# Pink Fuzz Chapter 4

Pink Fuzz 4
​
Final Rondo
​
Trish’s duplex was small, but lively. Reed suspected her mother was a nurse: rarely present and always exhausted. The numerous shelves and bookcases in the living room were lined with rhinestones and assorted fantastic figurines depicting unicorns, goat men, the works… It was the perfect representation of someone coping with a harsh job, someone seeking escape.
As Trish hoisted him through the house, he realized why she worked so hard to find success.
After thanking her mom for the ride, Trish strained and groaned as she hauled the jelly-legged raptor junkie into her garage, where they could be alone for the rebuilding process.
The garage was lined with everything from a workbench, to spare lumber, to spray paint, to a bundle of old tractor tires. You name it.
“No wonder you always get plans going. That’s like, an Ed, Edd n Eddy thing.” Reed chuckled, but his voice was hoarse after hours of unloading on the counselor, crying, and trying to fight off security guards in bouts of paranoia.
“Why? You said you were a fairyboy. I thought you were better than this…” Trish replied shakily.
Reed clenched his teeth with worry. “I- I’ll make it up to you. It’s just been really rough at h-.”
“I heard. I couldn’t hear enough of it. Anon? You went to his place too? You could’ve come here at any time. Did you even think about that, you fucking idiot?”
He didn’t
“S-sorry, bro,” he squeaked. “I’ll find us another venue to jam out at.”
The glare Trish issued made him shrink back in his dino blankey, nearly mummifying himself.
“You’re going to play at Dino-Moe’s. I’m going to be your rehab coach. I plotted a regiment with mom and everything,” Trish stated flatly.
Reed’s eye peeked out from the blanket. When did she change into that Tapout sweater, and where did she get that hose from? He thought.
The tiny triceratops flicked a switch and a pressure washer hummed to life. The hose already fed into it. Her gaunt fingers wrapped tightly around the nozzle and twisted until her knuckles went white.
FWSSSHT FWSSHT! She gave an experimental pull on the trigger, and a perfect white beam of water shot out.
“Don’t worry. It’s low pressure. It won’t leave bruises.” Trish said.
FWWWWSSSHHHT!!
“AW FUCK NOT COOL!”
FWWWWSSSHHHT!!
“TIMEOUTTIMEOUT!”
Reed’s shrieks resounded through the quiet neighborhood that day, and Trish made sure it would stay this way until five days pass, until the concert.
The pink raptor, dressed in nothing but an oversized D.A.R.E. shirt, wheezed and wobbled as he took to the tire run Trish assembled in her backyard. Trish’s mother sat on the porch nearby, filling an ashtray like nobody’s business and reading through a harlequin novel.
Those massive tractor tires became Reed’s first enemy. He already left several face prints against the vinyl fence as his large legs gave out and tripped him over and over again.
His body flashed hot and cold simultaneously. His mind went blank. His jaw hung open as he gaped for air constantly, drooling like an animal.
His foot caught the horrid mouth of a tire again and he collapsed. His fall was cushioned by the obstacle course like an angel’s kiss, and he sprawled his nude body across them. He didn’t give a single shit at this point as his junk hung out.
He didn’t flinch this time when Trish blew her whistle. “Ten seconds of rest. Just finish a few more sets and then we move to the strength exercises.”
Reed gasped. His chest heaved up and down. His bruised, battered peach body glowed once again in the daytime sun. A golden silhouette accentuated his body, thanks to the mist from numerous hosings.
Reed whined and gasped, unable to form words.
“No backtalk. You’re not going to die. I looked this up.”
Trish’s mother nodded sagely, and watched intently as Trish delivered another perfect beam of water into his exposed tailhole.
“MAXIMALLY UNCOOL! RANCID CUNT FUUUCK!” Reed shrieked.
Eventually, the noise complaints stopped coming. Reed learned the hard way that whatever horrid, horrid experiments Trish ran were always tolerated by sheer bullheaded triggerity.
This wasn’t all pain for Reed. He was given the finest handmade meals he’d ever had. Wonderous bowls of meat, veggies, and fruit showed themselves to him steamed, grilled, raw; it all tasted great and filled him with a vigor neither his parents or cafeteria food ever gave him.
He teared up with joy and scarfed down a bowl of jambalaya.
As usual, Trish stood behind him with a whistle around her neck and the hose in her hand. Even against her purple scales, her eyes were dark and baggy with exhaustion.
Still, she cracked a smile every now and again. “You look like Inafune when you do that, savoring every meal after a long journey.”
“You captured my family? Let them die! I hate all of them!” he growled between tearing chunks of steamy chicken and sausage between the sets of daggers he called teeth.
