Review of Collins Dictionary by The-Commission
Author's page: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/the-commission/
Picture page: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/43577451/ (EBFAID43577451EB)
Tags: Review, Zionist, Fatherly, feet, fucking, with, flamboyant, friend, fjord, while, watching, Fargo, Collins, Dictionary, is, the, worst, book, do, not, buy, it, it, is, a, scam, and, you, will, be, wasting, your, money, if, you, do, spend, any, amount, of, cash, on, it, absolute, worst, period, L
Category: Story | Theme: Abstract | Rating: General
Published: 2021-09-05 18:18:55
I’m so sick and tired of seeing this book everywhere. Its always in the book stores no matter what, every school keeps about a dozen extra of them just in case and everyone is always making references to it in popular media.
So I decided to give It a read and just to start of, this cover is atrocious, it’s blue. No illustration? No quotes from reviewers? Obviously, a bland choice to say the least. Who the fuck is this Collin guy anyway, and why does he feel the need to make his dumb name special by adding an extra L. Not only is his name dumb but he made an obvious grammatical error, right on the cover of his book. IT’S COLLIN’S DICTIONARY, NOT COLLINS DICTIONARY. The apostrophe makes it possessive. I admit I knew I wouldn’t like this Collin guy just be his name alone, but who the fuck does he think he is, Madonna? There’s no second name here, guess he wanted to be “quirky” Like that. Are we all just supposed to know the one and only Collin with two L’s?
Then I took a look at the blurb, and Jesus this guy is a bit up his own ass. “Use a Collins dictionary, and be one of the best-informed language users in the world” what am I gonna re-learn the English language by reading this shit book? Give me a fucking break buddy. If I wanted to be one of the best-informed language users in the world, I’d read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, at least then I’d learn some important life stuff, like what huffing ether feels like and what to do when my friend wants me to kill him by electrocution, in a bathtub of grapefruits.
I may shit on the cover and the blurb, but trust me, they’re the most cohesive parts of this book. Once you start reading the actual thing, it goes straight down the shitter real fast. Before you actually get to the contents of the book, Collin feels the need to teach you the basics of the English language first, what do you think I am, a fucking idiot or something? I read the warning labels on my pill bottles all the time, I’m very well versed with this language.
There’s 26 chapters in the whole book and some really drag on more than others, but I’ll get to that later. First of all, Collin must have been snorting jenkem up his ass when he wrote this, I mean, reeeeally butt-chugging that shit, cause this plot doesn’t make a lick of sense. When you start reading, it says something about AA, Alcoholic Anonymous and Automobile Association, so I say to myself “oh the main character is an alcoholic mechanic, interesting character traits” but we never actually find out who is going to Alcoholic Anonymous! I read the whole fucking book, all the way to chapter Z and this plot detail is never explained. You’ll struggle to find any characters in this book actually, Collin must’ve hated picking names or something. Maybe there’s some lore I’m missing out on here. If there’s something I should know about the Dictionary’s lore then email me at dougwalkerinflationfan13[at]co.gov.ru thanks guys.
Anyway you go through the book and I have to admit there are some good chapters here, like chapter F, which is a really good piece of smut writing. To cut a long story short, the main character fucks his father’s feet furiously while fiddling his flamboyant friend, fjord’s fallopian tubes, but forgets to fax his financial forms to his firm, so he feels frustrated and fornicates with his family for four fortnights, only finishing to watch the fantastic film Fargo.
Now when I read that, I was more aroused than that time my mom made me dress up as a Disney princess and beat me with a belt around the house until I grew a vagina. The surgery was not a success I’m sad to report, but enough about me, back to this shit book.
Chapter F is definitely the high point of the experience and sadly it’s only the sixth chapter of the book, and it really doesn’t reach the same level of writing anywhere else in the chapters to follow. I thought they were gonna rekindle the smut aspect of the book around chapter S but that chapter just drags on and on. I thought it was going for one of those fables by Aesop vibe, cause at first it’s about this scrawny sheep that’s set on having a saucy shag session with his sexy sister only before he can squirt his semen into her snatch, he shits on his scrotum and commits suicide from shame. Now I think we can all see the moral of that story, don’t shit the bed kids. Unfortunately, this chapter doesn’t stop there and starts to drift off into stuff not connected to the plot at all.
One of the major problems is that it just feels like Collin was trying to fit every word he could think of into his book to up the word count. You can tell he was using a thesaurus cause I’m gonna be honest with you, I don’t know what half these words mean, nor have I ever heard them used before. I can’t tell you how many times I found myself googling what a word meant in this book. I think he actually made some of these words up, like “intelligentsia” what the fuck does that mean? Like a Sia song that’s smart? Sorry buddy none of her songs are smart, they’re all just about pegging Shia LaBeouf.
The ending is pathetic, M. Night Shyamalan couldn’t come up with a twist more out of place than this. It’s revealed at the very end that the main character was in fact, a Zionist zombie zebra in a zoo doing zen Zumba, whatever the fuck that is. I mean this whole time I thought this was a just a nice incest love story like Donald Trump’s Art of the Deal, but then they gotta hit you with the old Zionist Jew trick, FUCK, I’m so sick of getting fooled by these damn Zionists! CURSE YOU COLLIN YOU ZIONIST BASTARD!
Whoops, had a stroke there. Don’t worry, happens whenever those Zionists come up, oh fuck here I go again.
Well now that I’ve explained to you why this book is an antiquated piece of shit, I ask you, why is this book so fucking popular? The only book I can think of that people read this religiously is the Holy Bible, but at least it’s a gripping fantasy novel, full of all kinds of magic. English Dictionary is obviously a students first draft of a novel, actually no, not even a first draft, a students mind map, of what he should write about, that somehow found it’s way into the hands of some publisher that had accidentally ordered way too much paper and had to get rid of it fast before the IRS fucked them harder than Sia pegging Shia LaBeouf. That’s it, this whole fucking book’s existence was an excuse to get rid of paper and ink, people only read it cause it’s always fucking there no matter what.
I just learned that I only got the “pocket edition” of English Dictionary. You mean to tell me Collin wrote more? At a certain point he must have just started copy and pasting shit from the Oxford Dictionary, honestly. I’d like to meet this Collin guy just to see what kind of class A drugs he’s injecting into his veins to waste his life away, writing something so stupid, that makes no sense, and that has no entertainment value. Oh my god, was…was I Collin all along? T…That can’t be, that’s not true THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE NONOOOOOOOOFHIOVBSO;VOISKVBFDLVBJLSVZJFC M;FDZLUIGRE7SG49P3WBushdid9/11OGBUER9PAGHOIREAOG;UHDGH,ÚU,SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHuiolgsburvpsoruievopesuvb9[
The fuck is this for?
The McAfee Tribute by The-Commission
Author's page: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/the-commission/
Picture page: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/43577518/ (EBFAID43577518EB)
Tags: John, McAfee, crank, crack, cocaine, cannabis, LSD, PCP, DMT, DXM, MDMA, GHB, meth, brown_brown, scopolamine, jenkem, purple_drank, Methylenedioxymethamphetamine, benzos, escitalopram, heroin, adrenochrome, alcohol, ether, ketamine, crocodile, peyote, opiums, inhalants, addict, B
Category: Story | Theme: Abstract | Rating: General
Published: 2021-09-05 18:23:55
Where was I when John McAfee died you ask? I was where everyone that knew John was, snorting cocaine off a hookers pussy while having a methamphetamine enema up my ass. The whore I was blowing sat up from our coke job looking at her twitter feed, quickly taking me away to sit me in the consulting room in the brothel. I said I hadn’t said the safe word, but she looked me in the eye and laid down the bad news. My dearest friend, John McAfee had died in a Spanish prison to escape paying his taxes. While grief and sadness overcame me, I had always expected it to end like this. John making the IRS suck on his fat chode as he strokes their hair softly calling them “good girl” and “his precious little cum slut” as they choke on his massive throbbing schlong. Right before climaxing and giving them exactly what they want, he ties his bedsheet and David Carradine’s himself as that IRS bitch begs to suckle any last fluid from his rigor mortis ridden cock.
I had known John my whole life, even from birth. You see his mother’s meth dealer was actually my mom. Our moms would meet up and smoke crack after getting their ultrasounds, John always being close to me. They later discovered my fetus had developed a dependency to John’s presence, well that and also crack cocaine, but the former is far more romantic, so we’ll go with it instead. They say when one door closes, another one opens, and as world war II finished, John McAfee was born just 17 days later. We would later refer to him as the 3rd nuclear bomb, because of the amount of Japanese prostitutes he butchered to death with a rusty cleaver in nothing but a pair of neon Nike Jordan’s.
When we were at kindergarten, John would always finish any work the teacher gave us before anyone else, and then spend the rest of day huffing glue sticks at his desk. I thought that was the source of all his intelligence, so I tried doing the same, but suffered a stroke and lost all sight in my left eye. John would then give me a bottle of glue every one of my birthdays after that. He was always sweet like that, remembering the important things. You could also say he was a bit of a teacher’s pet, since he would always tell me how he fucked all the MILF teachers with his “13-inch Moby Dick” as he would describe it. I would never understand what the fuck he was talking about since we were 7 at the time and I had not developed literacy due to the glue huffing.
We skipped high school since John convinced me to follow a life of prostitution. He explained that he would handle the business aspect, and I would do the easy work. For 6 years my ass was pegged by every woman in the state. One time, John told me that Jackie O had actually came to visit, only the lights were turned off and I could only hear her voice, which was way deeper in person than on TV. But if I sounded like a gay Australian leather daddy and I was the first lady, I’d want to have some postproduction movie magic done on my voice too. I’ll never forget that night that Jackie O turned out my bussy, circa November 22nd 1963. She seemed really stressed about something, but I couldn’t ask with the ball gag and all. To his day, my sphincter has not recovered, and I still cannot shit without first having to goatse my ass over a pit in my backyard, so I don’t miss the bowl again.
While we were working one night, John’s dad came barging in during our session with our regular customer, Judy Garland. He kept asking John for a few breath mints so he could cover up his cock breath he had from giving blowjobs for a nickel, just for beer money. John said he was sick of his shit and made a bet. They would play one game of Russian roulette, winner got all the breath mints they wanted. Let’s just say, John didn’t have to lend his dad any more of his breath mints, cause John loaded all 6 barrels and made his dad go first. Now any time the topic of his father comes up, he just pops a mint and smiles. It was kind of rude of them to play the game in front of me and Judy cause when that gunshot went off, Judy walked out covered in blood, and I walked out with tinnitus. We had to give her so many freebies just to get her business back.
Thank goodness for that job though, because one of our customers, some women, Matilda, Miranda? I don’t fucking remember, all I remember is she pegged me like I was a clothesline and then she couldn’t pay, the stingy bitch, so she gave John a job to work with her husband Bill with computers. Now I didn’t know the first thing about computers, but John apparently did, and he used the opportunity to beat the shit out of Bill Gates and piss on his face for not paying up. John may have wanted that job, but he had to maintain his reputation as the most savage pimp in North America. He would from then on put “previous jobs: MicroPenis” on all his job applications and résumés. He instead got a job working as a train conductor, which did not end too well.
One day while we were huffing paint fumes on the train tracks, some guy came up to us saying, if we could bob an apple from this bucket of his, then he’d give us a free bag of DMT. John stepped up and stuck his head in the bucket. Now what we didn’t know, was that the bucket was actually filled to the brim with DMT powder, and there were no apples actually inside it. John tried to find an apple in that bucket for nearly 3 minutes without coming up for air, but when he did, you wouldn’t have wanted to see him. All you need to know is that the night ended with him causing a train collision and jacking off to the sight of the crash while Juggalo laughing.
It was at this moment that the prostitute I was telling this whole story to, began to roll her eyes and cut me off attempting to stop me and leave the room. I reached into my ass and emerged with my emergency switchblade, grabbing her and putting the knife to her neck. John always said “you never know when you will need to take a hooker hostage to get some quick ransom money.” I continued my story as she pissed down my leg.
Losing that train conductor job really fucked John up. He went on a huge bender, spending all his cash on LSD, and when he couldn’t afford it, he resorted to huffing my unflushed shits in the toilet. One day when the news was on though, something about computer viruses came up, and John’s eyes lit up. Before I could turn around, he had retreated to his room and did not exit for 40 days and 40 nights. When he did, he came out naked with coke still under his nose holding his Macintosh screaming “I have cured AIDS”.
He sold that cure for AIDS and basically became a millionaire overnight. We bought an office and even though I knew less about computers, than I did about why my cum smelt like sponge cake, I was appointed as vice president of the company. We hired a bunch of Brazilian porn stars to sit at the computers and look busy, but we never actually plugged in any of the computers in that building. We kept ourselves busy though, by pumping aphrodisiacs into the air conditioner of the building and replacing the water in the sprinkler system with whipped cream, resulting in what we liked to call, a Brazilian fart cake.
It wasn’t long before John grew tired of this Playboy lifestyle and wanted to go on a globetrotting adventure with me, his best friend. First we went to Japan where we ate live octopuses from a girls snatch. As previously stated, John got a bad high one night and went all Richard Speck on a brothel. Unfortunately, the Yakuza owned that brothel, so John said that I did it and they cut off my right pinkie finger. I’ve never been able to whack off the same since then.
Next, we went to Vietnam where we visited a amazing underground sex club called “Dick Nixon’s”. We were having a good time, until John realized the woman that was twerking on his dick was actually a ladyboy and he went full postal on the bar, reading the entire “Full Metal Jacket” script back to front, from pure memory. At a certain point, everyone just gathered and watched him re-enact the whole movie. By the end, he bowed to the audience, and was promptly fucked in his ass by every man in the bar while he was bent over.
We got kicked out of the Netherlands for crippling the supply of marijuana in the whole country. Weed never did do much for John, except make him hungry, which is why we stopped off in Germany to meet a friendly cannibal that lent us some baby meat, thank you Angela Merkel.
John got a little homesick though and wanted to go back to America, and we stopped off in New York city first. We immediately got a taxi to Times Square and John pointed out a random window in a hotel and said to the driver “You see the woman in the window? Do you see the woman in the window? I want you to see that woman, because that's my wife. But that's not my apartment. That's not my apartment. You know who lives there? Huh? I mean, you wouldn't know who lives there - I'm just saying, "But you know who lives there?" Huh? A nigger lives there. How do ya like that? And I'm gonna, I'm gonna kill her. There's nothing else. I'm gonna kill her. What do you think of that? Hmm? I said 'What do you think of that?' Don't answer. You don't have to answer everything. I'm gonna kill her. I'm gonna kill her with a .44 Magnum pistol. I have a .44 Magnum pistol. I'm gonna kill her with that gun. Did you ever see what a .44 Magnum pistol can do to a woman's face? I mean it'll fucking destroy it. Just blow her right apart. That's what it can do to her face. Now, did you ever see what it can do to a woman's pussy? That you should see. You should see what a .44 Magnum's gonna do to a woman's pussy you should see. I know, I know you must think that I'm, you know... You must think I'm pretty sick or something, you know, you must think I'm pretty sick. Right? You must think I'm pretty sick? Hmm? Right? I'll betcha, I'll betcha you really think I'm sick right? You think I'm sick? You think I'm sick? You don't have to answer. I'm paying for the ride. You don't have to answer.” All taxi drivers in New York now have John’s face on a poster in every cab, to make sure they don’t let him in their car.
