trying to reach out for Ethan, Emilio and Everett with their feet, all in turn attempting to reach for the spinning glaring-white bastard responsible for all this incredible insanity to begin with. \n\nOne by one, the anthropomorphic musicians tumbled and fell into the surreal never-ending portal. Everett went first, snarling and cursing Utalga the entire time, promising a swift death unto him. Maxwell slipped and rolled into the hole, following closely behind Everett, hollering out to Gus. Maile screamed aloud, reaching out for the shep-coon's ringed tail, missing it by a fraction of an inch. The hole flashed a brilliantly bright purple at the very moment Max fell in, sending a shock-wave out from its depths that knocked everything in the room over with a violent erupting vibration. Hung mirrors came toppling down from studded nails, shattering into chipped fragments upon landing. Fluorescent bulbs illuminating the room snapped and sprayed sparks freely, spraying shards of broken glass upon the carpet, quickly sucking into the hole. A large potted plant hunched over and immediately began to wilt, curling up as if directly exposed to a ravaging brushfire. \n\nSome pipes burst and sprayed torrents of water upon the remaining anthros, dampening their fur, forming large misty pools that flooded the room's four corners. One of these caused Ethan to slip and slide toward the portal. Estevez leaped out to grab for him and they both went careening into Utalga's gateway. Ethan grabbed for the closest thing he could reach - Maile's tail. She was pulled in along with the two furs.\n\nUtalga flipped through the air and the portal echoed out loud with another booming blast, flashing a bright explosive lightning flash, leaving Gus's eyes partially blinded and his ears ringing. Utalga pointed mockingly at Gus, winking and jutting its blackened tongue out at the man, pronged like a snake. Then the demonic freak flung up to the ceiling, attaching to the crumbled surface like a spider. It jerked its head violently and opened its mouth wide, exposing a giant two-forked tongue that slithered and squealed aloud, sounding like a disturbed otherworldly cicada. Gus shrieked and knelt down upon the ground, letting go of Bradley, covering his head with his arms. Brad hollered out at Gus and flipped upward, spinning through the air. He was launched head-first into the portal. Kaviezel held onto Emilio with all his might until the pipe he latched onto burst and sprayed a flood of water into his face, gagging him and cutting off his strength. Emilio and Kaviezel both rolled across the carpet, dragging against the surface, clawing at any possible thing to latch hold onto. As they took a tumble down into the wide-berthed hole that the demon had crafted from thin air, Gus managed to glance up at Utalga for a brief moment and flip him off, much like how Emilio had done to Maxwell. Seeing the bird thrown his way, Utalga swooped down low like a monkey and bit the tip of Gus's middle-finger clean off. The man shrieked and yelled aloud, rolling on the ground, holding his finger tight in the clenching grip of his other hand. Utalga lashed out and kicked at Gus's body, causing the man to slide head-first into the accursed portal between dimensions. \n\nAs Gus, Max, Maile and Brad all fell in with Everett, Emilio, Ethan, Estevez and Kaviezel, they all saw remnants of Enim-Noinu's past lives creep up, fester, appearing only to provide abhorrent suffering and anguish, hell-bent on breaking weakened minds. Maxwell saw Curtis Deton eating at the pried-open chest of his little brother Jordan as the young raccoon cub and baby brother to Max wailed and shrieked, begging the bad man to stop killing him. The spider-demon pried its diseased head out of the young anthro cub's ribcage and gazed down at the shep-coon, smiling enthusiastically, teeth clotted with messy chunks of organs. A large black tongue slurped out from its dead wolf-cub's ravaged head, licking its chops clean of Jordan's innards and belching aloud. One of its eight blackened eyes winked at Max and in his mind, he heard the demon whisper to him. [i]Bon Appetit, little faggot.