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"description": "Too Much of a Good Thing \n\nSam sat at his desk in his home office and looked out the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows at the Northwestern forest high in the Cascades. He looked at the clock on the desk, which read 1:27 a.m., sleep continued to elude him once again. He sighed and strode over to the windows and looked out at the dark landscape, the tree branches, gently swayed in the cool night breeze. \n\nOtherwise, nothing else moved in the gated, patrolled, exclusive neighborhood, all the houses spaced far enough apart that one could only barely see their neighbors through the trees.\n\nSam quietly stepped over to a cherry wood armoire, opened the doors, and examined the different bottles of Scotch and spirits in the small mini bar. He removed one of his favorite 30-year-old Scotches and poured himself two fingers of the amber liquid, then added a small bit of mineral water. He replaced the bottle and looked into the mirror in the back of the cabinet. An old grey muzzled buck of 70+ years now looked back at him. Sam turned his head left, then right, and examined his reflection. His muzzle and face were completely grey, his whiskers were long. He was thankful that many of his old war scars had faded over time; many of them were now little more than shadows on his fur. \n\nSam dipped his head and looked into the mirror again, 18 points, at least he still has his antlers after all these years. He took a sip of the Scotch and water from the crystal glass and gently closed the armoire doors. Sam took another sip of his scotch and looked across the wall full of built-in back-lit bookcases. \n\nThe cases contained numerous first print hard covers, including a few rare original prints of Dickens and Melville. Along with a few of his books he had authored that he was very proud to have sitting on the same case. There were also a few action, adventure novels that were a guilty pleasure of his, especially the ones with fast jets or heroes jumping out of planes. \n\nThat particular night, Sam’s eyes weren't drawn to the many volumes of books as they normally were, but to the center case. The center case was what some might call his trophy case or “I am awesome shelf.” Sam held his glass in his right hand and removed a picture from the top center shelf with his left. \n\nHe looked at the framed photo, it was a picture of himself in his flight suit many years prior, standing next to his flight instructor, both in front of one of the trainer F-14D “ Bomb Cats.” His old friend and flight instructor, gone many years now, “ Marky Mark” Marcus Beiler, a half border collie, half Doberman anthro, stood by his side, his k9s just barely showing. Sam smiled at the memories of that day. he was one of the first members of the resistance force officers and herbivores to get his wings after the Civil War and reconciliation of the armed forces.\n\nMost of the predators weren’t happy about teaching herbivores much less resistance officers after such a long and bloody conflict, even after the new constitution was ratified. But old “Marky On the Mark Beiler” had not only volunteered to come out of retirement to teach the herbivores going into naval aviation, he wasn't about to let them be failed unless they simply couldn't make the cut. \n\nNot to say Captain Beiler was nice about it, his father was an aviator in the early 1920s, then flew B-17s during WW2. Mark or Marky, for short flew off aircraft carriers in the Vietnam war then the second Korean war in the early 80s. He was relentless, he pushed them all to their breaking points than past them, at the time seemingly just for fun. \n\nBut he couldn't phase Sam which at first seemed to annoy him to no end then grew into a deep respect and friendship. They both kept in close touch for many years with Mark coming to visit Sam on the west coast until Mark's heath started to fail and he passed away in the late 2020s. \n\nSam replaced the photograph and picked up his old nicked and faded flight helmet with his nick name written across the front “ Casanova” his smile faded as he let his minds eye drifted back more than 25 years… \n\nThe deck edge elevator on the IUS Oriskany Essex II aircraft carrier bumped to a stop which jostled the F-14D “ Bomb Cat.” Lieutenant Hinton aka “Casanova” took a deep calming breath as he took in the scene on the large fight deck. \n\nThe whole flight deck rolled port then starboard (left and right) seemly like it would throw Sam’s aircraft over the side into the turbulent sea and waves far beneath. All while the bow pitched and fell, every time it fell, a huge bow wave crashed over the front of the flight deck and sprayed nearly halfway down the length of the ship's flight deck. The sky didn’t seem like it was going to be any refuge from the angry sea. The morning light that was just starting to break was covered by a thick layer of clouds and drizzling rain. \n\nSam checked his instruments, switches and controls one last time, then carefully followed the yellow shirt's directions. The F-14’s engines growled as