Next, we went to Florida where John immediately stole some bath salts from a homeless man and smoked it while taking a shit in Disney World. We were struggling to find stuff to do in Florida since everyone was snorting crack there, so John just kind of blended into the crowd, until we saw a civil war re-enactment was happening that week. So John applied to join the confederacy re-enactors, only he showed up with two Haitian prostitutes in confederate uniforms holding AR-15’s. We knew some racists would be there, but we didn’t expect them to start a public lynch mob. John protected those hookers with his life, and later that night, they repaid him by letting him do the Cleveland Steamer by dropping a fat dump on their chests, just like he did to Walt Disney. He didn’t protect me though, and those re-enactors made be dance by shooting at my feet but one was drunker than John’s dad’s ghost and missed, shooting off two of my toes.
This wasn’t the first time that I had been confronted with John’s death. One night, when we were in his Peruvian drug compound, I entered his bedroom to only find who I believed to be John, overdosed on heroin, foaming from the mouth. John emerged from the shadows as he explained that the man dead in front of me, was his body double, killed by John Hinkley Jr, previous assassin to Ronald Reagan. Reagan’s ghost had obviously hired Hinkley to kill John, since Reagan was still mad at John for fucking Nancy. In return Hinkley would finally get to lay down some pipe on Jodie Foster. There wasn’t a moment to lose. We flew to the Reagan ranch, where we confronted by Dennis Prager. While Dennis attempted to stop us at the gates, John had come equipped with Dennis’s one true weakness, homoerotic tendencies. We fucked that honky bitch up and proceeded to piss on Ronald Reagans grave, the only true way to get rid of a spiteful spirit.
It was at this point, while I was recounting my adventures with John, that the hostage negotiator arrived at the brothel. When he asked for my demands, I told him to shit in a bag and leave on the doorstep, so that I can get high off the fumes. I did not hear back from him, so I continued to tell the prostitute my story.
Did I ever tell you the time that John got into a fight with J. Edgar Hoover? John was a big fan of Edgar Allen Poe, and he had always believed anyone called Edgar was a really cool guy. When he found out that the FBI director, a fucking narc, was called Edgar, he snorted some crank, and bought a plane ticket to Washington. Unfortunately, J. Edgar Hoover had been dead for a few decades, so John pulled a Pope Stephen the VI and sued Edgar Hoover’s corpse. When they exhumed the body, John immediately lunged at the corpse and began UFC boxing it while recounting The Raven. He crushed the skull in his thunder thighs on the last “nevermore” and walked away satisfied.
Not to mention the time he tried to jack off a blue whale. John had always seen blue whales as his spirit animal, I think it’s why all his wives were morbidly obese. He had always talked about making love to a whale, and I recommended he join John C. Lilly, but he said that guy was a nutjob, jerking off dolphins like a maniac. All John wanted to do, was to be sounded by a whale dick. He got his wish when one day, Johnny Depp took him out on his boat in the Caribbean. John spotted a blue whale in the water, and before we could hold him back and give him ethanol intravenously, he had jumped off the railing with a huge tent pitched and began swimming into the whale’s urethra. We didn’t see John for a month, but a rescue team spotted him floating in the water weeks later. When I asked him what had happened, he simply responded “I have seen God, and he’s thicker than a bowl of oatmeal”.
The prostitute I was holding hostage began to shed a tear as she saw me feel so vulnerable. “You really miss him.” She said, as a single tear, ran down my face. My life would never be the same now that John was gone. I don’t know if it was the Stockholm syndrome or if this hooker was actually beginning to empathize with me, but she said she would drop any charges against me, since she also knew how it felt to lose a loved one, and honestly, would also take a prostitute hostage in an attempt to die by police shooting. We hugged and she ran out to the SWAT team that had surrounded the building.
I knew if I died of natural causes, John would never speak to me again when we would meet again in hell, so I huffed a popper, grabbed my cock, and ran at a cop, screaming while masturbating. My final words being “I AM AN AVID USER OF CRAAAAAAAANK!!!” before being shot 47 times, a tragic suicide. I can only hope that I too see T H I C C Jesus.
RIP John
The fuck is this for?
Top 10 music videos of all time by The-Commission
Author's page: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/the-commission/
Picture page: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/43577586/ (EBFAID43577586EB)
Tags: David_Hasselhoff, music, music_videos, William_Shatner, Bjork, Robin_Thicke, THICKE, ginger, children, murder, cats, Iceland, rocketman, art, clowns, passenger, Boy_George, Star_Trek, Death_Grips, Car_fucking, MC_Ride, Bath_salts, crack, Top_10_list, 4, days, this, took, FOUR
Category: Story | Theme: Abstract | Rating: General
Published: 2021-09-05 18:28:53
Top 10 music videos of all time
1. Kool and The Gang-Get Down On It
Never before has there been a better representation of a Ketamine induced stroke until this music video was conceived. Clearly this is Dede Allen’s finest work in the editing booth yet. The non-stop use of the Ghosting effect really stimulates my Occipital lobe, to the point of burning the nerves to smithereens from the amount of brain capacity necessary in processing all of the Kool’s on the screen at once. Remember back in the day when they used to say “but can it run Crisis?”. The real question is, can your Alienware Radeon AMD 128 GB RAM gaming PC run this many J.T Taylor’s at once? The truth is, no computer could complete such a herculean task, not even Bill Gates’s secret Quantum Bat computer that he uses to simulate his waifu pegging him, which is why the music video we see today, is only 2% of what the original video required to be ran. We will never be able to see the original video, because the human mind does not possess the amount of brain power necessary in seeing J.T Taylor duplicated to infinity, there isn’t a number that we have discovered yet to tell you how many J. T’s were in the original cut. Legend says the first editor for the video drove himself mad after using the Ghost effect so much that he eventually wrote 500 pages of the sentence “Get Down On It” before performing Shibari on himself somehow and starving to death in the editing booth.
2. M.I.A-Born Free
FINALLY, MY SEXUAL FANTASY HAS BEEN FUFILLED. For years I dreamt of being rounded up and murdered for being ginger. I’m not actually ginger, but I am ginger kin. I feel very connected with those of the ginger ethnicity, so to see my people be rounded up and systematically executed in cruel ways, just gets my rocks off. The explosions that rips apart the gingers by the end of the video, mirrors the explosion in my pants while watching it. I was disappointed at the lack of creativity at the execution methods used in the video, however being forced to run through a mine field is definitely in my top 10 ways to kill a ginger. They could have absolutely used death by inflation to murder those ginger children, it would have been 10 times more disturbing and sexier. Whenever I feel down, I just open up this music video, close my eyes, and imagine being shot in my red-haired dome for the crime of being ginger. Always brings a smile to my face.
3. Death Grips-Double Helix
I had a nightmare once that MC Ride was fucking my Mercedes-Benz C-class automobile, and when I woke up the next morning this video was recommended to me. As soon I saw that greasy homeless crack addict’s face on my screen, I shit, pissed, came and cried all at once. I entered into a fugue state and did not come out of it until a month later. When I was discharged from the mental institution, I walked to the car park to have a nice drive home while listening to my favourite rapper, Vanilla Ice. You ever see that film, Candyman, well all of a sudden, I start hearing Helen being whispered in my ear, “that’s not my name” -Katie White. When I turned around there was no-one to be seen in the entire car park, only some shirtless black guy in the distance but I think didn’t anything of it. I got in the driver’s seat and turned the key, only as soon as the car came on, the “check surroundings for safety” alarm came on immediately. I checked the rear-view camera to see my worst nightmare, MC Ride fucking my exhaust pipe. I revved the engine, but it shorted out due to MC Ride’s cock blocking the exhaust. I was trapped. He then began to climb onto the roof, and puncture holes through it with his cock, penetrating the metal exterior as though it was paper. I narrowly dodged his throbbing member and escaped with my life. Thankfully, another naked homeless man who happened to be high on bath salts, tried to also fuck my car, only MC Ride ripped his throat out due to this homeless man being on his territory. I haven’t slept, nor left my house in 3 weeks, last time I checked, he was still fucking my car, only now it has been reduced to the chassis.
4. Björk-Triumph of a heart
I didn’t think Iceland existed before seeing this music video, but within milliseconds of this video starting, I immediately understood that I had been so ignorant. To be so unaware of this interspecies lovemaking, jenkem infused, beatbox communicating, domestic abuse filled, alcoholic culture, is a true crime in and of itself. As black cats ourselves, we were so pleased to finally see a celebrity that is not afraid to put their controversial love on display. Normally musicians that want to reveal their secret love affairs with an alternative species, pussy out and use furries, like that Taylor Swift bitch, but not Bjork. She is brave enough to show a day in the life of her interspecies marriage that is on the brink of falling apart, because Bjork can no longer feel her meat curtains from the constant penile spines on her feline husband’s cock pulling out of her gash. She runs away to communicate in yodels and beatboxing with some locals, as any Icelandic person would in times of marital upheaval, and then returns home to dance with her macro cat husband. Furries have a lot to thank Bjork for. We wish more musicians snorted jenkem before conceptualizing their music videos just like Bjork, but she doesn’t even need to snort it anymore, since her blood is probably 50% jenkem at this point, just like any Icelandic person really.
5. Fatboy Slim ft. Bootsy Collins-Weapon Of Choice
Christopher Walkin? More like Christopher Dancin.
6. William Shatner-Rocketman
It used to be the case that every gay white nerdy boy that watched Star Trek: The Original Series would whack off to William Shat in her, however now times have changed. In this music video we observe Willy sitting by his lonesome smoking a ciggie on a stool after his 5th divorce with his beautiful wife, Sir Neil Patrick Stewart. William obviously can’t process the divorce, so he spends the next 4 minutes and 22 seconds trying to find every possible way to say and pronounce the word Rocketman. There’s Rock it man, Rock kit man, Rock hitman, Rock ket man, Rocket………man? Every time the second William emerges from the background, we collectively cheer, and then when the third appears, we shed tears of joy, every single time. We think Elton John originally intended the song to be performed this exact way, but he wasn’t gay enough to do it.
7. Culture Club-Karma Chameleon
Ridley Scott wishes he could create this level of a cinematic science fiction masterpiece. No crowd in the 1800’s would gather to listen to Boy George, the androgynous alien fuckboy himself. For many years I used to believe that Boy George was a woman because of this music video, much like how I believed Johnny Depp had a vagina because of his bob haircut in Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. Just think of all those young men that thought they were whacking off to a woman in a technicolour blouse and makeup ripped right off the drag queen Divine’s face, but that’s exactly what Boy George wanted you to think so that later down the road in your life, you would realize all those wet dreams you had, were actually for a man, and then they’re forced to marry a man since their heterosexual privileges are revoked. Some people estimate that half of all gay men today are only homosexual because of this music video. Thank you, Boy George, for your contribution to the LGBT community, and to my sexuality.
8. Robin Thicke-Blurred Lines
The combination of tits and #THICKE being plastered all over the screen makes this the most successful MK Ultra project that the CIA every produced. Richard Nixon himself wrote the script for everything that happens in this music video, the goal being to turn all the gays straight. His hope was that if the women in the video were in the nude, then the gays couldn’t hijack the female fashion industry any longer. The video would also lobotomise anyone that watched it, due to the constant #THICKE being flashed on screen every 5 seconds, in tandem with perky breasts. Sadly no man had such little dignity to do this music video for Dick Nix, until Robert Thicke got ahold of the idea and immediately paid 4 prostitutes so that he could lock them in a warehouse to lick their feet and chase them around with second hand heroin needles for 3 hours. Sit down kids, lemme tell you a story. Back in the dark ages of 2013, porn didn’t exist, so your only option for finding good material to choke the chicken to, was either the Kim Kardashian ass photoshoot, or the Blurred Lines music video. Many old men, unaware of PornHub’s existence were saved from having chronic blue balls. The inclusion of Pharrell Williams really helps everyone watching though, since he is a good contrast to the rapist vibes coming from Robert. Pharrell holds the expression of a child that has been brought to a geriatrics home by his mother and now does not know what to do with himself, while saggy tits surround him.
9. Crispin Glover-Clownly Clown Clown
Some people like to say the IT movies scare them cause it has a clown, other people like to say the 1990 IT mini-series scares them cause it has a clown, however the Crispin Glover-Clownly Clown Clown music video makes us shit our pants every time we have to watch it. Crispin Glover is the scariest clown, and he doesn’t even have any clown makeup on, but he does wear those hilarious oversized clown shoes. Those big shoes really make me bust a gut every time I see them, cause they’re not regular sized shoes, do all clowns have like some sort of excess foot growth? Maybe clowns are actually the next step in human evolution, but we normal folk are not ready for their gigantism feet, inflamed red noses, constant smiling lips, balding heads, pasty white cracker complexion and over 30 young boys buried underneath their floorboards. There is nothing scary about clowns now that we think of it, they are actually really funny and cool guys, my tuition to clown college is actually really cool, I SWEAR! MY CLOWN COLLEGE DEBT IS HILARIOUS, I CAN’T AFFORD TO LIVE!!
10. David Hasselhoff-Passenger
This music video is a better tragedy than anything Shakespeare hoped to write. David Hasselhoff used to drive the K.I.T.T, Knight Rider car, but now he rides a bus because he is a senile geriatric man with a transit pass. It’s a truly sad sight to see, this man single-handedly brought down the Berlin Wall and brought about the collapse of the Soviet Union, because he sang a song titled “Looking for Freedom” on a crane wearing a light up leather jacket to conceal his breasts. Oh how times change. He’s still got the leather jacket, but all the leather jackets in the world can’t cover up those sagging moobs of his. The video shows us David losing his grip on reality, as he becomes confused by what a window is and then hijacks a bus. His dementia obviously kicked in halfway through the video and he forgot the song was called “Passenger”, not fucking “Baby Driver”, but he’s far from a baby, maybe “slowly rotting living corpse with tits, driver”. All we can hope, is that he gets the help he needs, stops making music, and brings back that French concierge pencil moustache, to go along with his pencil dick.
The fuck is this for?
TV show reboots by The-Commission
Author's page: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/the-commission/
Picture page: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/43577688/ (EBFAID43577688EB)
Tags: The_X_Files, The_Famous_Five, The_Rockford_Files, Miami_Vice, Futurama, House_of_Card, Magnum_PI, Tom_Selleck, Tom_Sellecks_Moustache, Burt_Reynolds, Kevin_Spacey, Kevin_James, Columbo, The_Simpsons, Sakuracon, J_Edgar_Hoover, Gillian_Anderson, TV, Reboot, GoFundMe, God
Category: Story | Theme: Abstract | Rating: General
Published: 2021-09-05 18:37:21
There are so many old TV shows that have thrown to the wayside too soon and deserve more recognition from the public. This is why The Commission is making plans for reboots of our favourite shows, just for a blast in our ass from the past. Let us pitch you some of our ideas, so that you hopefully sink money into this business venture that you will immediately regret.
The X-Files
Blue mould and Skull go on adventures in the woods where they meet an alien. They immediately drug it and bring it back to J. Edgar Hoover, who makes love to it. Now Mould and Skull must raise this alien human baby while working in the behavioural science unit, interviewing serial killers like Charlie Manson, BTK, Jeffery Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, Teddy Bundy, and Dicky Ramirez. All cast will be played by their real-life counterparts. Don’t worry, the best security will be hired to keep the cast and crew safe on set, but the budget will run out at that point so they will be kitted with plastic Halloween batons and orange Walmart BB guns. The opening will just be a zoom out from Gillian Anderson’s tits and the closing credits will be a zoom in on her meat curtains, to really honour the last show since that’s what everyone really wanted. If we get renewed for a second season we’ll make the opening zoom out of David Duchovny man pussy, only to have him turn around to the camera and bite his index finger at you, very seductive like.
