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So much, in fact, that he damn-near killed himself on many occasions. This would be one of his more... colorful moments in his numerous brushes with death.\n\nHere's chapter 2: #s1329182\n\nArtwork (C) fa!Furrfox\nMaxwell & big-ass story (C) @GratitudeAdvocate", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Once upon a time, Max was involved in some seriously bad choices involving drugs and stupid decisions. So much, in fact, that he damn-near killed himself on many occasions. This would be one of his more... colorful moments in his numerous brushes with death.

Here's chapter 2:
\r\n\t\t\t
\r\n\t\t\t\tGuadalupe (aka the lumber rave) [chapter 2] by GratitudeAdvocate\r\n\t\t\t
\r\n\t\t\t


Artwork (C) \n\t\t\t\t\tFurrfox
Maxwell & big-ass story (C) \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\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\t\tGratitudeAdvocate\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
", "writing": "[center][b]1.[/b][/center]\n\nFive ounces of pure festered in Maxwell’s pants pocket while his patience wore thin.\n\nThe stupid prick Max sat in waiting for was already two hours late. Strobe lights flashed with epileptic persistence and glowsticks twirled with blinding speed on the stark luminescent dance floor. The rave carried on from within Harper’s lumber mill warehouse, long-since abandoned and restricted to public access. The site itself, given a self-proclaimed moniker “The Woodpit” by locals, had once been slated for demolition but was left intact instead, based on numerous developmental complaints from local logging denizens over the lack of sufficient storage for the wood they collected. Flooding the building from within, a multitude of creeps from all odds and ends; major pushers making huge strides of illegal drug-dealing business to a wide majority of Portland’s broken souls willing to seek out their own paltry wares. This rave helped feed their vices. \n\nRight in the thick of it all sat Maxwell Blackburnadeaux, nestled in a perfectly undisclosed union-federated base of lumberjack infrastructure residing deep within a thickened copse of Oregon’s finest. The rave hosted enough potential to last far beyond even the most scurviest dog’s lifetime: the warehouse itself was littered to the brim with junkies, dope pushers, pimps, hookers, closet pederasts, raving psychotics, disabled veterans ranging from tours served in Vietnam to Iraq, serial arsonists and dub-manics; in other words, the typical average rave-attendees, wrapped up in a big burrito of cultural diversity. The freaks come out at night, so it seemed. Everyone danced while celebrating the lavishing aspects of love, life, death, rebirth, the beyond, the thereafter and then some. A perfect place to commit heinous adultery, only to get away with it while laughing one’s ass off hysterically. This was a place apt to make Jesus Christ Himself weep discouragingly for pity’s sake.\n\n“Can ya dig?!” A young vixen raver cried aloud, outfitted in a neon-glowing transparent jumpsuit with fish-net stockings teeming across her limbs, hair faux-hawked and dread-locked. Everyone around her were either stone-drunk or wrecked on the purest of pure. The world was beyond their limit and anything went, just as long as one didn’t reek with a foul, putrid stench of sweat or rain sprinkles of dandruff in snowflake rivulets upon one’s bare shoulders; otherwise, so be it. The adolescent young dancers, anthro and human alike, adored their fashionable attire about as much as they adored the heart-pumping techno-house music blaring all around. They thrust their hips and jerked their heads frantically, finding the spirited inner-animal of their most remarkable desires and sweetest succulent fantasies come true. The world was their oyster, and they could care less about a dress code, even if they were to be threatened by gunpoint or perhaps an explosion.\n\nNo viable threats to their livelihoods could even hope to tamper with their driven urges to dance and dance and dance the night away. \n\nMany donned long-sleeved polyesters, Tripp jean-shorts, leather slacks, Doc Marten sneakers and some of the craziest-ass glowing beads, rings, bracelets, piercings, lollipops, pacifiers and hair-ties around; even adult novelty products of an exquisitely lavish nature could be seen. A most indubitable crowd. They were rowdy and unscrupulous… but Max still loved the pleasure of their company. Relished in it, even. Like he really had a choice in the matter, anyways.\n\nWith tails swishing, fur shedding, whiskers tickling and plenty of feral howling and cajoling, the anthros fed their dance-fueled inhibitions, coinciding with the overall intake of heavy drugs and hard liquor to amp their night up. Determined night-owls originated from all four corners of today’s social spectrum and flooded into the corroded, stuffy, erotic dance party extravaganza, imitating a massive Hollywood engagement fueled by gratuitous sex and the ever-impending use of any narcotic substance known to science. This was the party of the damn decade and the poor, unfortunate, unaware fools hadn’t the slightest clue how much more impressive the night was about to become.\n\nMaxwell, replete with a shoelace-bound bundle of dreadlocks piled upon his slender canine shepherd’s head and a stylish bright goldenrod-orange eyepatch wrapped around his hollow socket, arrived well over an hour ago hoping to meet\n[i](then quietly kill and dispose of)[/i]\nan illegal refugee informant and numbers-runner who worked for his old pal Sciorrenzo, a scurvy old punk-ass with no morals. A deceitful little goblin who needed to be taught a lesson in both manners and business proceedings, so he had been told by his own employer at least. Max was very good at accepting orders from the fat-cats who took him under their wing to concoct their homicidal pilfering, utilizing his killing expertise for grand profitable gain. The situation had been promised as a very win-win benefit for both parties guaranteed, yet there was still that budding knack of uncertainty that hankered upon the surface of the shep-coon's thoughts. Max’s darkest intuitions kept a steady rhythmic pulse, refusing to quit or loosen up even slightly from within. It felt as if he had so much to say, yet so very little time to express himself in a desirable manner, well enough to ascertain the courage and the will to say it.\n\nOne way or another, Maxwell would be heard.\n\nFirst things first, though. Where was the goddam informant?\\", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "
1.