he carefully pushed the throttle forward just a hair. The aircraft handling officers directed him where to turn, even if it often times it looked like they were about to roll him right off the side of the deck. Thankfully, the yellow shirts, almost never rolled an aircraft, clean off the flight deck even in rarity foul weather operations. \n\nAfter what only took a few seconds, but felt like an hour Sam’s jet was positioned behind one of the blast deflectors as two other aircraft prepared for takeoff. He quickly ran through his last before takeoff checklist, then without needing to move his head, looked to his side and behind him. \n\nWhat the predators had been too bigoted to realize for far too long is one of the things that made Sam’s and his kind great soldiers, warriors and pilots. They had their ability to see almost completely behind themselves with barely needing to turn their head. \n\nSam’s RIO behind him gave him a thumbs-up, which Sam returned without comment, his RIO or Radar intercept Office nick named “Nitro” rarely said much unless it was absolutely necessary which Sam appreciated. He knew that he would speak up when needed otherwise no news was good news. A moment later both looked over as one of the escort destroyers to their left Phalanx systems started to fire, the buzzsaw burst was followed shortly by several explosions off in the distance. Their relief was short-lived as the Phalanx system on the carrier, and one of the destroyers to their right started to fire, followed by several missiles being fired from one of the cruisers ahead of them.\n\nThe aircraft ahead of them were launched into the turbulent sky with a wash of the steam from the catapult and the thunder of jet engines as a massive explosion that felt like it rattled the whole ship shook through them. Sam quickly looked around the flight deck, wondering if the carrier had been hit... thankfully he didn’t see any flames or smoke. The blast deflector in front of them lowered and the yellow shirt directed him forward. Sam once again just eased the throttle forward, painfully aware of the rolling deck that made it feel like each one of his stomachs wanted to go in a deferent direction and puking in your flight suit just before a combat mission would not soon be forgotten. \n\nA moment later, Sam felt the towbar on the front landing gear clunk into place on the catapult shuttle and once again only needed to turn his head a few degrees to watch the thrust deflector raise behind the tail of the aircraft. He used his right thumb to toggle the switch that let the F-14‘s wings go from the fully folded position, so they didn’t run into other aircraft on the flight deck to fully extended for takeoff and put the flaps down to the preferred foul weather take off setting. \n\nSam glanced to his left at the rolling waves of the North Sea and could clearly see the stern of one of their guided missile cruisers, the IUS Woodridge as it rapidly sank, all four propellers in the air, still spinning. The new Battleship IUS Alaska charged forward, looking for revenge for her fallen brothers and sisters. The new nuclear-powered battleship, over 1000 feet long, seemed to cut through the sea almost effortlessly. Armed with short-range and long-range missiles, along with all the modern defensive systems, and also carried the new 21st-century 22-inch naval guns, guns bigger than anything that had ever been imagined much less built before. The 22-inch shells were rocket assisted, GPS/laser guided that left nothing more than HUGE smoking craters out of the most concrete and steal reinforced buildings or bunkers. \n\nSam shook his head and tried not think of all his fellow sailors that just went down with the Woodridge and refocused on the catapult officer who gave him the signal. He placed his left hand lightly on the stick and placed his right hand on the throttles and firmly pressed both throttles on the General Electric F110 engines to full power then afterburner! \n\nThe engines went from low rumble to a full-throated, ear-splitting roar as blue flames shot out of both nozzles, and the aircraft pushed against the catapult follower. Sam greeted his back teeth and watched as the bow of the flight deck fall< Nitro seemed like he was bored or waiting for a bus. A huge wave crashed up and over the bow of the ship then the deck started to rise again. Just as the bow of the carrier seemed to be over the top of the turbulent water, Sam and his RIO were slammed back into their seats, the left wing of the F-14 rocketed inches over the tips of the ears of the German Shepherd, catapult officer. \n\nThe acceleration crushed Sam‘s stomachs to his back, and a moment later, he felt weightless and pulled back ever so gently on the stick. He let out his breath as his airspeed and most important altitude started to climb, he quickly retracted the landing gear and started to bring in the flaps. \n\nAfter the F-14 was a few hundred feet off the ocean Sam let the nose drop and the speed rapidly build as they rocked toward the West Coast of Britain with enough bombs, strapped to the belly of the aircraft to level several city blocks. After just a few minutes all of the friendly ships were long behind them. Sam reached over and armed the bombers weapon systems as the speed continued to build, the wings started to sweep back automatically. \n\nHe knew he was burning fuel at a ridiculous rate but getting shot down then possibly eaten by the British that had been long since blockaded wasn’t an idea of a good day for Sam. He kept after burners going as he rapidly approached the coast hit supersonic speeds, fuel reserves be damned.