The Famous Five
Scooby Doo, Fred Rogers, Velma Dickley, Doris Holmes Blake and Norville Rogers, Fred Rogers pot head brother, go around hunting ghosts, only every scene with ghosts is like that Ghostbuster scene where Dan Aykroyd gets blown by a ghost, only they always figure out it was actually a 40-year-old man in a fursuit that actually blew Fred Rogers and not a Sasquatch. Fred then has to find a way to tell his wife Doris Holmes Blake, famous American entomologist, that he is in fact a closeted gay man, but the only hints he will give her is wearing a cravat and flared denim jeans in 2021. Doris doesn’t take any of these hints since she’s always too busy studying chrysomelidae for no pay at the Smithsonian Institution. Thank goodness Doris is a Beatles expert though, cause it turns out all these 40 year old furries blowing Fred were actually brainwashed into being homosexual by listening to the Abbey Road album backwards on their vinyl players. They then have to kill John Lemon by shooting him in the heart with a silver bullet, cause he was the most furry of them all, a real life werewolf. Only when they pull off John Lemon’s skin mask, to reveal who was really underneath, they find none other than Jesus Christ himself. Jesus then forgives the Scooby-Boo gang, except for Fred, who he smites down for being gay. Doris must then marry Velma Dick, since the Smithsonian still refuses to pay a woman that like The Beatles. Yoko Ono then fills Fred Roger’s place in the gang in the second season, which is why everyone will hate the show and it will never be renewed after that.
Futurama
This reboot is actually just a ploy to trick people into tuning into just another fucking season of the Simpsons, only this one is live-action and produced by ABC, why is it produced by ABC you ask? Cause all the cast is Asian-American actors. The Asian-American cast is credited as Japanese American but they're all actually Vietnamese American. They just needed a broader audience to market to, so they're marketing to people of the Sakuracon 2009 variety.
The Rockford Files
We re-do the entire show, but the screen freezes on a single frame every 5 seconds just like the opening. It’ll really feel like an entire new experience, or like you’re watching a student’s attempt at making a stop motion animation by taking photos on their Nintendo DSi and compiling those pictures into Windows Movie Maker on their Dell laptop into a cohesive animation, then recording a voice over for the images with their Guitar Hero microphone. Now that sounds like something that would deserve a pity award from some sketchy film society, just so that we can put one of those annoying fucking palm leaf icons on all the marketing for the show.
Miami Vice
Instead of Don Johnson and Philip Michael Thomas busting old homeless men selling crack to kindergarten students, it’s Steven Seagal and Donald Glover, and the only man selling jenkem to those toddlers is Stefan Burnett, frontman of Death Grips. Every episode, Childish Gambino and Mc Ride must duel in a rap battle while a child overdoses in the background on ketamine. Then at the very end of each episode, in the credits Nancy Reagan’s ghost will appear to lambast the viewer for thinking of doing drugs and refer to them by name, how will she do that? By listing off every name in the US Yellow pages, every, single, name. As for Steven Seagal, he will do most of the action in the show, however he will only do it in a mobility scooter, not because his legs are unable to hold his body weight (surprisingly) but because it’s in his contract and if he did stand up for any amount of time, his maniac breathing from pure exhaustion would fuck up the sound quality.
House of Cards
This will be a bio pic on Kevin Spacey’s desperate race to kill all the cast and crew from House of Cards accusing him of sexual harassment while he pretends to be Frank Underwood. Kevin Spacey will be played by a Kevin Spacey impersonator called Kevin James, to bring some comedy to the role. So, Kevin James, will be playing Kevin Spacey, who is playing Frank Underwood. Watch as Paul Blart Mall Cop tries to stage a suicide, but is such an incompetent klutz, he keeps falling on his fat ass from slipping on banana peels and pools of blood.
Magnum, P.I.
Instead of paying Tom Selleck to renew his role as the Magnum Dong himself, we just Photoshop his moustache into the show. So now the show’s protagonist will be a floating 144p moustache, who solves crimes with his sexy moustachioed husband, Burt Reynolds. We’re gonna be honest, we just desperately wanted to see Tom Selleck and Burt Reynolds’ moustaches make passionate love to one another, we haven’t actually written a single fucking crime for Clint Eastwood Magnum Force to solve. But we do plan to make each episode an hour long. Oh! What if we just split the screen in half, in one half, we just rub two piles of moustache hair together while drizzling baby oil into the pile, and the other half of the screen will be Columbo re-runs. CSI don’t got shit on this detective drama.
The fuck is this for?
Buy Tom Clancy's new book by The-Commission
Author's page: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/the-commission/
Picture page: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/43577737/ (EBFAID43577737EB)
Tags: Tom_Clancy, Politics, Communist, USSR, Ronald_Reagan, Jack_Ryan, Shit, Shit_monster, poop_communists, gulag_shit, plumbing, sewer, septic_tank, piss, Obama, Ubisoft, Ghost_Recon, Rainbow_Six, Sean_Connery, Alec_Baldwin, Ben_Affleck, Morgan_Freeman, Sonic, Shadow_the_Soviet
Category: Story | Theme: Abstract | Rating: General
Published: 2021-09-05 18:40:43
Buy Tom Clancy’s new book
In this newest Techno-thriller, Spy fiction, Crime fiction, Realistic fiction, Military history, Historical fiction, Tom Clancy novel, you’ll read about the most elite military squad in the continental United States. They do the dirty work that’s too classified for even the Ghost-Recon squad. They do the jobs that the Rainbow Six team aren’t battle hardened enough to complete. This top-secret, special forces unit is tasked with the assignments that no-one else has the nerve to even try. They’re off the budget, meaning they’re off the grid, to do whatever they please, as long as they get the job done, and they always do. Find it at your local Barnes & Noble, “Tom Clancy’s: Plumbers of The White House.”
You’ll read about how these brave men and woman, must do all the government’s dirty work, and no job is too dirty or filthy for them. Every page will be chalked full with the most gripping action in the sewer system of the Pentagon. When you’re done reading this, you’ll be a qualified plumber yourself, ready to get your hands dirty so that the bureaucrats can keep theirs clean. You’ll feel like a political activist, when Tom Clancy’s ghost writer shits all over the democratic system and how it doesn’t work with the military industrial complex, because politicians don’t fight in battle, like the real heroes of America, that kill communists, like Ronald “McDonald” Reagan.
The stakes have never been higher, cause when the team discovers a government conspiracy to clog all toilets in The White House with Obama’s jizz napkins back in the 2008 during election season, they gotta do the impossible, and remove the giant bus sized ball of nut napkins before John McCain can use the overflowed toilets in The White House as propaganda to slander Obama’s name. Who’s behind this tampering of the American electoral system you ask? Well that’s where this book becomes a choose your own adventure experience. You have the wide variety of, Russians, Chinese, Muslim extremists, Russians, some communist guy with a nuke for some fuckin’ reason, really anyone who is a foreigner and not a God-fearing capitalist. Any one of them could have done this, because Obama wouldn’t just fill The White House toilets with cum covered wet wipes, he would never do that himself, it has to be a conspiracy.
Read four entire chapters describing every single tool and detail on them at the disposal to the plumbers, from the shit stain on the plunger they used to unclog George Bush’s diarrhoea, to the blood stain on the wrench from bashing it over the skull of Muammar Muhammad Abu Minyar al-Gaddafi. You’ll be absolutely bored shitless by chapter 28, when the plot begins and Tom stops recounting of a single gun’s lifetime, like an ADHD ridden child at his first NRA convention. You’ll learn about the M1911 pistol with chrome tinted finish on the barrel that chambers .45 ACP cartridges, from the assembly at the factory, to the fist innocent life used to end with it. Then, instead of explaining the horrors of war and the effect it has on people’s mental state, even the most grizzled of soldiers, you will read five chapters measuring the dimensions of different bullet calibres. Isn’t this the coolest fucking thing you’ve ever heard since Sonic became a 4Chan user and started using guns? We’re still waiting for Shadow the Hedgehog 2. Nintendo, if you won’t release it, we’ll be forced to make it a realistic mil-sim under the Tom Clancy brand, we can see it now, “Tom Clancy’s: Rainbow Ghost the Hedgehog”.
Back to the book, you’ll love the cast of characters, like, new guy who is dumb and unexperienced, and, old guy who is angry but experienced and loves to talk about how he cleaned Nixon’s toilet back in the day. We also have, the tech nerd who is about as socially inept as Sheldon Pooper from the Big Bang Theory. The one team member who is either Asian American or African American, that way you can not call this book racist towards people who happen to not be American, like Russians, who are communist, nearly three decades after the collapse of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
Hold onto your ass, cause we have an announcement to make, for a limited time offer, when you buy this book at GameStop, you can get a free copy of the tie in video game with it at Barnes & Noble. Play through yet another reskin of the dead model that game designers have been using for nearly a decade now, of mindlessly shooting in third person at men with guns who are shooting at you, and then taking their life, ending everything they ever lived for, their families, their hopes and aspirations, not even giving one monochrome amount of shit about that dead guy’s mother, who is now going to have to bury her just barely 30 year old son in a closed casket, cause you shot him in his face, you could have shot him anywhere on his body and it would have killed him cause you were using armour piercing bullets, but you chose the face to shoot him, cause it looked cool? Cause it felt good? You’re a sick bastard, you know that? Shooting men in the face, so their friends and family never get to see the person they loved ever again, not even at their funeral, I hope you feel bad about yourself. But that’s not a problem in this game cause the human communists are replaced by big sentient piles of shit that you have to shoot to death with military grade weaponry and explosives.
So check out this New Your Times Worst Seller and regret your purchase immediately, as you realize that you can’t even experience the joy of sniffing the pages of a newly bought book, cause we’ve pissed in all the pages, just to make you suffer more, cause Ubisoft does not respect you. We’re actually in a high stakes betting game, as to who can make the worst idea and make people pay for it anyway, cause you’re like pigs to the troth to us, just guzzling down whatever we give you, even if it’s other pigs, cause you couldn’t give a rats ass. Just wait until we make Far Cry 19, which will just be Far Cry 3 again, we’re serious, it won’t even run on next-gen consoles, you will have to buy a PS3 again to play Far Cry 19, or Assassin’s Creed: Stonewall, which will be nothing, but a 47-hour 3D rendered cutscene of gay sex, there is no gameplay. Wait wait wait, how about, Rainbow Six: Clean-up, where you’re the poor fuck that has to sweep up all the bullets and rubble left after every Rainbow Six Siege match in a suburban house. We swear, you won’t even feel your ass anymore when we’re done fucking it.
The fuck is this for?
The birds, the bees, and every other woodland animal: Act... by The-Commission
Author's page: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/the-commission/
Picture page: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/43577981/ (EBFAID43577981EB)
Tags: Gonzo, Journalism, Anthrocon, furry, convention, roadtrip, jenkem, ciggies, Garfield, Pittsburg, detox, Mr, Spock, Talking, Shower, Heads, Leonard, Nimoy, Uber, sexual, tension, cannibalism, cults, Robin_Hood, CRT, TV, circlejerk, Wire_tapping, phone, destruction, general, chaos, B
Category: Story | Theme: Abstract | Rating: General
Published: 2021-09-05 18:57:08
The birds, the bees, and every other woodland animal: Act I
Our journey into the heart of darkness began on a Monday morning. The afternoon had become a blur of Garfield cartoons and the Bill Murray Coen brothers Garfield from 2004, interchangeably. We would swap between the two every so often, the goal being to develop some sort of medical aversion to Mondays, lasagne and obese cats. If our work was successful then we would never have to work another Monday of our sad existence, and instead flick our collective beans to Gillian Anderson until our cliterous fell off. While we were in the middle of our DIY CIA brainwashing session, the phone rang out, bringing us back to this sad reality we lived in. I answered, and assuming it was my wife, whispered to the caller “If I ever see you in the street, I will not hesitate to shoot you in broad daylight” but to my embarrassment, it was our boss. A new assignment had popped up for us to handle, a convention of sorts. I clicked my fingers at Alister to start writing down details as I started speaking out loud “Pittsburgh, that’s in Transylvania, right? Pennsylvania! My mistake sorry” I gave a wink and a smirk toward Alister as I took a puff of the jenkem ciggie I had lit in preparation for a verbal beatdown session with my wife “So what’s this shit about? Some new Manson sex cult?” and as he gave me the answer to my question, the cigarette dropped from my mouth which had been left agape in shock. I slammed the phone down and ran to pack my bags, post haste. “Woah what’s the rush? Are we covering an AIDS convention?” Verlaine asked following me with confusion on her face. “FURRIES, THEY WANT US TO COVER THE FURRIES!” and with that, they too began to pack in pure hysteria.
It would be a long drive to Pittsburgh, 7 hours or so if we only stopped for gas and refrained from drinking any fluids as to not have to make any bathroom stops. We were in our first hour of the journey, and I had been eyeing my husband Evelyn, wrapped snug around my wrist the entire time, making sure we were moving at an acceptable pace. We had packed all our shit into Alis’s 2008 Chevy Aveo sedan and began flooring it in the general direction of Pittsburgh, but problems began to arise very quickly. “If I’m reading what Evelyn is telling me and your speedometer correctly, it could take us all fucking week to get to this shindig, now floor it!” Alis’s eye twitched “Bernie calm your tits, the thing can only go 109 mph” Verlaine joined in assuring my tits “if we end up swerving off the road into a picnic of children then I will solely place the blame on your shoulders.” I was beginning to think these two did not understand the gravity of this task we had been entrusted with. For years the furries had been an illusive crowd, like the freemasons, but they weren’t in any position of power, they only ruled over the sexual underworld, and I intended to blow the lid on their entire operation. Goat sacrifices, orgies in the triple digits, dildos that were not made for human anatomy, summoning rituals involving chanting and dancing around a CRT TV playing Disney’s Robin Hood, occasionally cumming on the screen. For years this was all speculation, but now we had the opportunity to prove to the world, what really goes on at these “innocent” gatherings. “If you two haven’t realized, this is a once in a lifetime experience, this level of responsibility has never been placed in the hands of such irresponsible people. I believe it is a sign from God herself, that this is the turning points in our careers, we’ll be famous, a household name! I’ll finally be able to explain what it is I do for a living to my mother…” I let out a long sigh and looked out into the far distant highway seeing my future riches in the sunset, but Alis and Verlaine gave me that look to say, what’s the real reason? “…and check in closes at 7 tomorrow so I can’t risk having to sleep on the streets of Pittsburgh, there could be homeless men high on Viagra roaming those streets, you just don’t know these days.” They rolled their eyes and Alis raised the speed slightly. Within 30 seconds of him doing so, his phone began to ring. In reaction, he turned on his indicator light, and I reacted accordingly myself, by taking the jenkem ciggie out of my mouth and holding it to Alis’s eye whispering “If you pull this car over, I will make sure you wear an eyepatch for the rest of your life.” And with that the car kept on it’s course. I reached into his pocket pulling out the phone, to only see that it was his grandmother. I knew exactly why she was calling, she had this entire car bugged so that when the speed went over 60, alarms would start going off around her house, and every time she’d call Alis to let him know he’s driving at dangerous speeds. “Just hang up the phone Bernie, we know how you get when you’re on the phone to someone,” Verlaine ordered, but her worries were unfounded, since I was cool as a cucumber when communicating through the technology of telecommunication. I answered the call and brought it to my ear, giving her a valid greeting “YES, HE’S SPEEDING, BUT IT’S FOR A VALID REASON, NOW DON’T CALL BACK YOU HONKY BITCH!” and with that, promptly threw the phone out the passenger side window, onto the highway to get run over like a raccoon. “You really need to stop doing that,” Alis relented. “And youuuu, really need to find out what fucking tracking device she’s put in this car.”