He quoted the Musashi film, and elicited a chuckle from Trish, but they both knew he meant this in sincerity as well; in this real world where he’d be aptly branded a deadbeat.
Silence washed over them. All the pushups and squats and tire runs really made his scales and feathers glow. His humor seemed to come back as well, but there was a long way to go.
“We can’t do this forever, you know? And there’s a pile of homework waiting for you.”
Hunched over his food like an animal, Reed let bits of fried rice tumble down his muzzle and onto the garage floor. He belched hotly and sighed.
“I know. Th-thanks for everything, Trish. You’ve been a real bro, and I mean a real one.”
The tire suddenly creaked as Trish sat down next to him. Her plush thigh indented against his toned leg like memory foam.
Reed’s raw muscles stung like hundreds of hot wires. He bit back a yelp.
Trish winced from his pain and tried to scoot away to give him space, but Reed’s massive tail, like a palm tree of pink, gently wrapped around her waist, and pulled her closer.
“It’s okay. I’ll pull through. I’ll be stronger, for myself and everyone. Even if Fang calls me a… weed.” Reed said.
“She said that?” Trish peeped.
“Well, Anon said she said it…”
Trish’s brow furrowed.
“It’s okay…”
“It’s not that… It’s just, are we losers?”
The pair went silent.
“Fang was always the one with the talent. We’ve just been hurting her. I still think about what you said, even though you exposed our cringe school games to that ape.” Trish said.
“Well, I could be wrong.”
“If you’re being aloof on purpose I’ll get the hose…” Trish jumped bolt upright, but Reed’s hands wrapped softly, but firmly around her shoulders.
“Don’t wash me out like an asylum patient again,” he tried to speak coolly, but clenched with worry.
“I just mean… Fang has her own stuff to deal with, and Anon makes her happy. When I see them together they’re glowing, and it’s not the carfe, I swear.”
Trish eased down again, but grounded her bountiful, grape rump onto his lap.
Reed’s face burned hot. It wasn’t time to be a bro, but a man-saur, and he cradled her back and legs tenderly in his arms.
“I’ve slung deals with people all across town. I’ve never sold to kids and I don’t sell bunk product. I don’t sell shitty hook drugs either. I think I even sold to the mob at some point.
“Everyone, all this time, thought I was just goofing around. I really don’t understand what any of them think of me anymore.”
Trish stared up Reed wordlessly as he chuckled.
“Isn’t that fucking crazy? I could’ve been an assassin. Like, a ninja or some sh-”
A loud slap rang through Reed’s skull. Trish delivered a small, but powerful palm print that burned against his gentle, pink scales like a branding iron.
“You idiot! You dopey cunt!”
“Crazy bitch! You controlling little tyrant! I can’t believe I let you-”
Mid-shout, Trish slammed her muzzle into his. Her supple lips cushioned against their unwieldy snoots as they crooked their necks until finding the perfect place to interlock.
They moaned hotly into each other’s mouths as Reed worked his strong, raptorian tongue around hers. He gently bounced her on his lap, enjoying every movement. Their hands wrapped greedily around each other, grasping at any chunk of soft meat they could.
Reed thought they may be mismatched losers in unwieldy positions, but every correction made formed a dance of compensation, an attempt to please the other, but still be embraced.
They found themselves curled around each other, lodged into the tractor tire like coupled snakes. Trish’s claws dug into his back, hips, and firm, peach backside while he tongue-banged her until she gasped.
Reed’s junk grinded against his t-shirt. His sizable rod tented Mc’Rex (the no drug dude)’s face decal as he thrusted into the warm, all-enveloping force of her thighs.
Their passion filled the garage with heat, like a sauna of sweat. Their movements eventually softened, and they lapped each other’s bodies like waves at low tide, rocking in perfect tandem.
Reed gently licked the ripe, blueberry mounds of Trish’s bare breasts before collapsing on top of her.
“Awwhn~. I wanna melt across your body like strawberry syrup. S-so hot. Tired. You’re working me to death,” Reed groaned.
Trish grunted. She tried to push the limp post-stoner off, and wriggled with all her strength, but it only got her aroused again.
Still basking in the afterglow of the furious makeout, she wasn’t too mad.
​
Time passed, and before they knew it they rushed through homework sheets while getting a ride from Trish’s mom. Eventually, They got to Moe’s before Fang or Anon. They stumbled occasionally and, thanks to Reed, both adorned massive shades to cover the social black holes surrounding their eyes. However, they laughed lively, and joked about old movies as they worked the wiring arrangements and set up Trish’s makeshift t-shirt stand.