\n\nA lone anthro sheep ewe stood outside of her small 2 room stone home on the west coast of England near the vertical cliffs of the coast. She looked at the turbulent ocean and stormy skies, then at the rolling green fields all around her, the fields pockmarked with huge craters that looked like huge wounds on the green landscape. She more felt than saw something flash overhead, when she went to look up, she was taken off her hooves by the sonic BOOM! The blast of air took shingles off the roof of her house and broke the front windows out, then was gone, only leaving missing shingles, broken glass, and a ringing in her ears that would never go away. \n\nSam opened his eyes and placed the helmet back in its place on the bookshelf, an old cliché came to him. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” he said, then took a long drink from his glass. He looked down at the shelf that contained a few of his momentos from the resistance, a few small keepsakes, his pocket knife, his different rank insignias. They started with a little to no rank structure, progressed to using permanent marker then captured ranks from dead predators. \n\nSam reached down and gently touched one of his medals, it was nothing more than a Mr Fuzzy Pop can cut into the shape of a rough star, turned inside out than painted with some spray paint and some glitter from some kids playset. Best they could do out in the forest under fire and with the predators constantly trying to kill them all. He flipped it over to read the date scratched on the backside 8/87. He flinched and dropped it back on the shelf… \n\nBlood was everywhere…the wind howled like an angry hell hound… the old cargo aircraft shook and rattled as it started to come apart mid-air… the old aircraft was never made for this! Huge holes had been punched straight through the fuselage, structure, control lines, fuel lines, and bodies alike. Broken, bloody limbs were on the floor along with the bodies they were attached to moments before, dead and soon too be dead. Sam’s hooves slipped on the slick yet somehow sticky blood as he hooked up his rip cord. Sam with his own blood in his eyes and a strip of metal a foot long stuck in the flesh of his left arm yelled to the ones that could still hear “WW WW WE NA NEED TO GA GET THE FUCK OA OUT OF HA HERE, RA RIGHT FA FA FUCKING NOW!!” \n\nA blast of heat hit him in the face and he was falling … falling, his parachute opened by some miracle… \n\nThe memories assaulted him, even after these many decades, he closed his eyes and took a long drink of the Scotch, as his right hand shock. \n\nHe was in that damn radio tower again, they didn’t know, how could they know? They couldn’t have known at the time, even the predators hadn't keep it secret that the whole thing was one flood or mosquito kamikazing into the wrong spot would break the damn thing! The memory still came of the dumb fox boy trying to cave his skull in with a baseball bat all those decades ago. The other resistance fighters exited the generator hall and ran into the hills. The series of explosions that blew the generator halls into rubble a few minutes later…. The cracking of the Dam’s main structure, the flood that indiscriminately wiped out the town of several thousand. Then, left even more homeless downstream, and yes, war is war, still a wall of water 100 feet tall, killing everything in its path. \n\nSam went back to the armoire, poured himself another glass of scotch the bottle clicked the top of the glass as his right hand shook even more. He took another long drink as he shoved all these memories back into their box and did his best to slam the lid closed and keep it closed. \n\nHe paced his home office for several long minutes, looked out at the night sky, then back at the clock at 3:37am. He sat back down at his desk and thought about answering some emails or getting some writing done, and decided against it. He looked at the picture that was set on the right side of his desk. He picked it up and looked at the picture and felt himself relax a bit, his heart rate showed, he wiped a tear away as he continued to study the picture, as he had many, many times before. \n\nIt was a picture from a family reunion about ten years back, Sam and his wife Diane in the center bottom with their three daughters and two sons on either side of them. Above and around them nearly 350 of Sam’s and Diane‘s children, grandchildren and a hand full of great grandchild along with spouses including a few newly legalized predator spouses. Sam’s oldest known son, Murphy right behind him with his wife. \n\nSam tried to keep