Another two hours passed and the tension in the car began to rise. A combination of dehydration and overwhelming heat had turned this thing into a ticking time bomb for a homicide case, sole victim, Bernard. I didn’t know if it was the jenkem ciggies, or if these two were giving me murderous eyes. “Can we please, for the love of God put down a window?” Verlaine pleaded, “Are you fucking insane? The air drag will slow us down by at least %10, we will simply have to sit in scorching hot heat. If we burn to death then blame Alister’s grandmother for giving him a car with no air conditioner,” and as I finished my complaint, a sweat drenched Alis gave me eyes that stroke fear into my soul. “THAT IS WHY THERE ARE WINDOWS!” While his logic did make complete sense, it did not help my agenda at this very moment “Alright! If you two want to put down the window so bad, then we’ll have to get rid of dead weight in the car to counteract the air drag, is there anything we don’t need here?” And with that my fate was sealed. Alis stopped the car, looked at Verlaine, then they both looked in my direction. While I did put up a fight, Alister always did have that innate ability to be suddenly become a bouncer and drag my ass around like I was a sack of feathers. He chucked me on the side of the road and got back in the car “call yourself an Uber, have them put up with your shit” is the last thing they said to me before burning rubber and going at least %10 faster. On one hand I was happy that they would make good time, on the other I was gonna kick Alister’s ass when I saw him again.
After the longest Uber ride of my life and $200 of my own cash down the drain, I made it to the location of my waking nightmare. As I began to depart from my paid driver, I felt as though I was abandoning my father. We had developed such a powerful relationship in the 5 hours we spent together, he would say he was going to pull over for a bathroom break, and I told him if he did that then I’d cut his nuts off with a butter knife. I instead made the compromise of attaching a catheter to him as he drove, which was trickier than when I tried it on myself. The main issue was that we were on the bumpiest pot-hole filled road in the continental United States, the place looked like it was a mortar target practise area. There is well and truly no hope for this country if a man can not put a catheter in another man’s urethra without having a smooth journey on a country backroad in the middle of bum fuck nowhere, to avoid the eyes of the public from the deed. Ever since he pissed in front of me, I hadn’t seen him blink once the rest of the trip, eyes were just straight on the road, which I wasn’t complaining about, he had his eyes on the prize. I got out and grabbed my bag from the trunk giving him my farewell through the driver’s side window “Look, I just want you to know that I really feel as though we’ve connected on a personal level, here’s $50 extra for your trouble, and hey, if you’re in town, you can swing by my hotel room and maybe you can stick a ca…” is all I could say before he grabbed the $50 bill from my hand, still staring forward and driving away at high speeds, and just as he went out, Verlaine and Alis drove in slower than a legless snail.
They seemed cheery enough, all until I knocked on the driver’s side window with the face of a mother that had caught their son in the act of fornicating in the family car. They got out, now clad in some sort of attire that was in praise of the furry lifestyle. “I will get to the clothes in a minute, but what in Sam hell took you so long to get here?!? You could’ve missed our book in, and you can’t give me the excuse that you got robbed by a hitchhiker, cause I’ve taught you not to trust those carless bastards” They rolled their eyes and Alister recounted the past 5 hours on their end “Well Bernie, we stopped off for a little something called, FOOD. You know, the shit normal people eat on a regular basis. While we were ordering we met someone who was on their way to the convention aswell and they sold us these bitchin’ t-shirts.” The shirts had the image of a wolf with a full moon glowing in the background, it sent shivers down my spine just looking at the thing. The realization of their actions hit me, and my pupils contracted accompanied by a gasp and agape mouth with a jenkem cigarette hitting the pavement “You didn’t tell them anything about us, about ME, did you? I could wake up with my throat slit tomorrow if they find out why we’re here. We are incognito, they can’t suspect anything is of the unordinary.” My nerves were on edge and jenkem wasn’t going to do the trick for it this time, Verlaine attempted to calm my nerves none the less, “Look, there’s nothing to worry about, most of these people are just here cause they got extra money to spend and a lot of sexual partners that they wanna meet up with every so often, nothing malicious about it.” I opened my jenkem ciggie tin and lit another one, and combined with Verlaine’s words of wisdom, my worries began to dissipate slightly, but I contested “That’s what they want you think, just normal people with normal sex lives, but you’re gonna see the truth by the end of all of this. Oh you’ll see.” Alister grabbed my wrist to ask Evelyn the difficult question of what time it was and then to me to ask the much simpler question of what the plan was. “Well,” I began, taking a long huff of jenkem vapours “we have been provided with a hotel room, membership to walk around the convention at our leisure and two grand for any necessary supplies we might need throughout our stay. Boss has made all the arrangements and now all we have to do is observe the inner workings of this “Anthrocon” and report on any interesting happening we may stumble upon” I took another puff as they thought of how they might undertake the assignment in their own ways “Well I guess we should get checked in first then” Verlaine suggested, quite rightly.
We made our way to the front desk with great gusto. As much as fear was gripping my soul, I could not turn back now. It was as though I was one of the soldiers landing on Normandy, facing down my demise, and just like those soldiers, they would have a Bernard day soon in the future, to remember all my greatest achievements throughout my life. They would nominate me for Noble Peace Prizes, in my selfless acts of courage and bravery. My optimism dissipated in an instant, as I shat my pants at the first sight of a fursuit. The thing was covered in unnatural colours that no animal should have been born with. For all it’s cuteness, I could only see the darkness that lay underneath that adorable façade. We made it to the front desk with our pants still intact, so I considered this to be far better than my original predictions. I began to speak, but what came out was the frightened shrieks of a schoolgirl. Alister took over, asking for the room key and inquiring about breakfast. My eyes moved around the room at similar speed to tweeker in a pigsty. Verlaine spoke to me with her own eyes, squinting and moving those eyebrows of hers in a disapproving manner. I leaned in to warn her of the danger surrounding us “Don’t look at them, they might get the wrong idea, give you their hotel key or something.” I could tell my cautions were cast to the wayside from the unmoving position of her lips, not contorted into smile nor frown. “You know, the more you piss yourself thinking about all the kinky sex these people will have with you, the more you will energetically bring it on to yourself.” While she may have been trying to chastise me in my hour of worry, it only served to make me sweat like a nun in a brothel, it got so bad I had to undo my top button, which would’ve only given these deviants surrounding me more reason to assume that I was giving them sex signals, oh god they’re looking at me I know it, the sweat’s building on my neck, they’ll think I’m just like them, I’ll never be able to sit down, fuck am I shaking? I shouldn’t have smoked that much jenkem before being around all these fur clad men and women eyeing me up like a fine medium rare steak, Jesus, they wouldn’t eat me would they? I can see their salivating mouths, I can’t underestimate what they can do, that will be my downfall. Must keep my guard up, if they go for Verlaine or Alis save yourself, don’t hesitate, they’d do the same if it was me getting eaten alive from the stomach up. They’ll descend on us like a pack of rabid zombie dogs, wanting our brains, oh god, I could picture it now, was I sweating a lot? Fuck I’m drenched, my face has more fluid on it than a teen girl’s breaches at an Elvis concert. This isn’t very fucking incognito Bernie, you’ve shown up in a suit and tie and are now sweating all fluids out of your body. I need a more jenkem, why did these pregnant women have to complain about indoor smoking, do they not understand the labour pain I’m going through right now? Could it be? My salvation, the receptionist reached down to grab the key, as soon as I saw that key card in her hand, I grabbed it seeing it as the cure to my withdrawals, shouting, “Thank the lord, it’s a boy!” before turning and breaking Usain Bolt’s 100 metre record to that hotel room. When I was nestled nicely inside my new safe haven from these furries, I took a defensive position in a corner of the room and prepared myself for the worst, pointing a butter knife in the direction of the door.
After a few moments of me in the corner I must’ve passed out from dehydration, cause when I came to, I had a basin of water being thrown in my face and proceeded to get my cheek slapped like it was a breast of untenderized chicken. I shot up to action and got my began to get my bearings on reality again. Verlaine was holding the basin and Alis was unpacking our bags on the bed. “You know,” he began “I advise you as your confidante to take a cold shower and get the rest of that jenkem out of your system before you go postal on this hotel. We had to explain to that receptionist that you were our mentally challenged son so they didn’t think you were on meth our something.” I sprawled myself out on a bed huffing the sweet smell of cleaning chemicals still on the sheets “aww Alis you shouldn’t have, lets just hope I don’t run into anyone on that shift again.” I began to derobe, taking Alister’s advice and preparing myself for a cold shower, only to hear Verlaine say “Jesus, you’re sweating like a pig, are you sure that Uber driver didn’t slip you DMT?” I caught my breath, chuckling at the remark “are you calling me a narc?” We all had a laugh together before I took refuge in the bathroom to wash my body of all the jenkem shit sweat staining it.
While the water was cold, I had become accustomed to the feeling, often having to detox myself after a jenkem bender. If water wasn’t so wet, I would smoke in the shower. I had thought briefly of getting myself one of those E-cigs, but I was always afraid of it being like a toaster in a bathtub if I did get the urge to use it in the shower. I never liked having to do this, taking cold showers that is, I heard Beethoven possibly went deaf due to dousing his face in cold water every morning. I always considered myself a fan of Beethoven, I’d much prefer his work over someone like Mozart. People like to point to the perfection of Mozart’s music, but when has life ever been about perfection? The world is a messy thing, full of twists and turns, sudden jolts and high voltage shocks to the system. Ludwig would always put power into his music, there was a spectacle to it, but a reserved aspect like in most of his Sonatas. I always have fond memories of listening to the opening of his third symphony and hearing that fanfair of the horns section before easing into the melody and then rising it again, that constant up and down between beautiful flutes and butch strings, it’s fast, slow, majestic, bold and yet so perfect with so many imperfections. It may be hard to create something that does one thing the best possible way that it can be, but I’ve always seen it as more complicated than that, if you’re able to successfully mould two separate emotions together, it’s much more of a testament to your abilities as an artist. While other composers after Beethoven’s time may have written pieces of a higher standard, there is very few that strike a chord to my soul and elicit emotions out of me like Beethoven can. The one that has always stuck with me more than the rest will always be Frédéric Chopin. What Beethoven did with an orchestra, Chopin achieves with a piano alone. It will never have the same scale as a symphony, but to fully harness every last bit of emotion from those black and white keys, is a testament to the man’s ability. Sometimes I’m asked by people if I had a time machine, what would I do with it? And I’ve always given the same answer to them throughout the years, I want to be there to watch Chopin in the process of writing. It’s said that he would have horrific writers block, weeks of time dedicated to finding single notes to move the melody along nicely, and just to be a fly on the wall, when he finds that perfect combination, for me it would be like watching the final strokes on The Starry Night. Whether it was soft or bombastic, Chopin found a way to make it sound effortless. So many of his etudes were beautiful messes that each had their own unique identities. I was once told by a music scholar that he never intended his etudes to be played the same way twice, he wanted people to add their own flair to it, to improve on his foundation, and what a lovely thought it is, eternal art, living on for generations, the only other example I can think of is The Bible, and now that I say that, it’s all of a sudden not such a lovely thought. Most of these pieces of music are less than two minutes but it’s the classic case of quality over quantity, it’s one musical idea used to it’s fullest potential in each of them. God, I need to stop having philosophical conversations with my shower head, that was always strangely voiced by Spock himself, Leonard Nimoy. “How very logical Bernard,” he spoke to me “I too am a fan of logical music, and may I say, I would logically love to suck your cock right now if I was not a showerhead.” I was rudely interrupted by Alister banging on the door shouting “SOME OF US HAVEN’T PISSED IN 5 HOURS, SO CAN YOU DETOXT FASTER.” It’s not often I reach a pure state of hallucinogenics, so I was gonna savour every last second of my time with Leonard Skynard. “Piss off,” I shouted back “I’m trying to get a blowjob from Mr Spock, do you fucking mind?” As much as I expected Alis to be the one kicking the door off it’s hinges, it was Verlaine who breached and cleared that bathroom, in a desperate attempt to board Spock’s enterprise. Disappointment and shame filled the room, when they realized I was still in the process of ridding myself of hallucinogenic shit, that didn’t stop them from taking their well needed piss, while folding their arms and shaking their heads at me the whole time. This was gonna be a long fucking assignment.
The fuck is this for?
The birds, the bees, and every other woodland animal: Act... by The-Commission
Author's page: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/the-commission/
Picture page: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/43681146/ (EBFAID43681146EB)
Tags: Anthrocon, sheep, sheeps, sheepie, self_love, hand, injury, animal_farm, domestic_dispute, rat, bastard, elephant, seal, Brown_bear, terror, fear, hugs, Columbo, dance, comp, blockbuster, membership, card, cunny, juice, grievous, bodily, injuries, potential, masochism, in, Bernard
Category: Story | Theme: Abstract | Rating: General
Published: 2021-09-12 18:37:04
The birds, the bees, and every other woodland animal: Act II
If there’s a beginning, middle and end in stories, this would most likely be the middle, but shit is supposed to happen in the middle, but not a lot of interesting shit happened when we got our boots on the ground at that place. We might as well have stayed at our humble little shit shack watching Garfield if you ask me. Yep, a day of smoking shit and Garfield would have been just as exciting as what went down around that shit heap. Shit did not hit the fan, defecation never happened. Our shit was not lost, we had our faeces all in order. It was sort of a shitty day in the end, full of boring shit, little bit of chit chat with some Kit Kats but beyond that, I admit the shit was interesting but not exciting. Just your run of the mill, same old, ordinary, boring, common, routine, day at a furry convention.
It began where we left off, me crying in a shower having lost contact with Mr. Spock. Verlaine and Alister had relieved their bladders and were now looking through the map of the convention and planning their route through the maze, while I had entered into a fugue state from the trauma of not finishing what I started with that Showerhead, and yes I capitalized Showerhead, cause he’s a living breathing person to me, and if you can’t understand my love, then maybe you don’t deserve happiness. It took a good 12 hours, 4 of staring into space aimlessly, and 8 of good refreshing sleep, for me to really come out of it. My body was fully detoxified and my mind had repressed any unsavoury memories of losing my third inanimate lover for the time being, I was now ready to face the horrors of sheeps in wolf’s clothing. Sheeps? Sheepie? Wait is sheep singular and plural at the same time? Who made this language? Why must Collin and his “Dictionary” always place holes of logic into my writing? That shithead had better watch his back, cause if one person walks up to me and tells me they didn’t understand one thing that happened in this book, I will solely place all blame on his ass, which I will promptly fuck up while wearing my expensive clogs that I only pull out for ass whopping sessions. Anyway, these humans in sheep’s clothing, in wolf’s clothing, will no longer have a horrific effect on me is what I was trying to tell myself. God I have a shit hangover, my head feels like it’s been cracked open and all my life force is being siphoned out with a straw by God herself.
I took to the bathroom to dose my face in water and reassure myself in the mirror, “You can do this Bernie, you are a good, talented, respectable journalist. You’re like a gayer Anderson Cooper, yeah. You are strong, resilient and brave, this will be your best work yet. And also if you don’t do a good job, they’ll fire your ass faster than a nightshift security guard sleeping on the job. Aw thanks dickhead, I wasn’t worried until you said that. Not my fucking fault that I’m rational, now is it? Oh yes it is, every time I try to be positive, who comes along to piss all over my positivity? BERNARD! It’s almost like you get off on making me shit bricks or something. I absolutely do not, you are taking this way too personally, I am just trying to remind you of the reality of the situation. Oh reality this, reality that, why don’t you just piss off and watch the Kardashians or The Bachelor if you loooove reality so much, better yet, why don’t you marry reality! Maybe I might, then I’d check back on you when everything is falling apart cause no-one was here to tell you the cold honest truth, cause you had everyone else molly coddling your little twink ass. Don’t you fucking dare call me that. What? Twink? You know how that makes me feel. You’re right, I do know, cause I’m you. Damn why did I even fucking start dating you? Cause I’m irresistible? Oh you so are, I mean you have that rocking bod, beautiful stache, and may I say Sebastian you’re looking sexy on my upper lip today. Oh thank you Bernie, you’re such a sweetheart. Now back to you, Bernard, if that even is your real name, I don’t want to hear another piece of negativity out of your pie hole this entire trip, everything is going to be fine, don’t make that face at me mister, now say it. Everything is not going to be fine. OH SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS” and with that, I punched the mirror for giving me backtalk.