[/i]\n\nBradley saw his mother, cancer-afflicted, getting fucked relentlessly hard by a three-headed feral beast - half-dog, half-bear. One of its three heads gnawed her hand-paw right off her wrist, exposing a knob of bone and flesh, jutting streams of blood. The second head was chewing on her breast, or what was left of it, the part the cancer hadn't reached quite yet. The third and mostly dominant center head was busy with her face, gnashing at her muzzle, chewing gristle and fat free from her neck. Brad watched in horror as the alpha-head reared up and gazed back at him, having just knotted his mother's frail, jaundiced, furless corpse. Bradley stared into the eyes of a demonic entity that actively mocked his father. The fennec-hybrid saw one of his mom's eyeballs punctured upon a snaggletooth, shriveled up like a prune, iris staring blankly at him. All the while, her corpse laughed aloud, despite not having a face to smile with or a larynx to produce such heartfelt laughter. \n\nMaile saw her mother beaten alive with decapitated limbs by the goat-demon hybrid's father, a shamble of thickened bones and muscular sinew, bearing strewn human corpses upon his back as pelts and an infant skull necklace that swung upon his thickened neck. He was yelling in a strange backwards extinct language that should never exist in this lifetime or the next. He quit abusing the Nubian woman long enough to regard his forsaken daughter and dragged a finger across his neck, eyes aloft with a bitter resentful hatred, staring at the scurvy little bitch he called his offspring, ready to eat her as a show of revenge for her actions she'd taken upon him so long ago, when she exiled from her proper home to choose a life with mere mortals, ridiculous little pricks they all were to him.\n\nGus witnessed his ex-wife holding a gun to her head, spewing hateful allegations at him, asking the man why he had to go sleep with that stupid tramp whore behind her back, why he felt as if fucking half the roadie crew made him feel any better about himself, before pulling the trigger and spewing forth her brains all over Gus's face. Only when she did shoot her head off, a small face protruded from a large cratered hole in her head and whimpered at the man. This was the face of Gus Stevenson's own grandmother, mocking him for having made such terrible life decisions, cheeks stained with his late ex-wife's cranial matter. The haggard old bitch frowned and pouted, trying to shove her head through his past love's destroyed skull. Gus tried to close his eyes shut. He ignored the pain of his missing middle finger and tried to look away, to no avail. The demon's influence had seeped into the mortals, had festered into their awakened subconscious and held tight, refusing to let go for any reason other than the very influence of death itself. They fell and fell, spinning and careening, unable to look away.\n\nThe Incredible Warriors were also exposed to these corruptible visions, death-laden hallucinations from Utalga's demented mind, tapping into the three anthros and their human band-leader, determined to sever them each to their own breaking points in order to gain possession of their minds and bodies. The souls of Max, Brad, Maile and Gus were ripe for the taking and Utalga's hunger ran deep. Both bands had been enveloped into the eternal depths of Utalga's portal. The corruptible demon trembled with incredible passion and dove into its own creation, spherical ball clenched tight in its possession, shrieking hysterically. The otherworldly lights flickered in quick succession, blinding with a strobe-lit intensity. As this flashing spun out of control, the edges of the hole closed in, shrinking the disjointed circular opening. Marooned carpet appeared out of thin air, clean of all scuff marks and fur patches. As the very last flickering light spat out from a hole the size of a quarter upon the carpeted ground of the empty room - now devoid of all furniture and objects - and an air of silence crept back into being, Monty knocked at the door.\n\n\"Showtime's coming up, fellas! Y'all got five minutes!\"\n\nMonty never even heard the commotion, for the portal had sucked their screams and rage-induced yelling into the eternal inner-atmospheric otherworld, the horrific dimension that lies in waiting beneath the veil of our own existence, the hidden realm of death and insanity that we often pay little or no attention to, showing very minor regard towards its presence. A place Everett and his band-members were all too familiar with and a place in which Enim-Noinu would soon learn to appreciate, lest it decided to eat them whole and spit their ravaged carcasses out.\n\n[right][b]END OF CHAPTER 1[/b][/right]",