Reed still thought spray painted shirts were cheap, faux-punk garbo, but he didn’t have the heart to say it. He didn’t wanna get gored after surviving the rehab concentration camp…
Anon, Fang, Stella, Rosa, and plenty of randos funneled into Dino-Moe’s. The soft, yellow lights of the restaurant played across the soothing latticework, coating everyone with a groovy cross-section pattern. Despite the size of the venue, the place was managed well with few walls between everyone. Reed finally felt he was alive again, and he breathed easy. He was swept into conversation with friends, and in the high of reacquainting with everyone, agreed to watched some show called Chobits.
Without carfe, Reed felt the weight of anxiety build throughout the venue as they neared showtime.
“Cig break. I’ll be right back, boss.” Reed said.
Trish smiled and shot finger guns at him.
Fang had the same idea, Reed found, and he saw her leaning against the brickwork out back. Her eyes glanced to his. She grinned, and crunched the menthol bead between her teeth.
Reed slapped a fresh package of Raptorian Spirits, making sure the tobacco was freshly packed into the end of each cig.
“Burping the babies.” He said jovially, and leaned on the wall beside her. He ripped open the package with a swift pull against his teeth and offered one to the frontliner.
Wordlessly, she handed him a menthol.
They shared each other’s flavors, two cigs in each mouth, and watched the sun set over the vast bazaar of Troodon Town.
“Hey, Trish.” Anon said from the backroom, the open window carrying his voice to Reed’s ear. “You sure this outlet’s right? The cables look like a mess.”
Reed suddenly doubted himself. He felt crusty again in a flash that made his lip twitch. The menthol fell out from his maw, but he snatched it back, mid fall.
“Nice.” Fang said.
For that moment, he remembered the hellworld he lived in only a week ago. No, all up until this point - shithead family included.
His lazy lids and dashing eyelashes swept toward Fang. He popped the cig back in and puffed small rings before smiling.
“Ey. I don’t think I told you about this, but you and Anon are fuckin’ in-sync.
“Also… sorry I almost killed everyone back when,” he added sheepishly.
“I’m sorry I said you were a weed.” Fang said.
“Hm?” Reed replied, feigning ignorance, but the grin spreading across his cheeks gave him away.
Fang elbowed him in the side. He hoped the exercise would force her to revel at his hardened abs, but he was still raw from rigorous daily training, and his muscles didn’t have a chance to recoup yet.
Reed bit back a howl.
“Anon’s a dweeb. I know he told you. I didn’t mean it. I was…-”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve lived with being pissy and confused longer than I have. Shoot me some pointers sometime.”
That earned him another elbow. His knees buckled under the pain.
“Augh! Dammit!” He hissed between bouts of laughter.
“Are you okay?” Fang asked.
From this point on the ground, Reed saw the flickers of thousands of lights, like fireflies flitting about the marketplace. All of them were aimless and confused. They smiled genuinely or trained themselves to smile. Some pursued shit they didn’t need just for a taste of the former. Young lights become old lights and bright lights dulled before his eyes. It seemed retarded until he realized they had to smile for themselves, or no one else would.
“Like a million bucks, bro,” he groaned, and peeled himself back up again.
​
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AFTERWARD:
The Volcano High Gazelle was a local rag ran by the media department. They always fucked up the typeset and got their work out late. No one read the stuff, either. It was all fedshit or idpol crap or clique talk, but Reed tolerated this issue because they were featured, somewhere.
That, and Trish read it on his lap, smothering him in bountiful booty once again.
“Here we are!” she squealed and her eyes shined, but she suddenly went quiet.
“Woah, hey there! Aw man…” Reed followed her example, and facepalmed.
In the far corner of the music section, VVURM DRAMA had a glowing review:
“A perfect post-ironic embrace of buttrock with a nowave edge and lyrics that defy structure. VVURM DRAMA finally embracing a guitarist milked sweet melodies from their group that no one expected before.
“Most importantly, the band members' clashing ensembles belies their synchronicity. It’d be hard to draw comparisons, especially when the bassist and drummer were tighter on each other than birds to an herbivore. Their matching, sweat-soaked casualware resembled the aftermath of a landmine in a stoner’s bedroom, and their sunglasses looked like the Blues Brothers after getting stomped by a mammoth a few hundred times.
“You had to be there to dig it. The moshpit was intense! Shoutout to Stella. Sorry for stepping on your face.”
Yours truly,
Anpterasaur Fantano
​
“We look retarded.” Trish groaned.
Even in a black and white photograph, Trish and Reed’s expressions were perfectly immortalized: their bodies swung helplessly their respective pluck and thump. Their mouths hung wide open, with what looked like a perfect string of spit flying from Reed’s maw.
“That’s like, a one-in-a-million shot. The light had to be perfect. That’s my spit! Rock on!”
“Come on!” Trish whined, and she pounded herself into his junk in protest.