We were able to get a first aid box and bandage up the suspected hand, but I had become convinced I no longer had one of those and instead had a fist shaped ball of glass shards and blood. The hotel room was already starting to look like a crime scene and it hadn’t even been 24 hours. As much as Alis requested I go to the hospital for such an injury and how important my hand would be, I relented and told him to just stop the bleeding for the time being. If there was anyone I was gonna trust to fix up my hand with no previous medical experience or licence, meaning the fucker legally can’t slap you with a bill at the end of saving your life, it would be Alis. He had spent most of his childhood engrossing himself in E.R so he had the innate ability to channel the spirit of Dr. Mark Greene whenever life and limb was on the line. I made one request as he was working his magic on my digits, “leave two fingers open for me to smoke with.” My right hand was my go-to writing, smoking and whacking hand, so to have such an important part of my mobility taken away, could have possibly incumbered the assignment, but I decided to just leave all the hand work up to Alis and Verlaine, and if push came to shove, get them to hold my jenkem ciggies and just click my finger at them if I needed a puff. After an hour or so, we had completed our best attempt at DIY surgery, getting any large shards out and bandaging my hand a great deal. I got dressed in my second suit and tie, choosing the pink chrysanthemum floral tie in an effort to distract people from the blood-soaked bandage wrapped around my right hand, but at least I had my ring and pinkie finger to smoke with. “Yeah, very fucking funny Alister, make me smoke with my pinkie. I’m gonna look like so much of a jackass, people will start thinking I’m Californian.” But my complaints couldn’t be heard over the two of them laughing their asses off, I had to join in after a certain point. Smoking with your pinkie, it was pretty good I had to give him that, I’d look like the poshest jenkem addict this town had ever seen.
The phone rang out from my inner jacket pocket as soon as it was on my back. Since it was on my left side, I held the jacket open for Alis to reach in and grab it for me. Alis being such the darling, assisted the poor temporarily disabled Bernard and looked down at the phone, then promptly bit his lip with a nervous disposition. “Well? Who is it?” I asked waving at him to hand it over, but he refused “Nah, you don’t wanna answer it Bernie.” Don’t want to answer it? Now who would I refuse to pick up the phone to, oh, oh God it’s them, “Give me the phone Alis, I’ll deal with it.” He gave me guilty eyes and reluctantly handed it over for me to answer it, which I did in a dignified manner, with grace and class, “You listening you bitch? If you figure out what my next phone number is, I will fuck up your face, worse than I fucked up my own this morning, YA GOT THAT?” and with that I opened the window and pitched that phone into the parking lot down below like it was a wishing well. “Let me guess, Peach?” Verlaine looked up from her reading material, sass emanating from her eyes, “Oh, did I give it away?” They rolled their eyes, having seen this domestic song and dance with my wife nearly a dozen times at this point. There was no concern from them since they knew all my threats were all bark and no bite, the main reason being I forgot where she lived so even if I wanted to go over and crack her phone over my knee to get her to stop calling me, even it was only for a day, I couldn’t track her down. While Alis cleaned up the mess and Verlaine read her literature, I was left to complain about my heterosexual marriage. “I don’t know how she keeps getting my number. I’ve gone through more phones than I can count, even if I don’t get one, she calls one of you guys. She’s like a succubus, following my every move to make my blood boil,” anger got the better of me and I kicked over a chair in the pettiest sight of frustration that you wouldn’t see from a toddler. “Very intimidating there Bernie, I’m sure she’s menstruating in fear.” Verlaine said without even batting an eye away from that book of hers, “Can a man not complain about his wife and get a little bit of support from his best friends forever? And what the hell are you reading?” She looked up from the pages with her answers primed and ready “Your first question, change the forever, cause I am not living in a geriatric’s home with you, and your second question, I’m re-reading Animal Farm, as research, to really get into the mind of these communists.”
It wasn’t long after that, that we got ready to hit the convention ground, there was just one thing we would need, “Okay, Boss explained to me that if we’re going to be walking around this convention, then we’d need badges to prove that we paid to be there and blend in with the crowd more easily. Those badges are in this package that I picked up from the front desk this morning.” They oo’ed with anticipation to see what animal persona that we had been Christened by Boss. I open the thing up and after some debating, we figured out who was supposed to be who on the badges. “Let’s see, we got a beaver, the guy from the Teenage Mutant Ninga Turtles, and an elephant with a crack addiction.” My factual errors were enough to make Verlaine’s vein protrude, and her being the closest to a zoologist in the room, was swift to peer review my analysis of the badges, “I think you’ll actually find that the beaver, is a North American Brown Bear, and the name you’re looking for is Splinter, who was a rat. Finally, the long-nosed creature is ACTUALLY, a Northern Elephant Seal.” As she finished, me and Alis locked eyes for one moment, and then in unison said, “well oo lah dee dah Mr. Frenchman.” It took me a moment, but I thought it all out in a matter of seconds, and with my sterling logic, there was no question as to who was who, “Alright, I’m the bear cause, have you seen my body? Alis, you’re the rat, cause you’re the biggest rat bastard I’ve ever met. Verlaine, you’re the seal, cause you’re the most likely to listen to Panpipe covers of Seal.”
Pins and needles had overcome my body in anticipation of getting in the nitty gritty of this furry community. In my imagination, we looked like the cast of Reservoir Dogs, only instead of robbing a jewellery store, we would be committing journalism in a what some might think is worse than a warzone. I was fully prepared for this to go South in 30 seconds of walking through those doors and it to turn into the one-shot scene from True Detective season 1. The tension was killing me, I could feel the grey hairs growing on my head as we got closer to that entrance, and as we reached it, I realized my calculations were a little too optimistic, cause as soon as my foot was through that door, one of these neon coloured fur clad individuals outstretched their arms to me in a gesture of a friendly hug, only I took it as the last thing I’d see before my death, and if you thought it was that, you’d probably do the same as I did. First was the scream, then the manic attempt to protect myself behind Alister’s body, then the shivers. My tactical feminine scream worked however, making the serial hugger back away and state, “Your friend is weird man.” HA! Says the guy dressed in a $5.000 suit that you only get to wear twice a year, I’m just a normal man that has the fear of being eaten alive by furries, nothing weird about that. “Bernie, you have to stop acting weird” I couldn’t believe it, how could Verlaine take the side of this guy? He probably eats babies or, something. “Maybe this would help, why don’t you hug one of these furries to overcome your fear, cause I’m not going to be your human shield for all of this assignment.” Alister’s advise seemed, good yet terrifying at the same time. It was probably the best thing to do, cause every time I saw one of these fursuits, I could feel my body on the verge of pissing itself, and if I did, I knew I wouldn’t have the energy to swap pants. I agreed with them, and I ran after the fox-like creature that tried to hug me less than a minute ago. “Look man, I’m sorry about that. I’ve been a furry for about 20 years now, but I’ve never seen an actual fursuit in person and, as soon as I saw yours, I was just a little overwhelmed is all, I’d really like to actually hug y…” and before I could finish, his arms were wrapped around my body. When he didn’t let go after the third second, I began writing my will and testament in my head, but the fur did feel nice, very soft, wasn’t that scary really, just like a human sized teddy bear, which was actually very fucking scary, but this one has a human living inside it, that’s been coerced into partaking in cult activities. This hug could be part of some ritual to suck my body of its life energy, but if it was, it felt pretty alright, kind of like a hug in many ways. Wait, is it just a hug? Aw fuck, it is, isn’t it, I’ve been looking like a crazy person haven’t I? Well I might aswell hug back, it’s the least I could do for the poor guy, probably got dragged into this furry cult thing by accident and didn’t mean any harm.
That hug gave me the confidence to move forward with this assignment. I walked back to Alis and Verlaine with a certain pep to my step, a little more hair on my chest, I had returned to them, a man. “Did you piss yourself?” but their mocking fell on deaf ears, for I no longer would stay awake at night in fear of furries, but there was still much to be in fear of. We were still in the belly of the beast, and behind any door in this building, could be a ritualistic sacrifice happening, or ritualistic sex, I couldn’t tell which was worse. I now knew they wouldn’t try anything funny in broad daylight, so I could walk around without feeling my instincts telling me I would die within the hour. “You’re looking at a new man guys, no longer am I Bernard the itty bitty baby furry bitch boy, I’m Bernard the gonzo journalist,” and with all the comradery thick in the air, we each jumped up and kicked our heels back to high five into a freeze frame. Would’ve been great if the assignment ended there, but more boring shit happened.
We walked through the convention in a cool strut now, showing these furries that we were just as crazy as them, and to not fuck with us. They probably thought my bandaged hand was from beating some guy up, which it was. After about an hour of walking and observing, we were starting to get an idea for the sorts of things that went on around this place. Mostly these people in overpriced mascot outfits hugging and greeting each other, only to keep doing that for the rest of the day. It became clear to us, that the corridors were going to give us nothing, we’d have to investigate the leisure activities that people had been paid to provide to these convention goers. First was a dance competition, and expecting Magic Mike, I was severely disappointed seeing everyone gyrating, was dressed in layers of fur like everyone on the corridors as well. Boredom was overcoming my body, watching as one by one, these people came to the stage to struggle to move around the weight of their body combined with the massive fursuit on their backs. I made the decision to join in on the fun, moving my hips with the rhythm, only to move up to full body spasms. If I was an avante garde performance artist, I could have been paid for what I was doing at the back of that room, but since I wasn’t wearing a $10,000 sweat rag, no-one was focussed on my moves, except for one man in a trench coat. I had spotted him when we walked in, but I thought nothing of him, but throughout my own background performance, he had been watching me silently. He took his time to walk over to us, and as he got closer, Alister locked eyes with him, quickly becoming a stuttering mess, only repeating “C…C…C,” to our confusion. The man stood next to me and watched the dancer on stage at the moment with us. When the interval between dancers begun, he spoke “My wife, she loves these things, dancing I mean, she can’t get enough of it. Every time when I come home, she’s always got some new move that she’s trying to learn, but I never had the knack for it. I got the curse of two left feet ya see. But they say dancing is good for your health, gets your whole body active. You seem like a healthy enough guy.” At first I thought he was coming onto me, and I didn’t want to proceed with flirting with the guy without approval from Alis and Verlaine, only when I turned to them, Alis had passed out in Verlaine’s arms, “The fuck happened to him?” I asked, and with a heave Verlaine replied, “He’s starstruck,” before eyeing the guy inquiring about my health. “I’m sorry do I know you, Mr…?” He outstretched his hand for me to shake it, and I did, hearing his identity as we shook hands “Columbo, Lt. Frank Columbo, I’m investigating a murder, you’re the forensic team they sent right?” It all made sense now. Alis had dreamed of joining a police force for years because of the Columbo TV series, only I beat that notion out of him, no friend of mine will become a narc on my watch. With Alis passed out behind me, and a homicide detective believing me to be the man that was going to help him solve a murder case, giving me the opportunity to finally have evidence of cult activity happening at these furry meet and greets, I did what anyone else would do, and told him the honest truth, straight from the heart, “Aw finally! We’ve been looking for you all over this place, where’s the body?”
We were escorted to the body by the kind Columbo. We were given a rundown of what they think may have happened. The victim was a male, mid 30s, found by a maid in his hotel room after there was no answer from him, he was found suffocated. No markings were left on his neck or body to indicate strangulation, so the task of the detectives had become trying to find a motive for the crime and catch the killer, if they were attending the convention as well. This wasn’t the first one, a man was found on the first day of the convention, on the convention grounds, only it was assumed that he had choked on a foreign object and no foul play was involved. The crime scene was cleaned up since the organisers didn’t want a media frenzy to be made. As we walked to the scene, Frank began making small talk on the way there, “So you three are a team I take it?” I was beginning to feel confident with my newfound identity as Bernard the homicide detective, so anything that came out of my mouth, I would have believed it myself “That’s right, I’m the team leader, Alister here is the forensic expert and Verlaine is the…” fuck Bernie, think of something fast “…psychic medium.” We probably should have been arrested there and then for that laughable answer, but this Columbo guy didn’t seem to mind one bit, only telling us, “Oh, you’ll have to show your badges at the entrance to the crime scene, just to let you know.” After getting away with that bold faced lie to Columbo’s face, I felt completely confident in my next move. I flashed my Blockbuster membership card, shouting “HOMOCIDE” for a split second to the guard at the door, in the hopes that the action would mentally bombard him to the point of allowing me entry without having to logically think about it. The worst part is, he didn’t even say anything. I didn’t know whether to be overjoyed that we had gotten this far, or depressed at the lack of shit given in today’s police force. It didn’t matter to me though, I was now a part of this investigation.
As soon as we walked inside that room I began taking it all in. The man was still on the bed, body covered with a fursuit, all except his head. The head of the suit was nowhere to be seen. His lips were blue indicating suffocation, but a familiar scent filled the air for me, it was covering his face. I leaned in, taking in the familiar smell, much to the disgust and confusion of my colleagues. “Ay, Columbo, you smell that?” He leaned in with me but I could tell he didn’t have the same eureka moment as I was having, his nose was being clogged by cigarette smoke. I felt confident in what I was observing on the man’s face, so in an act of trying to imitate every noir detectives, I lit a ciggie of my own, taking a long puff before revealing my findings, “This man’s face is drenched in cunny juice. He was born by the snatch, and now he’s died by the snatch. What I’m trying to say is, the killer you’re looking for is a woman.”
The fuck is this for?
The birds, the bees, and every other woodland animal: Act... by The-Commission
Author's page: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/the-commission/
Picture page: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/43783206/ (EBFAID43783206EB)
Tags: Columbo, death, by, murder, mystery, german, dominatrix, clubs, sex, pile, room, party, shoeless, pantless, operation, Bathhouse, white, claw, hard, seltzer, lesbian, telepathy, McDonalds, clown, fetish, burger, king, meat, slab, funeral, KO, ya, just, got, knocked, the, fuck, out, bitch
Category: Story | Theme: Abstract | Rating: General
Published: 2021-09-19 18:58:03
The birds, the bees, and every other woodland animal: Act III
An aura of confusion engulfed the room as my theory was made public. “What would make you believe the killer is a woman.” My newly found detective instincts were telling me it was the truth, but evidence is always wanted by those without a gut to tell them what is right. Come on Bernie, think of something, what could possibly indicate this to be the work of a female, “Well for one, I detect the scent of vaginal discharge drenching the victim’s face, however this crime could only have been perpetrated by a woman, or a gay man. I’ve heard of auto-erotic asphyxiation enthusiasts attending German dominatrix parlours that specialize in suffocation by vagina, perhaps our killer is an expert in that field.” My crackpot theory was not satisfying the jury it seemed, since their faces kept contorting the more I spoke, “Wait just a minute there, why only those two?” Columbo asked, waving his hands at the air in front of him as though there was an invisible fly. It was helpful since if I was deaf, I would still understand what he was trying to convey. “Who hates men the most? Women, and gay men. These two groups of people are the only ones that I believe, could suffocate a man to death with their crotch.” Silence befell the room, paranoia filled my head, and after a few seconds, the tension dissipated, and they nodded in agreement. I don’t know how, but I had logically made a deduction in the case. My brain was lagging behind what was coming out of my mouth, so the realization kicked in like a bus hitting me head on. How long do they send you to prison for impersonating an officer of the law? I wouldn’t last a day in that shithole, they’d shank me before my foot hit the welcome mat.