Five ounces of pure festered in Maxwell’s pants pocket while his patience wore thin.

The stupid prick Max sat in waiting for was already two hours late. Strobe lights flashed with epileptic persistence and glowsticks twirled with blinding speed on the stark luminescent dance floor. The rave carried on from within Harper’s lumber mill warehouse, long-since abandoned and restricted to public access. The site itself, given a self-proclaimed moniker “The Woodpit” by locals, had once been slated for demolition but was left intact instead, based on numerous developmental complaints from local logging denizens over the lack of sufficient storage for the wood they collected. Flooding the building from within, a multitude of creeps from all odds and ends; major pushers making huge strides of illegal drug-dealing business to a wide majority of Portland’s broken souls willing to seek out their own paltry wares. This rave helped feed their vices.

Right in the thick of it all sat Maxwell Blackburnadeaux, nestled in a perfectly undisclosed union-federated base of lumberjack infrastructure residing deep within a thickened copse of Oregon’s finest. The rave hosted enough potential to last far beyond even the most scurviest dog’s lifetime: the warehouse itself was littered to the brim with junkies, dope pushers, pimps, hookers, closet pederasts, raving psychotics, disabled veterans ranging from tours served in Vietnam to Iraq, serial arsonists and dub-manics; in other words, the typical average rave-attendees, wrapped up in a big burrito of cultural diversity. The freaks come out at night, so it seemed. Everyone danced while celebrating the lavishing aspects of love, life, death, rebirth, the beyond, the thereafter and then some. A perfect place to commit heinous adultery, only to get away with it while laughing one’s ass off hysterically. This was a place apt to make Jesus Christ Himself weep discouragingly for pity’s sake.

“Can ya dig?!” A young vixen raver cried aloud, outfitted in a neon-glowing transparent jumpsuit with fish-net stockings teeming across her limbs, hair faux-hawked and dread-locked. Everyone around her were either stone-drunk or wrecked on the purest of pure. The world was beyond their limit and anything went, just as long as one didn’t reek with a foul, putrid stench of sweat or rain sprinkles of dandruff in snowflake rivulets upon one’s bare shoulders; otherwise, so be it. The adolescent young dancers, anthro and human alike, adored their fashionable attire about as much as they adored the heart-pumping techno-house music blaring all around. They thrust their hips and jerked their heads frantically, finding the spirited inner-animal of their most remarkable desires and sweetest succulent fantasies come true. The world was their oyster, and they could care less about a dress code, even if they were to be threatened by gunpoint or perhaps an explosion.

No viable threats to their livelihoods could even hope to tamper with their driven urges to dance and dance and dance the night away.

Many donned long-sleeved polyesters, Tripp jean-shorts, leather slacks, Doc Marten sneakers and some of the craziest-ass glowing beads, rings, bracelets, piercings, lollipops, pacifiers and hair-ties around; even adult novelty products of an exquisitely lavish nature could be seen. A most indubitable crowd. They were rowdy and unscrupulous… but Max still loved the pleasure of their company. Relished in it, even. Like he really had a choice in the matter, anyways.

With tails swishing, fur shedding, whiskers tickling and plenty of feral howling and cajoling, the anthros fed their dance-fueled inhibitions, coinciding with the overall intake of heavy drugs and hard liquor to amp their night up. Determined night-owls originated from all four corners of today’s social spectrum and flooded into the corroded, stuffy, erotic dance party extravaganza, imitating a massive Hollywood engagement fueled by gratuitous sex and the ever-impending use of any narcotic substance known to science. This was the party of the damn decade and the poor, unfortunate, unaware fools hadn’t the slightest clue how much more impressive the night was about to become.

Maxwell, replete with a shoelace-bound bundle of dreadlocks piled upon his slender canine shepherd’s head and a stylish bright goldenrod-orange eyepatch wrapped around his hollow socket, arrived well over an hour ago hoping to meet
(then quietly kill and dispose of)
an illegal refugee informant and numbers-runner who worked for his old pal Sciorrenzo, a scurvy old punk-ass with no morals. A deceitful little goblin who needed to be taught a lesson in both manners and business proceedings, so he had been told by his own employer at least. Max was very good at accepting orders from the fat-cats who took him under their wing to concoct their homicidal pilfering, utilizing his killing expertise for grand profitable gain. The situation had been promised as a very win-win benefit for both parties guaranteed, yet there was still that budding knack of uncertainty that hankered upon the surface of the shep-coon's thoughts. Max’s darkest intuitions kept a steady rhythmic pulse, refusing to quit or loosen up even slightly from within. It felt as if he had so much to say, yet so very little time to express himself in a desirable manner, well enough to ascertain the courage and the will to say it.

One way or another, Maxwell would be heard.

First things first, though. Where was the goddam informant?\\", "pools_count": 2, "title": "Guadalupe (aka the lumber rave) [chapter 1]", "deleted": "f", "public": "t", "mimetype": "image/jpeg", "pagecount": "1", "rating_id": "1", "rating_name": "Mature", "ratings": [ { "content_tag_id": "3", "name": "Violence", "description": "Mild violence", "rating_id": "1" } ], "submission_type_id": "12", "type_name": "Writing - Document", "guest_block": "t", "friends_only": "f", "comments_count": "2", "views": "204" }