the memories out of his head and remember that good things can come from even the worst of times… \n\n\nSam woke up with the bells of a second-hand Mikey Rat alarm clock with a cracked faceplate that sat on top of an overturned wood box. He reached over and silenced it and sat up on his cot in his small stall at breeding farm #11022. He sighed and reached down and felt his nuts, they still felt tender and sore from the past two days of work. But there was no use in complaining about it, breeding season only lasted a few weeks and any breeder that couldn’t keep up ended them being retired. \n\nSam saw one of the breeders he knew being retired just last year. He was old, really old for a breeder, easily in his mid-20s, maybe even 25-26 or so. Which being retired was one of Sam’s biggest fears, the guards didn’t even kill the poor bastard, just hit him over the head a couple times, dragged him outside, and started to tear into him. One of his legs kicked in what Sam chose to think of as reflexively as the guards ate his nuts right off their cords. It didn’t help that Sam himself would turn 19 early next year, but he tried not to think about that. \n\nHe just got dressed, which didn’t take long since it only involved putting on his vest that marked him as a breeder. Which was a good position to have around the camp. He got access to all the best food and grain, medical care, much improved living quarters, including his own bed and stall. Plus he could work out or run all he wanted, he didn’t have to be locked up all the time. \n\nTerry one of the feline guards opened the door to Sam’s stall his cattle prod in hand and in a cheerful tone exclaimed “Raise and shine big boy time to get to work, great day to make some more fawns!” \n\nSam faced away and straighten up his vest and try to get his tracking collar comfortable spot. “ hhhhh hhh ha hold on, I’m re re read…” \n\nZAP! \n\nSam jumped and bleated in pain “ owwwwwww sa sa STOP… I I said ummm, ummm, ready?” \n\nTerry shrugged, “ Oh sorry, Sam couldn’t understand you, my bad’ not that the cat seemed to care much. \n\nSam rubbed his left butt cheek and nodded “ Naaa no problem ta ta Terry, mama my bad.” Sam quickly turned sideways and moved out into the hallway. Then followed Terry to one of the exam rooms, where the African painted wolf “doctor” would give Sam a Pre-breeding exam. \n\nSam never really could make any sense of these so-called exams; he just figured it must’ve been some canine thing. It started sensibly enough with the canine doctor, examining his testicles by feel, smell, and taste. Sam stood there, stiff as board as the painted wolf sniffed, caressed and licked each of his testicles and before pushing down his sheath and licking along the length of Sam’s cock. Where Sam called complete crap was this so called doctor had him behind over for the so called “prostate exam.“\n\nAfter he was given a clean bill of health, Sam was shown to the breeding rooms themselves. Where he would breed each doe one by one, one after another, sometimes up to 20 at a time. If he didn’t want to be retired, he wouldn’t complain and all of them in any particular cycle would get pregnant hopefully with twins. If not he knew what his fate would be, retired aka eaten by the guards, the rest of his carcass composted and used for top soil on the farm.\n\nSam felt the room start to spin and set down the mostly empty bottle of 30-year-old Scotch. he looked at the desk clock again, 5:42am. Diane would be up soon; she’d be upset he’d spent all night in his buck cave drinking, and he felt bad about that. He hated making her upset; it made him feel guilty for making her upset, and she could be as mean as any drill sergeant or flight instructor he had ever met. Maybe if he ate some mint leaves? No, it would just smell like he made a Mojito with Scotch, best to just take the tongue lashing once she woke up. \n\nHe carefully put the family picture back in its place, careful to not drop it as it now felt like his office was rolling on heavy seas. Took the glass off his desk in one hand the empty bottle in the other and quietly walked to the kitchen, rinsed both out. Put the cup in the dishwasher, the bottle in the recycle bin and returned to bed so at least he would be there when Diane woke up even if he probably smelled like a distillery. \n\n\nArt by my good friend https://www.furaffinity.net/user/himeragoldtail\n\n\nIf you liked the story please consider leaving a comment below, I read every last one and I consider it the highest competent. If you really really enjoyed the story and want to see more from Sam which of the time frames would you like to see explored? Comment below ",
"description_bbcode_parsed": "Too Much of a Good Thing
Sam sat at his desk in his home office and looked out the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows at the Northwestern forest high in the Cascades. He looked at the clock on the desk, which read 1:27 a.m., sleep continued to elude him once again. He sighed and strode over to the windows and looked out at the dark landscape, the tree branches, gently swayed in the cool night breeze.