I locked my eyes with Columbo’s, but his weren’t meeting mine. As much as I waited, his eyes stayed on the body. Maybe he was deep in thought, I thought. He could either be visualizing the murder, or thinking of the best way to tell me I’m under arrest without having me go into a manic episode, eating his nose faster than a bath salts addict, but what he actually did, surprised not only me, but my colleagues as well. He shook my hand and with a smile said, “I knew you guys would help, I’ll get the word out to be on the lookout for a suspicious woman suspect in the case. You three take care and let me know if you find anything else.” Before leaving the crime scene, and also leaving us alone with this corpse. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Alis admitted to us, pale as a ghost. I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in close for a pep talk, “For Christ’s sakes man, pull yourself together, we are the police, guardians of the peace!” I could feel him about to pass out in my arms, but Verlaine suggested we take our leave quickly and return to our own hotel room to process the recent events.
As we left that crime scene and walked down the hall to the elevator, I tried to wrap my own mind around what was happening. When I saw that dead guy on the bed, I felt sorry for him, they’ll have to explain to his mother that his last moments were in a fursuit. The mortician is going to have to get him out of that thing now. For once though, in the moment I was in that crime scene, I didn’t see that corpse as a cult member, but instead just a guy in an overpriced suit that he puts on as a hobby. It felt wrong to even say, but it felt like the truth, I couldn’t see anything cult like about the scene, but that could have been what they wanted me to believe, sneaky bastards. Nope, I can’t even try and convince myself now, it just feels like I’m lying to myself even though I know I’m not, wait, how would I know if I was lying to myself, I can’t read my own body language. “Wait just a sec guys,” they both stopped in their tracks and turned to see me mouthing words at myself in the mirror of the hallway, trying to read Bernard. “Are you having a stroke?” Verlaine inquired, clicking her fingers at my eyes. It took me a minute but after my auto interrogation I turned back to them and resumed our walk to the elevator, “What the hell was that?” Alister now asked, looking at my face for anything I might’ve seen in the mirror, “Oh nothing, just needed to see if I was a lying son of a bitch, which I am, don’t worry. Make sure not to trust a word that comes out of these lips.”
When those elevator doors closed behind us, Alister snapped and pinned me to the wall, “Do you have ANY idea what you’ve done Bernie?!” His aggression was making me tense but getting in a fight with Alis would have ended about as quickly as a cage fighter against a baby. “Look, there’s nothing to worry about Alis, Columbo is completely unaware that we’re just journalists. Besides, journalism is basically the same as crime scene investigation.” His brow furrowed and his grip tightened, “What happens when they figure out we’re not fucking cops, huh? I am not going to prison, cause guys like me never last in prison, those guys are lonely in there, they’d love someone like me to wrap their arms around all night in a strong embrace to take away the thought that they may never see civilisation for the next 20 years of their life, and then when I get released for good behaviour, they’ll shank me in the showers, cause if they can’t have me, THAN NO-ONE CAN!” His breathing was getting erratic, on the verge of hyper-ventilation. Verlaine didn’t seem bothered by the prospect of imprisonment, and when Alis asked for her to back him up, she replied, “I wouldn’t mind prison, I’ve seen Orange Is the New Black, I’ll be living the dream with my lesbian brethren.” I had never been in a longer fucking elevator ride in my life, I know they always called the things death traps, but I thought it would be for the faulty mechanics, not cause you’d be in one with a man that has nothing left to lose. “Alis, baby, bubba, calm your tits. We’re going to solve this case, and we’re gonna disappear like the wind on a spring breeze.” He released me from his grip, but at the cost of his composure. He broke down and sat on his ass trying to cope, rubbing and slapping his face like it was an untenderized chicken, “We’re going to fucking prison, I can’t believe, I am going to fucking prison. I’ll be a hitman’s teddy bear to spoon in his sleep.” Jesus, how long can a fucking elevator take? I swear that floor number hasn’t changed since we got in this thing, there’s only 5 floors on this building, it can’t possibly take this long. “Alis, I know this is daunting, but you have to keep your eyes on the prize. We could help solve this case and have the most in depth piece of crime journalism since In Cold Blood. I know you’re scared, and deep down I am too, but if we go to prison, there’s no-one else I’d want to be sharing a cell with than you and Verlaine.” My sweet words seemed to quell his fears of being institutionalized and looked up at us with a smile, “You really mean that?” We helped him up to his feet and gave him a group hug, making sure to pat his back multiple times to reproduce the feeling of him being a baby and having to be burped by his parental figure, reassuring him the whole time with “I do, I really do.”
Our moment of kinship was interrupted by a mysterious voice, “Uhm, would you guys like to go to a room meetup?” I looked up to the ceiling in search of the voice before falling to my knees, ready to repent for my sins “God, is that you?” but my faith was once again crushed, as we realized there was some guy huddled in the corner of the elevator, holding onto the fake tail wrapped around his waist for dear life. I got back up and looked down at him, composing myself once again, fixing my hair and jacket with a cough, “Do we want to go to a what?” I asked, looking back at that damn floor counter, the thing still hasn’t moved, what the hell was wrong with this thing? “You know, a room meetup, it’s when people meet up in hotel rooms and do stuff. I heard you talking about spooning and some kind of prison roleplay, I know some guys that do that. Also please don’t hurt me.” This man trapped inside this mechanical people dumbwaiter lift, had given us an insight not yet explored in our research of this convention. “So is this like a ritual thing or cul-OW FUCK!” I tried to inquire further, but my bandaged hand was slapped by Verlaine, “What he means to ask is, when do these room meetups start?” After some back and forth about the details of these night-time gatherings, we had new plans instead of sleep. It was only after we asked that quivering mess of a man our last question did he give us the solution to our problem with the stationary elevator, “Are you guys gonna pick a floor to go to? Cause I’m on number two if you could push it please.” We hadn’t pressed the fucking floor button, it was then and only in that moment did I start to worry about our ability to solve a murder case, if we weren’t able to operate a simple elevator. The simple fact was, we were all dumber than a sack of bricks.
Operation Bathhouse began to take root as soon as we got back to our hotel room. As nervous as Alister was not two minutes ago, he understood that in this moment, we could not stifle in our journalistic abilities. We had nothing written for this article yet in the two days we had been here so far, but now that we knew of this night-time activity that was right under our noses, we may have uncovered the gold mine of investigative journalism that we came here to find. This shit was more valuable to us than black gold, or oil for you those of you not in the know of the oil biz lingo. Each one of us understood the gravity of this situation, and how it was of a higher importance than a murder that may have needed to be solved. It’s not everyday that a cult gets exposed, but journalists do suspiciously shoot themselves in the back of the head everyday, so the risks were high for us. We mapped out each floor of the hotel and got ourselves appropriate items to avert suspicion. After a quick trip to a 7-Eleven, we had enough cans of White Claw Hard Seltzer to hydrate a mega church congregation. White Claw was the quickest way to a furry’s heart.
After some debating as to the safety of this decision, we agreed it would be better if we split up, as to have more material to work with by the end of the night. “Alright, we meet back here at midnight, if one of us isn’t here, we’ll call the police and say there’s a hostage situation, the swat team will deal with it from there.” We all nodded with reassurance and gave each other a group hug. As we broke away from the embrace, Verlaine began to rub her temples, “You got a headache or something?” My worry was shushed quickly as she seemed deep in thought. “Bernie, shut up! I’m trying to telepathically sense for nearby lesbians, and your nagging is tampering the process.” I wasn’t just going to let her get away with that bombshell of a fucking statement. “Woah woah woah, telepathy? Lesbians? What is this, some kind of superpower?” She groaned and took her hands off her head looking at me with annoyance, “No, superpowers are rare and unique, this is just something all lesbians possess.” I gave Alis a glance as to say, get a load of this guy, but she continued, “Haven’t you ever noticed that wherever we go, I can seemingly always get pussy no matter what? Even at that gay conversion camp we went to, don’t you think it was odd that I knew precisely which one of the councillors was a closeted butch?” I scoffed with disbelieve in my scoff, oh I scoffed a mighty scoff, so mighty that I did it twice, it was a scoff that said that every word out of Verlaine’s mouth was nonsense and to indicate that I was no fool, I would not fall for silly pranks of this nature, HAH, telepathy? Who does she think she is, Carrie? Nice try but I was not going to entertain this absurd notion, oh how un-sane, one might say, insane, to believe such childish things. The absurdity was getting to a point where a third scoff was necessary, only the third one was met with a hard slap to my bandaged hand by Alis, “FUCK! It isn’t an untenderized chicken, you can stop slapping it!” I hunched and heaved in pain fighting back tears, before shaking it off. “Fine, you go find your lesbians, we meet back at midnight, don’t forget.”
We went our separate ways after that, but Verlaine’s telepathy was at the forefront of my mind. What a shitty superpower to have, being able to read the minds of exclusively lesbians. How much She-Ra and the Princesses of Power fanfiction has she had to inadvertently hear by listening in on the inner thoughts of all those rambunctious butch bitches. I’ve always wanted to help Verlaine pull, but she never seems to have any issue in that regard, and it pisses me off cause I can’t pin point her type. Most of the women she hooks up with either growl at me or bore me to sleep with their opinions on gothic 18th century paintings, so I never get the chance to see any similarities in them. There doesn’t seem to be a preference between bodacious bull dykes, or petite femmes. Verlaine’s preference would forever be up there with the unanswerable questions of the universe, such as, how did it all begin? Why do we love? Why is my Showerhead Leonard Nimoy? And what is the meaning of life? They’re all equally mysterious and existential to think about. Now that I think about it, all Verlaine’s partner’s look a little like her mother, or am I just thinking of her mom now? Put it up there on the existential questions never to ask myself again.
I roamed the halls by my lonesome, equipped with nothing but my fisticuffs and a box of White Claw cans to fend off any thirsty bitches that might see me as a snack. Noises began to be heard from thin walls to rooms where God knows what could be happening. If I had the imagination that I craved, I would probably just be able to create a cohesive timeline of events up until midnight, but nothing ventured is nothing gained. I needed to have a first-hand account of everything that went on in these rooms, come nightfall. I faced a difficult conundrum before I could continue however. From where I was standing, there was two rooms opposite each other, both with invitations that indicated serious sexual escapades would be committed in these rooms. Both had unofficial placards nailed to their door, one reading “D&D Club” the other being “Throbbing D&D Club~” I began thinking this was some sort of test, I’d have to pick the right door and present my gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, only in this case it was White, Claw and Seltzer. I couldn’t see a difference in these rooms, so I left my decision to chance. I spinned in a circle for a minute, most likely worrying anyone that walked down that hall while I was doing it, and when I reopened my eyes, I was standing in front of the D&D club door. On one hand I was excited to learn how to play the game that everyone wouldn’t shut up about, on the other I would have to sit with nerds for 6 hours while Verlaine and Alis were laying more pipe than a plumber.
I walked to the door, giving it a knock with my fist, looking back at that Throbbing D&D Club door one last time, wondering what opportunities I had missed. The door swung open and I turned to greet a Big Bang Theory cast lookalike, only my expectations were shattered, like my face this morning. Towering over me was a walking sculpture of a man, arms folded, looking very capable of snapping my spine like a twig. I was intimidated at first, then slightly turned on. I upheld the cans of White Claw and made a noise that resembled no English word. He grunted and pulled me into the room by the collar. As soon as I was in, I had a feeling I would not be getting out until the deed was done. There was absolutely no boards or dices to be seen in the room, but there was a dungeon master, clad in nothing but a gimp mask and leather jockstrap, with whip in hand and dragons bent over, ass up for him. Everyone in that room had their eyes on me, I was fresh meat for them. I had a cold yesterday, I don’t know if I mentioned it, yeah, couldn’t really smell a thing to be honest, Jesus I would French kiss a plague victim to not be able to have my sense of smell right now. Oh, that last sentence goes against everything I said in the last Act? How did I smell the cunny juice if I had a cold? Oh yeah, I made that shit up, did I not tell you? Must’ve been wrapped up in all the excitement, but yeah, I was just thinking of visiting a dominatrix while I was looking at that corpse, it’s kind of my happy place, so I just said I could smell that pussy piss on that guy’s face. I hope you don’t think of me less now that I’ve revealed I’m a lying son of a bitch, wait a minute, I did that earlier, so it’s your own fault for believing me, for shame.
The room was a sight to behold, it was like a Joan Baez wet dream, animals of all species, making and spreading love with one another, foxes kissing rabbits, wolves fucking sheeps, even an eagle feeding a fish. It was all so beautiful, if it wasn’t for the very definite sickly-sweet scent of semen in the air. I could feel my stomach in desperate need to expel itself, but before I could turn them on even more, I was pushed from behind into the pile. I found myself drowning in a sea of skin and sex, loosing sight of the world as I was consumed into the culmination of this apex sex pile. It did feel nice to be apart of something. With every sense and nerve being attacked from all angles, I froze in pure fear, allowing them to have their way with me. My vision was getting blurry and I didn’t know if I couldn’t feel touch, or if it was because I was being touched all over my body, but my skin felt unnatural. I was losing sense of reality and as I do in all sexual encounters that are going south, I shouted “STEVE URKEL GAVE ME AIDS” where upon every body and soul in the room clung to the walls to be as far away from me as possible. I gasped for air and found the door wide open for me to exit, which I did, post haste. It wasn’t until I was outside the door, did I realize my pants and only one of my shoes were gone, and when I looked down at Evelyn, somehow 6 hours had passed in that room.
It was 11:55 and I had to get back to that meeting point before this place became hunting season. After running up those flights of stairs shoeless and pantless, I realized it would be difficult to explain this one when I got to Alis and Verlaine. I made it there with a minute to spare, taking the time to pant and have heart palpitations. I turned my head to see Alister walking down the hall, dressed head to toe in purple, complete with a crown of gold and every gemstone imaginable, and I thought I’d have a hard time explaining what had happened to me. “Why do you look like Prince?” I said, hands on my hips, still catching my breath. “And why do you look like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo?” I recounted my time bending experience in the sex pile and how I came to lose half my clothes by suspicious circumstances. Alis began to recount his tale of woe, taking off all the royal attire clad on his back, “Well I picked a room called The Bear Den, thinking I would fit in there, only when I walked inside, they put a bag over my head and zip-tied my hands behind my back. I could feel them stripping me then, so I thought “aw shit, it’s gonna happen, finally gonna lose my V-card” but no, they start putting clothes back on me, not just any clothes, silk clothes Bernie, SILK! When they took the bag off my head, I was sitting on a chair made from naked men who had volunteered to kneel for me to sit on their backs, everyone else was bowing before me. I asked them what was happening, and they told me I was the chosen one, the bear to rule them all. I was kind of honoured and a little flustered at first but then after a few hours of them feeding me grapes and washing my feet like I was Jesus, it kind of got boring, and weird cause they were cleaning me the same way a cat would, you know what I mean? Yeah, I don’t want to go into it, but it all ended when they grabbed a butcher knife and asked if they could “Display my Royal cock just like Rasputin’s in a formaldehyde jar.” I noped out and got the fuck out of dodge by telling them my wife wouldn’t like that, and that’s when they all picked me up and threw me out of the room.” I snapped out of my shocked expression and looked around in a 360-degree angle. “Wait, where’s Verlaine? It’s five minutes past midnight.” Alis shared in my worry and checked his pockets, “Well I don’t have a phone, since you threw mine out the window on the way here,” but that wasn’t the worst part. I punched the walls like they were my wife, cursing her for this situation, “FUCK! I don’t have mine cause I chucked it out our window this morning.” We we’re now severely worried for the safety of our trusted colleague, and we’d have to go back into the heart of darkness if we wanted to save her.