"writing_bbcode_parsed": "Early morning, third day of autumn, chilly. Maxwell, a young pup with adoring eyes and a world of imaginative dreams channeling through his hybrid mind, awakens abruptly. His parents are yelling again, like they sometimes do when they can't agree with things. The shep-coon lad is scared, but assured they won't stay mad at each other for very long. Max swings his paw-padded feet off the top bunk of his bed, leaping down to the hardwood floor and landing with cat-like dexterity. He reaches into the lower bunk to awaken his younger brother, Jordan. The pup groans and yawns, shaking Max's hand-paws free from his shoulders, snot-trails crusted under his nostrils. Come on, baby bro, time for school! Mommy and daddy are fighting again, so now we gotta get ready on our own. Wake up, Jordan! C'mon! The young anthro brothers, Max and Jordan, are inseparable - not just brothers, but the best of friends. Jordan endures many hardships, due to his low-functioning autism. He is slow and often regarded by many as retarded, mentally incapable of comprehending others on a day-to-day basis. Maxwell, however, disregards such nonsense as bogus misinformation. Maxie-poo, just a few more minutes, 'kay? No! We gotta get to school now, bro! Fine, fine, you butt. I'm up, I'm up. Don't call me a butt, you weenie. They giggle at each other's names, sillier than the last. Jordan sits up in his lower bunk, tussling his goldenrod-blonde hair into a mess, wiping his nose clean with the palm of his wrist and standing upright, paw-padded feet relaxed on the soft, plushy carpet adorning the floor of their bedroom. On the other end of the trailer, their parents are discussing financial stresses and transportation woes, disturbing the early morning slumber with their excessive vocal range. Maxwell guides a half-sleeping Jordan into a bathroom connected to their bedroom, shared by the brothers all their lives. The hardwood tiling is cool to the touch on their paw-padded feet. Looking into a mirror, Maxwell chuckles aloud. His hair looks worse than Jordan's head of chaos by far, a magnetic bundle of strands and knots, natty as the day is dim and getting brighter still. The hybrid lad grabs for a nearby hairbrush, combing out the kinks. Painfully removing all tangles, Jordan squirts a glob of toothpaste onto his brush, working at his pearly white mandibles and tongue. Maxwell looks at Jordan's reflection in the mirror, while Jordan returns his big bro's gaze with his own silent stare. Over their parent's bickering, the brothers silently regard one another. Jordan, short and stout with a petite raccoon nose, elegant deep-browed green eyes that far-surpass his age by many years and blackened lips whitened with toothpaste foam. Maxwell, tall and lanky, a broad canine muzzle with heterochromia-laden irises, one eye brown and the other a bright shade of hazel, canine features surpassing raccoon distinctions. Jordan loves his older brother unconditionally, more than anyone else he knows in his very small social circle. Maxwell would give his life to protect his baby bro from any harm, no matter what the cost. Their mother, Suzanne, begins to sob while their father, Harper, runs his mouth non-stop, incapable of slowing down or pausing for a breath. The shep-coon siblings tidy up and prepare themselves for another fine day of schoolyard antics. Max's knuckles are still recovering from bruising endured, caused by punching a rude-spirited bully who teased Jordan for his height and ringed tail, calling the young lad a queer and sissy-ass little nigger-bitch dog while laughing aloud. The older sophomore went home with a missing tooth and a welting goose-egg bruise on his cheek upon that very same day, especially after Max caught the jerk hawking and spitting a large loogie onto his brother's shirt. Some number of weeks later, Max was suspended and given three days of detention upon his return. Jordan was spared of rudimentary teasing from anyone else after the hard-hitting fiasco took place, remembering that his brother is heavily protective and wouldn't hesitate to bust some teeth in the name of preserving the family dynamic. Their parents were furious, but understanding. Harper admitted his disappointment to Maxwell, yet later complimented him on his actions to protect his brother from any further harm. Max nodded and smiled