Otherwise, nothing else moved in the gated, patrolled, exclusive neighborhood, all the houses spaced far enough apart that one could only barely see their neighbors through the trees.
Sam quietly stepped over to a cherry wood armoire, opened the doors, and examined the different bottles of Scotch and spirits in the small mini bar. He removed one of his favorite 30-year-old Scotches and poured himself two fingers of the amber liquid, then added a small bit of mineral water. He replaced the bottle and looked into the mirror in the back of the cabinet. An old grey muzzled buck of 70+ years now looked back at him. Sam turned his head left, then right, and examined his reflection. His muzzle and face were completely grey, his whiskers were long. He was thankful that many of his old war scars had faded over time; many of them were now little more than shadows on his fur.
Sam dipped his head and looked into the mirror again, 18 points, at least he still has his antlers after all these years. He took a sip of the Scotch and water from the crystal glass and gently closed the armoire doors. Sam took another sip of his scotch and looked across the wall full of built-in back-lit bookcases.
The cases contained numerous first print hard covers, including a few rare original prints of Dickens and Melville. Along with a few of his books he had authored that he was very proud to have sitting on the same case. There were also a few action, adventure novels that were a guilty pleasure of his, especially the ones with fast jets or heroes jumping out of planes.
That particular night, Sam’s eyes weren't drawn to the many volumes of books as they normally were, but to the center case. The center case was what some might call his trophy case or “I am awesome shelf.” Sam held his glass in his right hand and removed a picture from the top center shelf with his left.
He looked at the framed photo, it was a picture of himself in his flight suit many years prior, standing next to his flight instructor, both in front of one of the trainer F-14D “ Bomb Cats.” His old friend and flight instructor, gone many years now, “ Marky Mark” Marcus Beiler, a half border collie, half Doberman anthro, stood by his side, his k9s just barely showing. Sam smiled at the memories of that day. he was one of the first members of the resistance force officers and herbivores to get his wings after the Civil War and reconciliation of the armed forces.
Most of the predators weren’t happy about teaching herbivores much less resistance officers after such a long and bloody conflict, even after the new constitution was ratified. But old “Marky On the Mark Beiler” had not only volunteered to come out of retirement to teach the herbivores going into naval aviation, he wasn't about to let them be failed unless they simply couldn't make the cut.
Not to say Captain Beiler was nice about it, his father was an aviator in the early 1920s, then flew B-17s during WW2. Mark or Marky, for short flew off aircraft carriers in the Vietnam war then the second Korean war in the early 80s. He was relentless, he pushed them all to their breaking points than past them, at the time seemingly just for fun.
But he couldn't phase Sam which at first seemed to annoy him to no end then grew into a deep respect and friendship. They both kept in close touch for many years with Mark coming to visit Sam on the west coast until Mark's heath started to fail and he passed away in the late 2020s.
Sam replaced the photograph and picked up his old nicked and faded flight helmet with his nick name written across the front “ Casanova” his smile faded as he let his minds eye drifted back more than 25 years…
The deck edge elevator on the IUS Oriskany Essex II aircraft carrier bumped to a stop which jostled the F-14D “ Bomb Cat.” Lieutenant Hinton aka “Casanova” took a deep calming breath as he took in the scene on the large fight deck.
The whole flight deck rolled port then starboard (left and right) seemly like it would throw Sam’s aircraft over the side into the turbulent sea and waves far beneath. All while the bow pitched and fell, every time it fell, a huge bow wave crashed over the front of the flight deck and sprayed nearly halfway down the length of the ship's flight deck. The sky didn’t seem like it was going to be any refuge from the angry sea. The morning light that was just starting to break was covered by a thick layer of clouds and drizzling rain.