The search was on, and Alis had begun biting his nails, “Oh Bernie, what if she’s been caught by that snatch killer on the loose? I don’t know what I’d do if we lost her. She’d know how to take care of herself right? She’s smart, she wouldn’t end up asphyxiated on a hotel bed would she? Oh this stress is killing me.” His stress was bleeding over onto me, as much as I tried to keep my cool, I snapped at him, “Look, we’re going to find her! Now just keep calm and carry on,” I began whistling the tune of Will.i.am Shat In Her’s Rocketman, and only after that did I lose all hope of ever seeing her again, she would never just leave me whistling that tune on my own, none of us would, it would be morally wrong. I fell to my knees and began sobbing, “YOU ANIMALS KILLED HER! HOW COULD YOU!?” Alis joined me in grieving, holding me for comfort as did I for him, only it was interrupted with, “Hey guys, what you been up to?” Alis and I snapped our necks towards Verlaine, standing in the doorway of the room right next to us. We rushed her with a hug, still crying “We’re so sorry Verlaine, we shouldn’t have left you with these wild creatures. Did they hurt you? Did they worship you? Whatever they did, we will rip their throats out for it!” She didn’t seem in distress at all to our surprise, and we noticed behind her were a number of women fully clothed in flannel shirts and denim jeans reading Virginia Woolf while girl in red played on a vinyl player in the background, it all made sense to me now, “Wait, this is a lesbian meetup room, but there’s no sign on the door, how the hell did you find this place?” and with a sigh, Verlaine repeated herself once again, “Bernie I told you before, lesbians are telepathic.” My crying ceased immediately and was replaced by a fourth scoff, “You know you sound crazy when you say that,” only she had her comeback ready as always, “Says the guy with no pants and one shoe on at the moment.”
I sighed feeling defeated by the operation, I suppose a failure would be the right word to use for it, at least that’s how I felt about it, I mean I didn’t get to hang out with lesbians reading feminist literature for 6 hours, I only spent two minutes in a room that somehow equated to 6 hours of time. “Fuck it, you guys want to go get food?” They nodded at the suggestion, and we walked for the exit, “Where would be open at this time?” I lumbered forward, giving off the same emotion as a depressed puppy, “It’ll have to be fast food, I saw a Burger King down the street,” although Alis made the alternative suggestion that we go to McDonald’s, but I gave him disapproving eyes and he remembered the problem with that idea. You see Verlaine had chronic Coulrophilia, an extreme attraction to clowns, and ever since the last time we visited a McDonald’s, we’ve sworn to keep her on the straight and narrow, and off Ronald McDonald’s cock. It was a cold night outside, I could feel ice nearly forming on my legs and cold breezes blowing up my briefs onto my balls. I tied my blazer around my waist to give me at least some protection from the elements, but it did as much as covering the homeless with tissue paper instead of blankets. We reached the kingdom of the burger royalty and while most would bow to a king, all I was in desperate need of was a ciggie before I ate. Wasn’t there something about how you shouldn’t eat before smoking? Or was that swimming, meh, tomato tomato. I reached into the inner jacket pocket to find those bastards had robbed me, “Thieving shitheads! Stole my fucking jenkem ciggies, I’m gonna need to improvise, Alis you order, I gotta use the bathroom.” It was always a pain to have to streamline the jenkem production process, without the proper facilities, it just felt cheap and unclassy smoking the shit, which was not the life I was about, but when push comes to shove, I shit bricks and smoke it up.
It didn’t take more than thirty minutes, but I had gotten my fix for the night and satiated my cravings. Contrary to the name, the food wasn’t fast at all, and only came out of the kitchen as I walked out of the bathroom, it’s amazing how lazy minimum wage workers will get at one in the morning. I sat down at the booth my colleagues had chosen and looked around to see we were the only ones here at this time of the night. Our food was placed in front of us, but before we could dig into the buffet, there was a slight error in the order, according to what I was seeing, “Why is there three burgers? Alis you glutton, did you order two for yourself?” but Verlaine interrupted, just like that lesbian movie with prominent lesbian Whoopi Goldberg, “I ordered a burger for myself Bernie, don’t worry.” I was confused and slightly shocked, as to why a devoted vegan such as Verlaine would order a slab of meat for consumption, but I was too hungry to stop her from abandoning her morals so I just started eating my own and waited to see what would happen.
We had filled our bodies to the limits, but that burger still sat in the middle of the table, still wrapped and untouched. Alis reached his hand for it asking, “You gonna eat that?” only to have his wrist slapped away by Verlaine, “HAH, doesn’t feel good when it’s your hand getting slapped now does it?” I chuckled only to get my shin kicked under the table, “AW FUCK YOU!” While I rubbed my freezing legs, Verlaine picked up the burger and walked outside with it. We followed with curiosity, me limping now cause of Alister’s swift kick. We walked to a patch of decorative grass in the parking lot, as Verlaine produced a small trowel from her own jacket pocket, “You carry around a trowel at all times?” She began digging a grave fit for a baby and looked up at us, “It can be used as a weapon, and you never know when you’ll need to relive stress with some gardening. You smoke shit, I plant seeds, to each his own.” I couldn’t argue with her, I had been known to garden a bit in my time, it was always a calming experience, planting your seed into mother earth, but then every time I would say that to myself something felt wrong about it so one day I up and stopped doing her, I mean it. I should really get back to breeding with mother Earth, wait, there’s probably a better way of phrasing it but, you know what I mean.
Once the hole was dug, she placed the still wrapped burger into it, before standing and asking us if there was anything we’d like to say, “Wait, so this is a funeral now? For the burger?” She folded her arms at me, making me feel inadequate, same way my mother used to do, damnit why do women have this effect on me, “Yes Bernard, that burger was a living breathing creature you know, before they chopped it up into itty bitty pieces for human consumption, and it deserves the same treatment and love, just as much as a dog or a cat or even a parrot. All animals should be cared for.” I felt shitty and ignorant, and I could see it on Alister’s face as well. I nodded and apologized, “You’re right, I’m sorry. He’s was a good man, hell of a drinker, could talk your ear off, but a good friend and a better father.” Verlaine nodded back, “Thank you, that’s more like it.” She kneeled back down to bury the patch of cow, but I stopped her before she could pour the first handful of dirt into the hole, “WAIT, what should we name it?” Alis rotated his head towards me in annoyance, “What?” I rotated mine back, “Well we have to give it a name, to put on it’s gravestone,” Verlaine sighed, “Bernie there is no headstone, what would a name matter?” I placed a hand on my hip in an act of displaying sass, “We go through all this trouble to bury this cow and we haven’t even named it? How inconsiderate is that? I mean, what names would suit a cow? Ruby, Charles, Mike, Cassandra, Daisy,” but Alis made the observation that, “Bernie, those are all the names of your ex’s,” I feigned surprise, “WHAAAAT? Noooo, are you sure?” They groaned and Verlaine started burying the meat patty, “Wait, we still haven’t decided on a name yet,” Alis stopped me, “And we’re not going to.” How inconsiderate of them to not even humanize this beautiful animal, “Oh that’s just typical, way to shit all over my positivity there Alister,” I could see him about to crack but he remained composed in his best effort, “I’m not shitting on your positivity Bernie, I’m just saying it’s silly to name a cow that we know nothing about,” I lashed out, saying the dreaded words “OH SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS.” That’s the last thing I remember of that night, before getting punched in the face by Alister’s hand and losing consciousness, I couldn’t really blame him, I would’ve done the same, or should I say, I did do the same. Wait, didn’t I say nothing interesting happened during the convention? Oh, well I did say I was a lying son of a bitch didn’t I so, it’s really your own fault, for shame.
The fuck is this for?
The birds, the bees, and every other woodland animal: Act... by The-Commission
Author's page: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/the-commission/
Picture page: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/43889178/ (EBFAID43889178EB)
Tags: Columbo, burger, king, parking, lot, pimp, robbery, acceptance, barefoot, hippie, style, Elton, John, look, dealers, den, sex, stall, exotic, dildos, fursuit, performance, modern, day, clown, bathroom, encounter, Kathy, Bates, is, a, snatch, killing, lesbian, telepathy, resignation, B
Category: Story | Theme: Abstract | Rating: General
Published: 2021-09-26 23:17:20
The birds, the bees, and every other woodland animal: Act IV
I was awoken from my slumber by someone poking me with a broom like I was roadkill, and let’s face it, in that moment I was worth less than roadkill. At least Jeffery Dahmer’s doppelganger would have found some use for animal corpses. I was a mess, I had come here to uncover what I believed to be an untouched gold mine of journalistic potential, and all I found was a murder case that I was now wrapped up in, colleagues that had probably hit the asphalt and left me to fend for myself in this concrete jungle, and the worst of it was, I couldn’t blame them in the slightest, this assignment had been a disaster. Laying limp on that grass, feeling the morning sun on my skin, I could feel my ghost leaving it’s body and, in that moment, I saw a sad, hungover man, laying face first in a Burger King parking lot. It was an ugly sight to say the least, something that would stick in the mind of a child for the rest of their life if they saw it, having nightmares about the dead one shoed man with no pants from Burger King. It wouldn’t have surprised me if I blacked out and killed that man Columbo led us to, I had so much unjustified spite for the furries, and I never had a reason. Maybe it was jealousy, perhaps I didn’t appreciate the fact that they can spend all their money on elaborate sex suits and legally walk down the street in them pretending to be “children’s entertainment” cause I swear, when I try to walk down to the Walmart wearing my full body, skin tight, butter slathered latex suit, I’m charged with indecent exposure, but thinking less of the furries because they can get away with what I can only dream of is childish, I should be happy for them if anything. Maybe it was simple ignorance, the fact that I had turned stubborn and refused to understand anything about what furries do for the longest time, instead building my own narrative around a cult story. I didn’t even have any evidence for that claim, I’m a sham, a lying son of a bitch, wait, I already told you that earlier, so it’s your own fault for believing me, for shame.
NO, enough of the excuses, it’s time to be the journalist you were born to be, to tell the truth, and finish the assignment you started Bernard. This was my moment to regain what little bit off credibility I had left, to step into redemption and be reborn. First things first, I gotta wake my lazy ass up and get a move on. It took some time, but I eventually regained control of my limbs. I sat on that grass making my plan of action for how to salvage this sinking ship that was my occupation. I ditched the one shoe still on my foot, along with my socks to go for the hippie aesthetic. If I wanted any hope of embedding myself into this community, I would need to get myself the right set of threads, a real zoot suit to blend in with the scenery. It had to be something with more fur than an artic dwelling mammal, and as luck would have it, one was right in front of me. A pimp, strutting down the street, complete with cane in hand and cavalier hat atop his crown. The coat was the main course of the buffet of fur in front of me, you would have thought he was wearing an entire brown bear’s skin. It was time I embraced my fursona and became the bear I was always meant to be. Seducing that pimp into parting ways with his coat three sizes too big for his body was easier than I expected, but if a half-naked man came running at you with his hand down his underwear screaming for you to, “LET ME JIZZ ON YOUR JACKET!” I’d drop the coat too and throw my cane at the crazy wanking homeless man’s face, giving him a black eye, but it was all worth it for a bear coat that went down to my ankles and a bitching cane to occupy my one still working hand.
I caught a glance of myself in a shop window, and I didn’t recognize the man in that reflection. Eye blackened, hand still bloody and bandaged, feet bare like a Joan Baez wet dream, I looked so fucking dishevelled and nightmarish, that I knew it couldn’t fail. In the competition of gaining people’s attention that was a furry convention, I would certainly have heads turning towards my general direction. In a furry’s book, that’s called winning. All I had to do now was make sure I didn’t step on any AIDS ridden heroin needles on my way back to the convention. This was no world for the barefoot.
As the convention centre came into view, I could feel memories of last night flooding my head, being with that D&D group, being consumed by the pile, my decision to make a late-night trip for food, how I felt about all these things were being questioned internally. A sudden feeling of sickness overcame my body the closer I came to proximity with the metaphorical dungeon of mythical fire breathing creatures, only instead of fire it was bodily fluids. The thoughts of everything they would do to my body if they got their grubby paws on it, having to relive what I went through in that room, it all made me question whether I could go on, but then fire breathing creature reminded me of my mixtape, so I re-looped that in my head to take my thoughts off the trauma. I was beginning to believe I had planned all of last night’s ending so I wouldn’t have to face this nightmare again, my lashing out at Alis, it was rehearsed, I knew he’d punch me since I did it myself, my glass covered right hand was there as the only evidence I needed. I had been trying my best to hide away from my duty, to dodge my draft instead of facing the music. Was I trying to avoid my fate cause deep down I knew, I enjoyed what went down in that D&D club? I never felt as though I was close to death, quite the opposite, it was like being back inside the womb, feeling so safe and secured while buried underneath flesh and fur. Maybe I stopped it cause I knew if I didn’t, I may never have came out of that pile willingly. I had to own up and accept the facts, it was aight. It didn’t bother me that it happened, it bothered me that I wasn’t bothered by it. I’m not saying I would consider myself a furry, but I am saying they got amazing sleight of hand to get my pants off and rob me of my jenkem ciggies, and as much as I hated to admit it, I admired them for it.
With my fur suit and tie around my neck and back, and thin boxer briefs covering my pussy and crack, I felt relatively confident that I wouldn’t be getting licked by any otherkin women trying to disappoint their fathers to the maximum. I got my strut on and walked through those hallways once again, only this time looking like royalty that had suffered serious domestic abuse. A lot of people hugged me while I walked down those halls, and I was beginning to believe it was out of pity for the injuries I had accumulated throughout this assignment, all I knew is that I would be taking a well-deserved vacation after this was all over and done with. Somewhere with gigolos on call from the front desk and all the jenkem one man could ask for in a lifetime. I began enjoying the attention, accepting the friendship from complete strangers that had also paid an extortionate amount of money to be here, just to hug and gawk at those with enough money to buy a fursuit, or like me, rob someone of their fur suit. I was starting to think of myself as Cruella de Vil, in this oversized coat, and while looking through the pockets for cash, I found sunglasses that would only be worn by Elton John. All I needed was a pillbox hat, and I would have had Halston turning in his grave, wishing he could have thought up with this ensemble.
My attention drew closer to a room with quite a large amount of activity through the doorway. Expecting another disappointing Disneyland Magic Mike show, I was pleasantly surprised to find a marketplace fit for a medieval village. I removed the sunglasses to take it all in, breathe in the air of capitalism at work. As I ventured into the back section, containing phallic objects of all shapes and sizes, fit for any hole on the human body, whether they be used for intercourse or not, my observations were interrupted by the distinct scent of Cuban cigar smoke intoxicating my airways, “My wife, she loves these things, the Dealer’s Den that is. She can buy everything a woman needs here, clothes, craft beer, gloves, hats. But there’s one thing she can’t get anywhere else, penile spiked dragon dildos. She loves those things, but I can never understand why, she says she wants to try this thing called “pegging” which is when…” Why is Columbo explaining anal sex to me? Why is he smoking indoors? How does this man get away with acting like an oversharing autistic child, “…but sometimes I think she’s forgotten that I have a perfectly good working penis myself, oh wait, silly me, she wants to fuck my ass, I’m sorry, my mistake.” I stared into those seductive eyes for at least a minute without blinking, trying to think of a way I would be able to explain my strange fashion.