softly, resuming his homework without a single spanking or verbal reprimanding. Suzanne shook her head with frustration, asking Max if he really had a choice in the matter. Max said yes, that he could have walked away and let the bad children continue to pester and make fun of his brother, refusing to mention the spitting. His mom sighed and held her arms our wide to Max, who ran into her warm embrace. She asked him to promise her that he'd not get so carried away next time anything like that happened. Max agreed, even with his finger-paws crossed behind her back. Suzanne, these fucking bills are not paying themselves anytime soon, you know. Oh Harper, what other choice do we have?! I mean, times are rough for everyone, we aren't the only family directly affected by the - oh come on, that's not the fucking point, bitch! We gotta cut corners and make sacrifices if we hope to continue making a fair life for ourselves! Will you pipe down, for God's sake? The children are sleeping still, you'll wake 'em up along with the whole damn neighborhood if you continue to blat on like you are now. And don't call me a bitch, you asshole. So what if I wake the fucking dead? This is SERIOUS, Sue! Serious! You don't think I realize that, Harper?! Holy horse-stew! Max and Jordan exchanged a glance at each other in the reflection of their bathroom mirror, one that spoke of pure compromise, faithful understanding, abhorrent truth and definitive reasoning. When the siblings were finished tidying up, they entered back into their room and got suited up. Max helped Jordan fix his tie and Jordan scratched an unsightly itch upon Max's back, causing his fur to stand up on end all across his thin, lanky dog-coon arms. When they were both set, backpacks loaded up for the new day, coats zipped up tight, hair slicked back and less ratty, Max led Jordan feet-first down their trailer's hallway. Their parents were in the kitchen. The scent of freshly-brewed coffee sweltered in their nostrils, stomachs rumbling from a lack of breakfast. Max opened a packet of Pop-Tarts and consumed them both with a few wide-maw bites, belching shortly after consuming the last piece. Jordan laughed, pulling a banana free from a racked bunch hanging off a hook suspended above their kitchen counter. Suzanne asked the boys if they'd like a packed lunch before they left. Max insisted otherwise saying that he was fine, thanks mom. Jordan agreed, however. The young lad could never pass up a meal prepared by his mommy, no matter what she was apt to give him. Max, straining restlessly, glanced upon a clock hung over the front room's television. It read twenty after seven. School started at eight o'clock on the dot every morning and their bus route usually ran anywhere between thirty to forty minutes on average. This would be cutting it close as could be. Max saw that his father reflected that very idea in his stern, frustrated expression. The grown shepherd man perched himself upon a barstool on the other side of the kitchen's island-counter, sipping at his morning brew, frowning apprehensively. Suzanne proceeded to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for her youngest boy, Jordan's enduring favorite. Max placed his butt down upon the only couch in the home, a fold-out La-Z-Boy with torn cushions and frayed-edge armrests, coffee stains aplenty. Max had lost count of how many accidental spills he and Jordan had made upon the couch, especially after their father had grown accustomed to hitting them upside their heads with a rolled-up newspaper as a result. Once, Jordan was sent to his room in a bawling stupor after nearly setting the place on fire with snapper-pops during a fourth of July celebration. Suzanne intervened by suggesting they go outside and play instead of staying indoors. Harper punched his wife in her face, causing her to fall raggedly to the ground in a semi-conscious daze. Maxwell's heart raced and his panic reached epic proportions, fearing what his father might do to him, what he'd be apt to do next to his brother or anyone else who found it wise to intervene. Nothing else happened that evening though. Harper got drunk on his own supply and crashed on the kitchen floor's tiling, half-nude and slouched against a cabinet. Suzanne snuck into the boy's room and cuddled with Jordan, tending to her puffy blackened eye. Maxwell sat on the couch, watching cowboy westerns until the station