Sam checked his instruments, switches and controls one last time, then carefully followed the yellow shirt's directions. The F-14’s engines growled as he carefully pushed the throttle forward just a hair. The aircraft handling officers directed him where to turn, even if it often times it looked like they were about to roll him right off the side of the deck. Thankfully, the yellow shirts, almost never rolled an aircraft, clean off the flight deck even in rarity foul weather operations.
After what only took a few seconds, but felt like an hour Sam’s jet was positioned behind one of the blast deflectors as two other aircraft prepared for takeoff. He quickly ran through his last before takeoff checklist, then without needing to move his head, looked to his side and behind him.
What the predators had been too bigoted to realize for far too long is one of the things that made Sam’s and his kind great soldiers, warriors and pilots. They had their ability to see almost completely behind themselves with barely needing to turn their head.
Sam’s RIO behind him gave him a thumbs-up, which Sam returned without comment, his RIO or Radar intercept Office nick named “Nitro” rarely said much unless it was absolutely necessary which Sam appreciated. He knew that he would speak up when needed otherwise no news was good news. A moment later both looked over as one of the escort destroyers to their left Phalanx systems started to fire, the buzzsaw burst was followed shortly by several explosions off in the distance. Their relief was short-lived as the Phalanx system on the carrier, and one of the destroyers to their right started to fire, followed by several missiles being fired from one of the cruisers ahead of them.
The aircraft ahead of them were launched into the turbulent sky with a wash of the steam from the catapult and the thunder of jet engines as a massive explosion that felt like it rattled the whole ship shook through them. Sam quickly looked around the flight deck, wondering if the carrier had been hit... thankfully he didn’t see any flames or smoke. The blast deflector in front of them lowered and the yellow shirt directed him forward. Sam once again just eased the throttle forward, painfully aware of the rolling deck that made it feel like each one of his stomachs wanted to go in a deferent direction and puking in your flight suit just before a combat mission would not soon be forgotten.
A moment later, Sam felt the towbar on the front landing gear clunk into place on the catapult shuttle and once again only needed to turn his head a few degrees to watch the thrust deflector raise behind the tail of the aircraft. He used his right thumb to toggle the switch that let the F-14‘s wings go from the fully folded position, so they didn’t run into other aircraft on the flight deck to fully extended for takeoff and put the flaps down to the preferred foul weather take off setting.
Sam glanced to his left at the rolling waves of the North Sea and could clearly see the stern of one of their guided missile cruisers, the IUS Woodridge as it rapidly sank, all four propellers in the air, still spinning. The new Battleship IUS Alaska charged forward, looking for revenge for her fallen brothers and sisters. The new nuclear-powered battleship, over 1000 feet long, seemed to cut through the sea almost effortlessly. Armed with short-range and long-range missiles, along with all the modern defensive systems, and also carried the new 21st-century 22-inch naval guns, guns bigger than anything that had ever been imagined much less built before. The 22-inch shells were rocket assisted, GPS/laser guided that left nothing more than HUGE smoking craters out of the most concrete and steal reinforced buildings or bunkers.
Sam shook his head and tried not think of all his fellow sailors that just went down with the Woodridge and refocused on the catapult officer who gave him the signal. He placed his left hand lightly on the stick and placed his right hand on the throttles and firmly pressed both throttles on the General Electric F110 engines to full power then afterburner!
The engines went from low rumble to a full-throated, ear-splitting roar as blue flames shot out of both nozzles, and the aircraft pushed against the catapult follower. Sam greeted his back teeth and watched as the bow of the flight deck fall< Nitro seemed like he was bored or waiting for a bus. A huge wave crashed up and over the bow of the ship then the deck started to rise again. Just as the bow of the carrier seemed to be over the top of the turbulent water, Sam and his RIO were slammed back into their seats, the left wing of the F-14 rocketed inches over the tips of the ears of the German Shepherd, catapult officer.
The acceleration crushed Sam‘s stomachs to his back, and a moment later, he felt weightless and pulled back ever so gently on the stick. He let out his breath as his airspeed and most important altitude started to climb, he quickly retracted the landing gear and started to bring in the flaps.