“You don’t have to explain yourself Bernie, I know you’re not a cop,” I couldn’t tell if he meant that in a good way or a bad way, but as he said it, my ass puckered in preparation to be fucked, “I knew you guys weren’t detectives, but I had a good hunch that you would be fit for the job.” I hadn’t had someone believe in me this much since I did track and field in high school, but that ended with me crying with a twisted ankle at the starting line, so I was expecting to also be crying here, only with more severe injuries. “Frank I uh, I don’t know what to tell you, I’m a mess, my assignment is a disaster, my colleagues are God knows where, I’ve got an unusable hand, a black eye, no shoes or pants and nothing written for the piece I’m supposed to be writing, but here I am, looking at exotic dildos with you. I came here trying to uncover a cult, not commit acts of masochism on myself.” He wrapped an arm around me, but I didn’t give much reaction, “You look exhausted, why don’t you come back to my room, I’ll make you some breakfast, get you some pants, it’s the least I could do,” his generosity is all I needed in that moment, but I had to decline, “Frank, thank you, really, but I’ve got to get back to my team, Alis, Verlaine,” but he brushed me off and insisted on helping me in my hour of need, “Oh I don’t think they’ll mind, and I’ll call them and tell them you’re with me.” He was everything I needed in that moment, a shining star, sent to give me purpose in such a confusing time. We walked back to the hotel where he had an anecdote about the elevator floor buttons, “You know what I like about these buttons, you don’t have to push ‘em, they go off with the heat of your hand,” Oh Frank you’re pushing my buttons with all the heat emanating off you. Why can’t more men have opinions on elevator floor buttons, I was nearly beaten by one, but you, you’re a master of the elevator, a pure testament to the power of testosterone.
I freshened up and dressed my legs once again with Columbo’s donated trousers. I kept the coat on, only open now, no longer having to strike fear into people near me with the prospect of me being a possible flasher. The built-up exhaustion had forced my hand and I unbuttoned my top collar along with loosening my tie, people would know now not to bother me, less they face my wrath and die at the hands of a man with too much on his plate. “I swear to you, I’m a terrible cook, but you ask my wife, and she’ll tell you I make a hell of an omlete,” I was beginning to feel there was a catch to all these acts of kindness on Frank’s part, “Columbo, please, you don’t have to do that,” but once again, he carried on without acknowledging my resistance to his kind nature. We sat and ate together not too long after, giving him the opportunity to help me emotionally further. “If you don’t mind me asking Bernard, what is it you came here looking for?” His angel eyes were the most effective deterrent to any hope of me lying to him, mostly because they had the same effect on me as Lee Van Cleef’s, striking me with the fear of what he could do to me if I didn’t say what he wanted me to. So long as our pupils were meeting in mid-air, I was under oath to tell all the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, “I’m not really sure about that myself. I think I came here looking for the story that would make my career, but now I’m thinking of whether I should change my choice of occupation, I might not be cut out for this line of work.” I reached into the inner jacket pocket out of instinct for a ciggie, only to remember the petty thievery I had been a victim of last night. Frank was quick to lean forward in his chair with words of wisdom, “You know what I think? I think you haven’t really looked at this place from a fresh perspective, ya know, really thought about why everyone’s here. You can’t write a good piece of journalism if you hate what you’re writing about.” Everything he said made me subconsciously nod along with the words, only I looked up, eyes squinting now, “How did you know I was a journalist?” I couldn’t have expected a better answer, it was a sentence that would make you believe you were dreaming, “I’ve read some of your work, I wouldn’t say I’m a fan, but I think it’s good what you do.” The pieces of the puzzle were coming together, Frank was trying to help me all this time. He gave me a murder case to report on, gave me his pants, cooked me breakfast, he was just a kind man, something I hadn’t seen in such a long time, but it was something I needed. I knew what I had to do now, I’d have to clear the slate, look at these furries like I had never seen one in my life and come to a well-rounded conclusion, even if it took all day. “Thank you Frank, for everything, I don’t know how I’ll repay you but I’m sure there’ll come a time,” and as I walked to the door he took one last puff and whispered, “Oh I know there will.”
New perspective on the whole assignment, that’s what I needed. I’d have to re-learn what it meant to be a furry if I had any hope of saving my ass from a swift resignation. I made my way back to that convention grounds one last time, ready to roam the halls and observe. The difficulty came in trying to uncover a reason for why any of these people would do this. If it wasn’t for cult related reasons, and they were doing it out of their own free-will as I had come to be convinced of, then what would make them want to spend all this money organising this event to walk around in scorching heat for hours. My first assumption became masochism, but there were far better and less convoluted ways of getting your rocks off to a bit of pain, like joining the Jackass crew. The second reason I could ponder up was that it was an easy way to spice up their sex lives, but why bother with all this daytime shit if it was only for the sex? There was something I was missing. I wandered the halls aimlessly, trying desperately to understand the meaning of it all, what it was all for. I passed so many rooms of general entertainment, the same rooms you would see at a Comic-Con or DashCon, musical acts singing songs ripped from a teenager’s iPod from 2004, a room with one GameCube, 1 official Nintendo licensed controller and 3 third party controllers, each with a “turbo” button. I could’ve gone anywhere for these things, I didn’t need a furry centric convention to be able to experience Evanescence live covers or getting into arguments about the legitimacy of someone beating me in Super Smash Bros Melee, when my controller is apparently made for the Sunny Playsystem. I walked in circles, waiting to see that one thing that would make it all click for me, and with enough time, it came to me, in the form of a fursuit performance panel being held in the ballroom of the convention centre. At first I was confused as to the point of such a panel, fursuit performance? You’re not Daniel Day-Lewis, you’re a guy in a cartoon animal bodysuit, but curiosity got the best of me and I thought I’d be able to laugh at wannabe Hollywood actors trying to recreate their favourite sex scenes in films like the one in The Matrix Reloaded, or The Godfather, I was fully expecting them to do the one in Gone Girl. I took a seat in the back and listened in on the teachings from the hostess, it was one petite young woman surrounded by fur suited and booted individuals, and I swear, from where I was sitting, it looked like the start of a porno.
I sat watching that panel to the end, having found the third and final reason as to the point of this whole thing, miming. Not one of those fursuiters said a word the entire time I was there, not even any kind of animal noises like a bark or a meow out of any of them, it made me sad to think about, a bunch of mute animals performing for my entertainment, that sentence would get me assassinated by PETA if I wasn’t carful, they’ll murder puppies, why would they have any mercy for me? But it wasn’t that they were mute, far from it, I know cause Columbo could talk my ear off and he’s the biggest fur Freddy I’ve seen roaming this place. I couldn’t believe I didn’t see it earlier, but these fursuiters were keeping the old French performance art of miming alive, that’s what this was all about, they replaced the clown makeup and berets for something far more bone chilling. They really are the modern-day clowns more that I think about it, they act like every paint huffer I’ve met, they walk like they shit themselves, they’re reaction to anything new is met with as much curiousness as a baby, and last but not least, they always want to be children’s entertainers, but they don’t realize that children are fucking terrified of them. All we need now is for Stephen King to write about an alien demon that inhabits a fursuiter to vore kids, and my theory will be accepted by the public, it’ll be like Cujo on two legs. I walked to the front of the room where the host was wrapping up the show, but before she could, I had to give my words of encouragement, “Listen guys, I love what you’re doing here, you guys are keeping the art of clownhood alive in today’s non-clown loving society, you’re really doing God’s work. The last time I can think clowns were this popular, would probably have to be when everyone was dressing as Heath Ledger’s Joker for Halloween back in 2008.” The room fell into silence, and I knew my work had been done to the best of my ability, before taking my leave.
Before I left this place for good, I had to mark my territory in the lavatory. When all was done and I exited to wash my hands, cause I’m not an animal, I had neon colours poking into my peripheral vision, I didn’t need to look to know it was some sort of technicoloured fox or canine derivative that was now staring at me. I held off on looking directly at them for as long as I could, but I wasn’t planning on starting a bathhouse in the men’s bathroom so I would have to leave eventually. My eyes met the figure in the doorway, only before I could ask them to shift their ass out the way, they spoke in laboured breaths of contempt, “You, you dirty bird, how could you? You think we’re clowns? I’m no clown Mr. Man, do I go down to the feed store in town and honk my big red nose at the clerk? And at the bank, do I kill 30 boys and hide them underneath my Christing floorboards? What you said was a bunch of cockamamie and I’d like for you to apologize right now, Mr. Man.” I wasn’t intimidated by someone wearing a rainbow fursuit, so I tried to make my way past them. My attempt to leave was met with a swift punch, and they must have been wearing brass knuckles under those paw gloves they had on, cause it didn’t feel like soft fur in the slightest. I spat a mouthful of blood onto the walls and floors, seeing double of the world and an echoed voice call out to me, “I’M NOT A COCKADOODIE CLOWN!” I took refuge in the bathroom stall, locking the door to try and give myself some time for my vision to no longer be fucked beyond recognition. As my senses came back to me, the door also swung open from a hard kick, bringing the lock off it’s hinges. The only thing my eyes were drawn too now, were the exposed pussy lips on the crotch of the woman standing before me, breathing and growling like a bitch In heat, and then the sickening realization of just how much shit I was in hit me, “You’re the killer, aren’t you? You suffocated those men,” my inquiry into her manslaughter prowess was met with a cackle fit for a Salem witch and a subsequent confession, indicating I was soon to be joining them on the blue lips list, “I did, and do you know why? Cause their time had come, as has yours. Don’t worry, I’ve prepared for what must be done, I slathered some peanut butter on it to make the experience more enjoyable and less macabre for you.” This was it, I’d be dying in a bathroom, most fitting place if I was honest with myself, shit life in a shit place. Maybe all the furries would remember my name at least, they’d all remember the snatch suffocated journalist from Anthrocon. “If you ever write a taunting letter to my family or the police, can you please tell my wife, I will haunt her until Bill Murray performs an exorcism on the house.” I don’t think she respected my last request, cause before I could blink, I had my wrists pinned to the wall and my face being straddled by a peanut scented pussy. I felt the life draining into that bottomless pit of a poontang, I saw my life flash in seconds, all the greatest moments, with my colleagues, we did have a good run while it lasted. Then came the light, and not being one to be fashionably late, I intended to meet my maker tout de suite, but all was delayed when the sound of metal cracking against bone rang out and my face was uncovered allowing me to gasp for air once again. The world came back to me in a haze as my brain tried to come back to reality, being disappointed that the prospect of death was once again out of reach. My saviour stood before me holding a fire extinguisher, standing over the now limp snatch killer, “V-Verlaine? How the fuck did you find me?” I wiped my face, making sure I hadn’t actually died and was now having some sort of Lonely Bones post death hallucination, “I sensed the strong aura of a lesbian in the men’s bathroom, so I became concerned. I asked Alis to check it out but he’s busy trying to flirt with Columbo at the dildo stall in the Dealer’s Den.” It took everything in my body to not let out a fourth scoff at the mention of lesbian telepathy, but if it wasn’t for that ridiculous power of hers, I would have been another victim on Columbo’s case, “Next time I scoff at you saying that, make sure to remind me I’m not dead cause of it, I’ll probably repress this experience by tomorrow.” She nodded and helped me to my feet. As we looked down at the murderer on the floor, Columbo entered the restroom with Alis in hot pursuit, “Alister, you really don’t have to follow me to the toilet you kno…what the hell happened here?” We all now looked at the unconscious fursuited body on the ground, “That Frank, is your killer woman.”
It felt like the end of an era, killer caught, story made, all the memories we wouldn’t be able to include in the article as to not get side-tracked. The only thing left to do was reveal the identity of the strange costumed criminal, like a the end of every episode of Booby-Boo Where Art Thou? Columbo reached down to unmask the fiend, and shock overcame the room. Laying unconscious on the men’s bathroom floor was none other than Kathy Bates, bodacious butch bitch extraordinaire. It all made sense now, oh who was I kidding, none of this made any fucking sense. Kathy Bates, Oscar winning actress had turned into a fursuited, snatch murderer, I wasn’t sure whether I should wake her up to ask for an autograph. “You can’t breathe a word of this to the press, ya hear? Not until we’ve proven her guilt.” I understood what Frank meant, and agreed, the last thing I needed was Kathy Bates holding a grudge against me for 30 years to come, only to wake up one morning with her suffocating me to death with her vulva. 30 years was me being positive, she could say those men she killed wanted to go out the same way they came in, and that would get her a manslaughter charge, with that she’d be out in 10 on good behaviour and a hefty load of bribes. What happens at Anthrocon, stays at Anthrocon, we wouldn’t be mentioning this anytime soon. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve had enough of these fur loving fucks.” My colleagues gave me a smile and we hugged once again, having just escaped the cold grip of death for yet another time in our eventful lives. No matter where we went, disaster and excitement followed, which is fun at first, but concerning after years of the torture. We gave up a long time trying to explain it, and have accepted that we either have a hex on our asses, or unbelievably shitty luck, like, destroyed a mirror shop bad luck.
Alis and Verlaine helped me hobble my way to the car as we made our departure from this hell on earth. It would be a long drive home, but once we were there, the task of writing about the happenings of the assignment became a difficult one. How the hell could you describe any of this? Most of the people that read this shit, only do it at breakfast on the off chance they might see something interesting that they can bring up to a co-worker later in the day, they weren’t looking for a smut novel. As hard as we tried to formulate one sentence that would not have a mass boycott of the magazine, we just could not do it. Why the hell would they send us to a fucking furry convention, we’re the guys that are supposed to report on paint factories, that way we can make it sound fun somehow. If you send us to a furry convention, it’s your own fucking fault for getting an article filled with sodomy, what else are we supposed to do there? We have to try really hard to get sex at a paint factory, but here, all we had to do is step through the door and the clinically sex crazed were all over us like white on rice. After the third day of writer’s block, I realized it was no use, we’d have to give them the honest truth. I got up and walked to the communal typewriter, eyes on me like a hawk in anticipation of my next move. 19 keys rang out into the room to make 5 simple words, that’s all it took for me to leave satisfied with the entire article. Alis and Verlaine were quick to peer review my work, looking up at me and down at the page, not knowing what to say, “Bernie, we can’t publish this.” I lit myself one last jenkem cigarette to celebrate our latest creation, “Why not? It’s the truth, and that’s what journalism is all about, telling people the honest truth. You won’t get more honest than that fucking article you’re holding right now. If you have something you’d like to add, by my guest, but if not, send it to Boss.” They hesitated but knew there was nothing more we could do. We sent it off for publication and because of the lack of professionalism in this particular magazine we worked for, nobody thought to do anything about the nearly completely blank front page of the latest edition until it was printed and shipped to over half the country. It didn’t take long after that for us to get a call about our termination from the company. As much as Alis and Verlaine were shitting bricks at the news, I was waiting for a second phone call, and it didn’t take long, less than 6 hours actually, to inform us we had been rehired. You see, our article had resulted in the most sold copies of this God forsaken magazine since they lied about Michael Jackson still being alive in Brazil. A shit eating grin plastered my face as I heard those words ring out from the phone, “We’re sorry,” it was all falling into place now, and I had the front row seat to knock it down, “Hey Boss?” I could hear him leaning forward with those manic breaths of his, “Shove it…up…your ass.” You smell that? Smells like freedom. “And what the fuck are we supposed to do now?” Verlaine asked, concerned as ever, “We’re famous now, we’re going freelance baby! No more editors, no more censors. People will know to be on the lookout for whatever we write next, cause who would want to miss out on it?” You’re probably wondering what that article read now. It wasn’t much, just 5 simple words, printed on an A4 page.
“Best sex I’ve ever had.”
The fuck is this for?
da997ca82171e94a47dc15eddd1ad508