signed off, buzzing with a Native American's head centered in a color-placard frozen upon the screen. Mom, we gotta hurry and get to school, otherwise we'll be late! Yeah, honey. Hurry your ass up and make the kid's goddam sandwich already. The truck's still busted to shit and I ain't gonna let these twerps miss another day of studies, get it? Harper, they're your children. Not twerps. Be reasonable, would you? Yeah, reasonable is the dog that butt-humped its way to civility until the asshole began to bleed. Harper! Okay, fine, fine. Max, take this. Harper gave his older son a twenty, which Max stashed quickly into his jacket pocket. Use it for lunch today, and for lunch only. If you come home and I find a cent was used on anything else, I swear I'll - no worries, dad! We'll get lunch only. Thanks again, pop. Yeah, don't mention it. Harper, are you sure? Of course, why else would I even bother, for fuck's sake? Make that goddam sandwich now so these boys can get to school without further delay. Okay hon, okay. She smothered the two slices of bread together and wrapped it up in a plastic baggie, tucking Jordan's delight into a zipped-open pocket on his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles backpack. She kissed both his cheeks and nose with a motherly approach, causing Jordan to groan with embarrassment. Maxwell giggled and Harper shook his head, rolling his dark brown eyes and scoffing aloud. Suzanne, ringed tail elegantly poised behind her blouse, gorgeous blonde hair complimenting her bandit-masked face and bright green eyes, regarded her youngest child with sheer adoration and unparalleled love. She adored both her boys, but Jordan held an extra-special place in her heart. Could it be the distinction of raccoon versus shepherd? Maybe because he was the youngest? Or least likely to get into any mischief like Maxwell was akin to, perhaps. She sent the boys on their way, ushering them out the front door of the Blackburnadeaux family trailer, smack-dab in an RV park located in the confines of Brookings, Oregon. Suzanne would have held onto her youngest son longer and kissed him more if she had known that morning would be the last time she ever looked into his eyes, rubbed his soft bristly fur, kissed his pudgy young whiskery muzzle. Harper would have insisted the boys stay home if he had known their lives would change radically and entirely in just a few short minutes from the time his sons left their humble and low-income abode. Maxwell stomped through muddy splotches of wet grass and dirt, singing aloud and spinning like a top. Jordan hooted and hollered like a crazed monkey behind his older brother, chilled breath trailing from his mouth like vapor. Race ya to the bus stop, cow's ass! You're on, llama balls! Maxwell laughed and snorted as he caught his breath. Llama balls? That's a new one! I know! I heard our neighbor Tony call his dog that after he stepped on Petey's poop-pile! That's too funny! Llama balls. Mine's better though, cow's ass. Cow's ass! Cow's ass! Max! Cows don't have asses, they have flanks! Nah, that's horses, you numb-nuts. So we gonna race or what? Of course! Get in position. Jordan hunched down at the end of the trailer park's gravel-strewn driveway, looking down their stretch of blacktop road, the bus stop roughly a quarter-mile away from their location, clustered with other students both anthro and human alike, waiting to attend the day's schooling. On three, ready? Yes. One, two, hey wait! Jordan took off early, gaining a head-start. Maxwell hollered and ran after his brother, feet clomping upon the pavement, wind rushing against his face, lungs burning with liquid fire. Slow down, bro! Nope! We're racing, remember? Okay, if that's how you want it, you asked for it! Maxwell slouched down and held his arms out behind his hips to provide a more aerodynamic approach. He sprinted heavily, surpassing Jordan like a hare to a tortoise, one of Jordan's favorite stories. Jordan yelled at Maxwell to slow down, no fair, hey Max, slow down! Max laughed and ran on, arms now outstretched, raised above his head, hand-paws clenched into fists, imitating a star track athlete taking the gold. Max never even noticed the swerving vehicle to his right, not until it was too late. He slowed down a bit to catch his breath and heard squealing tires. The sound was abrupt and shocking. Upon swiveling around to catch sight of the strange