After the F-14 was a few hundred feet off the ocean Sam let the nose drop and the speed rapidly build as they rocked toward the West Coast of Britain with enough bombs, strapped to the belly of the aircraft to level several city blocks. After just a few minutes all of the friendly ships were long behind them. Sam reached over and armed the bombers weapon systems as the speed continued to build, the wings started to sweep back automatically.
He knew he was burning fuel at a ridiculous rate but getting shot down then possibly eaten by the British that had been long since blockaded wasn’t an idea of a good day for Sam. He kept after burners going as he rapidly approached the coast hit supersonic speeds, fuel reserves be damned.
A lone anthro sheep ewe stood outside of her small 2 room stone home on the west coast of England near the vertical cliffs of the coast. She looked at the turbulent ocean and stormy skies, then at the rolling green fields all around her, the fields pockmarked with huge craters that looked like huge wounds on the green landscape. She more felt than saw something flash overhead, when she went to look up, she was taken off her hooves by the sonic BOOM! The blast of air took shingles off the roof of her house and broke the front windows out, then was gone, only leaving missing shingles, broken glass, and a ringing in her ears that would never go away.
Sam opened his eyes and placed the helmet back in its place on the bookshelf, an old cliché came to him. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” he said, then took a long drink from his glass. He looked down at the shelf that contained a few of his momentos from the resistance, a few small keepsakes, his pocket knife, his different rank insignias. They started with a little to no rank structure, progressed to using permanent marker then captured ranks from dead predators.
Sam reached down and gently touched one of his medals, it was nothing more than a Mr Fuzzy Pop can cut into the shape of a rough star, turned inside out than painted with some spray paint and some glitter from some kids playset. Best they could do out in the forest under fire and with the predators constantly trying to kill them all. He flipped it over to read the date scratched on the backside 8/87. He flinched and dropped it back on the shelf…
Blood was everywhere…the wind howled like an angry hell hound… the old cargo aircraft shook and rattled as it started to come apart mid-air… the old aircraft was never made for this! Huge holes had been punched straight through the fuselage, structure, control lines, fuel lines, and bodies alike. Broken, bloody limbs were on the floor along with the bodies they were attached to moments before, dead and soon too be dead. Sam’s hooves slipped on the slick yet somehow sticky blood as he hooked up his rip cord. Sam with his own blood in his eyes and a strip of metal a foot long stuck in the flesh of his left arm yelled to the ones that could still hear “WW WW WE NA NEED TO GA GET THE FUCK OA OUT OF HA HERE, RA RIGHT FA FA FUCKING NOW!!”
A blast of heat hit him in the face and he was falling … falling, his parachute opened by some miracle…
The memories assaulted him, even after these many decades, he closed his eyes and took a long drink of the Scotch, as his right hand shock.
He was in that damn radio tower again, they didn’t know, how could they know? They couldn’t have known at the time, even the predators hadn't keep it secret that the whole thing was one flood or mosquito kamikazing into the wrong spot would break the damn thing! The memory still came of the dumb fox boy trying to cave his skull in with a baseball bat all those decades ago. The other resistance fighters exited the generator hall and ran into the hills. The series of explosions that blew the generator halls into rubble a few minutes later…. The cracking of the Dam’s main structure, the flood that indiscriminately wiped out the town of several thousand. Then, left even more homeless downstream, and yes, war is war, still a wall of water 100 feet tall, killing everything in its path.
Sam went back to the armoire, poured himself another glass of scotch the bottle clicked the top of the glass as his right hand shook even more. He took another long drink as he shoved all these memories back into their box and did his best to slam the lid closed and keep it closed.
He paced his home office for several long minutes, looked out at the night sky, then back at the clock at 3:37am. He sat back down at his desk and thought about answering some emails or getting some writing done, and decided against it. He looked at the picture that was set on the right side of his desk. He picked it up and looked at the picture and felt himself relax a bit, his heart rate showed, he wiped a tear away as he continued to study the picture, as he had many, many times before.
It was a picture from a family reunion about ten years back, Sam and his wife Diane in the center bottom with their three daughters and two sons on either side of them. Above and around them nearly 350 of Sam’s and Diane‘s children, grandchildren and a hand full of great grandchild along with spouses including a few newly legalized predator spouses. Sam’s oldest known son, Murphy right behind him with his wife.
Sam tried to keep the memories out of his head and remember that good things can come from even the worst of times…
Sam woke up with the bells of a second-hand Mikey Rat alarm clock with a cracked faceplate that sat on top of an overturned wood box. He reached over and silenced it and sat up on his cot in his small stall at breeding farm #11022. He sighed and reached down and felt his nuts, they still felt tender and sore from the past two days of work. But there was no use in complaining about it, breeding season only lasted a few weeks and any breeder that couldn’t keep up ended them being retired.
Sam saw one of the breeders he knew being retired just last year. He was old, really old for a breeder, easily in his mid-20s, maybe even 25-26 or so. Which being retired was one of Sam’s biggest fears, the guards didn’t even kill the poor bastard, just hit him over the head a couple times, dragged him outside, and started to tear into him. One of his legs kicked in what Sam chose to think of as reflexively as the guards ate his nuts right off their cords. It didn’t help that Sam himself would turn 19 early next year, but he tried not to think about that.
He just got dressed, which didn’t take long since it only involved putting on his vest that marked him as a breeder. Which was a good position to have around the camp. He got access to all the best food and grain, medical care, much improved living quarters, including his own bed and stall. Plus he could work out or run all he wanted, he didn’t have to be locked up all the time.
Terry one of the feline guards opened the door to Sam’s stall his cattle prod in hand and in a cheerful tone exclaimed “Raise and shine big boy time to get to work, great day to make some more fawns!”
Sam faced away and straighten up his vest and try to get his tracking collar comfortable spot. “ hhhhh hhh ha hold on, I’m re re read…”
ZAP!
Sam jumped and bleated in pain “ owwwwwww sa sa STOP… I I said ummm, ummm, ready?”
Terry shrugged, “ Oh sorry, Sam couldn’t understand you, my bad’ not that the cat seemed to care much.
Sam rubbed his left butt cheek and nodded “ Naaa no problem ta ta Terry, mama my bad.” Sam quickly turned sideways and moved out into the hallway. Then followed Terry to one of the exam rooms, where the African painted wolf “doctor” would give Sam a Pre-breeding exam.
Sam never really could make any sense of these so-called exams; he just figured it must’ve been some canine thing. It started sensibly enough with the canine doctor, examining his testicles by feel, smell, and taste. Sam stood there, stiff as board as the painted wolf sniffed, caressed and licked each of his testicles and before pushing down his sheath and licking along the length of Sam’s cock. Where Sam called complete crap was this so called doctor had him behind over for the so called “prostate exam.“
After he was given a clean bill of health, Sam was shown to the breeding rooms themselves. Where he would breed each doe one by one, one after another, sometimes up to 20 at a time. If he didn’t want to be retired, he wouldn’t complain and all of them in any particular cycle would get pregnant hopefully with twins. If not he knew what his fate would be, retired aka eaten by the guards, the rest of his carcass composted and used for top soil on the farm.
Sam felt the room start to spin and set down the mostly empty bottle of 30-year-old Scotch. he looked at the desk clock again, 5:42am. Diane would be up soon; she’d be upset he’d spent all night in his buck cave drinking, and he felt bad about that. He hated making her upset; it made him feel guilty for making her upset, and she could be as mean as any drill sergeant or flight instructor he had ever met. Maybe if he ate some mint leaves? No, it would just smell like he made a Mojito with Scotch, best to just take the tongue lashing once she woke up.
He carefully put the family picture back in its place, careful to not drop it as it now felt like his office was rolling on heavy seas. Took the glass off his desk in one hand the empty bottle in the other and quietly walked to the kitchen, rinsed both out. Put the cup in the dishwasher, the bottle in the recycle bin and returned to bed so at least he would be there when Diane woke up even if he probably smelled like a distillery.
Art by my good friend https://www.furaffinity.net/user/himeragoldtail
If you liked the story please consider leaving a comment below, I read every last one and I consider it the highest competent. If you really really enjoyed the story and want to see more from Sam which of the time frames would you like to see explored? Comment below ",
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