and alarming noise, Max saw a pickup truck, smaller than his father's by half, fish-tailing off the edge of the road, careening into the nearby shoulder, heading right for Jordan. Maxwell hollered aloud and began to run back the way he came. Jordan stopped in place, frozen solid by the oncoming truck, flying at a break-neck speed toward his very location. He saw smoke pouring from its wheel-well, heard a grating screech of brakes and smelled scorched rubber. Maxwell craned his head down and ran with all his might, ran as fast as he could ever imagine, frazzled with panic and fright. Max held his head up briefly and looked into the face of his younger brother, Jordan, his best buddy and closest family member. In Jordan's expression, Max saw an anguish too great to bear. Though he also saw a somnolent depth of peace. Peace with what came next. Peace with what had already come so far. Peace with knowing how things will be radically different soon thereafter. Jordan looked into the horrified eyes of his older brother with a smile. Even when the vehicle struck the boy and sent him reeling thirty feet into a ditch spanning along the road, arm broken off and flung against his back, legs twisted into a frozen tangle, Jordan's expression stayed the same. Maxwell screamed aloud, bloodcurdling and insane. He stumbled down a grass-strewn hill to where his brother's disfigured body had landed on a pile of granite pebbles, a pool of blood forming beneath his severed arm, a white knob of bone protruding from his shoulder, chapped lips frozen to his gums in a rictus of death. Max looked into Jordan's still-frozen eyes, saw how dilated his pupils had become, noticed the lack of frozen breath emanating from his mouth and held onto Jordan's mangled body tightly, hugging his dead brother, sobbing with merciless surrender, nauseated with fear and panic, barely able to comprehend a single thing other than how at ease Jordan looked, even when he was hit, slammed violently by the out-of-control vehicle. The driver exited quickly, leaving the truck parked and running. He regarded the smudge of blood and widened dent upon the rightmost rear side of his vehicle. The man stood atop the mist-smothered hill, dumbfounded into a polarized state of utmost shock, watching the young raccoon boy's body cradled by his distraught shep-coon older brother, tail curled inward between his legs, tears streaming down his cheeks, shrieking and yowling aloud in a frenzy of suffering grief. Max looked up at the man and yelled. The young shep-coon and older brother of the hit-and-run victim howled with a maddening roar, eyes bloodshot with rage, teeth bared, body trembling with freezing tenacity. Maxwell wanted to kill the man. He wanted to kill the man so badly right then and there. He wanted to push the man into oncoming traffic and watch his body flattened by a semi-truck. He wanted to drive a car into the man, breaking his body upon impact, sending his dismembered parts reeling into a nearby gutter, squishing his cranium beneath thickened car tires. He wanted to kill the man so badly, so fucking badly. The school bus arrived late and Maxwell never got on, nor did Jordan, no Blackburnadeaux ever got back on the bus again, never ever again. Police dispatch vehicles arrived with an ambulance in tow. EMTs carried a stretcher down to the accident scene, where deputies had to restrain Maxwell with brute force in order for the white-coats to collect Jordan's frozen-stiff body, carrying him upon a plastic gurney stretcher, hoisting him to their ambulance, what their father called the meat-wagon. Maxwell raved and tried to bite the arm of one of the cops to be closer to his brother. Max didn't want to see his baby bro hauled off in a fucking meat-wagon. The shep-coon's worst nightmares had instantaneously become a sordid reality and he couldn't deal with the pressure, couldn't deal with the stress, didn't want to cope with the grief, would refuse - actively refuse to come to terms with the loss, so sudden, so unprovoked, so accidental, but there he was, he was there, they were both here but now Max was all alone, nobody else to befriend him, to comfort him, to scratch those annoying itches on his back and make up silly names back and forth and race him to the school bus. He was there, he was alive but Jordan was not, Jordan was not there with him, not here, not anymore. No more. Jordan was simply not-