Burnt Offerings

[firefox_b]

The Hounds of Hell
by ff_b

Nodding off while watching MonsterQuest re-runs late one night, I found myself in a strange dream with the dancing undead of Michael Jackson's Thriller, probably prompted by watching one too many tributes to the late King of Pop.  I must have been possessed by the spirit of Michael himself, as I even had his red zippered leather jacket on, and felt a craving for Xanax!  This wasn't all bad, though, as I transformed into a werewolf as Jackson had in Thriller, one which had Jackson's dazzling dancing agility as well as furry reflexes.  The undead seemed to be coming after me, but I easily led them on a merry chase through rugged terrain during which time they dropped off like flies, losing limbs and assorted body parts and falling down into things.

After some time, the zombies had dwindled to three really persistent ones, an unholy trinity, if you will.  One on the side, the False Prophet, came at me first.

"Evolution is a fib!, he declared.  "It's just a theory, after all!--I demand that Scientific Creationism be taught in the public schools!"

I held him at bay with a copy of Darwin's The Origin of Species that I conveniently found in one of the zippered pockets of the red jacket.  "Wait a minute, Bucko!," I countered.  "So-called 'Scientific Creationism' is unscientific, and is religious dogma masquerading as science!--There are no supported alternatives to evolutionary theory.  The consensus is that evolution occurred by descent through modification, mainly by natural selection, and this is what should be taught in our science classes!"

Beams of light shot forth from the copy of Darwin's work, causing the False Prophet to burst into flames when they touched him.  He screamed and disintegrated into ashes.  It was then that the second ghoul, the Antifur, came towards me.

"Furries are despicable beings who have sex with others of their kind while dressed in animal suits!," he stated with a leer.

"Not so fast, Sherlock!," I replied.  "That's a vicious stereotype!-- Furries are a diverse group!  Even if that were true, what business would it be of yours?--Don't criticize things you don't know about!"  The Antifur dematerialized and vanished, not really having any substance to him.  Like all lies, he was essentially a ghost.

The remaining zombie advanced on me, none other than Satan himself.  He chose to take the shape of Sarah Palin, and winked at me as she halted.  "I represent the views of a significant portion of America," declared the resigning Alaskan governor.  "I may run for President in 2012.--What do you think about that?," she challenged.

"That you may, but it's lipstick on a pig!," I shot back.  "Run in 2012 if you will, but I'll wager that we can kick your pert little tail again!--So take your mid-life crisis, and get lost!"

With that, a hellmouth opened under her, and Sarah Palin tumbled down into it.  "I can see Russia from here!," she declared as she descended into the outer darkness, transforming back into Satan.  In the fiery furnace, imps demanded to know why the Unholy Trinity had failed.  "He blinded me with science," shrugged Lucifer.

Free of my tormentors, I lifted my shaggy werewolf head and howled in victory long and hard at the moon.  I then went crawling in search of blood, and terrorized your neighborhood.  Just as I was starting to get really into this, I woke up on my couch, re-runs of MonsterQuest still on.  "What a wild dream!," I thought as I staggered into the bathroom to splash cold water onto my face...

...it was then that I noted that my pupils were still lupine and feral...Vincent Price's voice laughed long and hard in my head as I looked forward to tomorrow...   

[firefox_b]

Out of the Shell
by ff_b

"Jimmy, you're going to summer camp!," declared his mother with finality.  "It will help you get out of your shell!"

Jimmy really didn't want to go to summer camp, however.  Why should he abandon his private room, air conditioning, and computer for the questionable company of a bunch of early adolescent guys in a bug-infested quagmire?  They should pay him to go to such a place, not his parents the camp!  Jimmy thought that you were supposed to enjoy yourself over summer vacation, not suffer deprivation and hardship.

"But Mom!," protested Jimmy in vain.

"No buts!," snapped his mother.  "You should be grateful that we're sending you to Camp El-Wa-Ho.  You'll get to do neat crafts and ride horses.  Plus you need to get away from home and toughen up a bit.  It will do you good to learn how to get along with others!"

Jeez, coudn't she just pull my fingernails out with pliers?, thought Jimmy.  He didn't really play well with others, and had a gut feeling that summer camp would be two weeks of unrelenting hell.  Time would prove Jimmy all too right.   Camp El-Wa-Ho demonstrated itself to be hot, primitive, and staffed by sadistic counselors who hated kids.  His fellow campers were no better, tormenting Jimmy as the weakest and most different kid in his cabin.  The toilets were primitive outhouses, and the food could barely be stomached.

"Can I come home, please?," pleaded Jimmy during parental visitation day.

His mother shot daggers at Jimmy in reply.  "You know the answer to that one!," she shot back roughly.  "There are lots of boys and girls your age that would be thrilled for the opportunity to be out in nature like you are!"  In reality, Jimmy's mother was glad to be rid of the little wimp for 14 blessed days.

Jimmy glumly continued to lace up a leather bookmark that he was required to make, not that he would ever use it.  He resigned himself to endure the primitive conditions and horrendous company for the remainder of the two weeks.  His cabin mates short-sheeted his bed, put bugs in his ears as he slept, called him faggot and fairy, and tripped him whenever opportunity presented itself.  All of this Jimmy endured with the patience of Job, figuring that his sufferings would in time end.  His cabin mates went a bit too far, however, when they pulled his pants down during a visitation by the girls from a sister camp across the late.

It only took Jimmy a few seconds to pull his pants back up, but the damage had been done.  His face red with shame and humiliation, Jimmy realized that everyone...the boys, the girls, and even the counselors...were laughing at him! The scene seemed to spin around strangely in Jimmy's head as his eyes passed from one laughing face to another.  Even the cute little blonde-haired girl who Jimmy had hoped would talk to him was laughing!

There was a strange, wet tearing sound as Jimmy began a terrible metamorphasis and began to emerge from his shell...his human shell, that is.  Skin stretched tight and then split along the length of Jimmy's back, revealing the shiny reddish-black irridescence of a reptilian hide.  His mouth gaped wide and cracked open as a lengthy, lizard tongue flicked forth from the ruins of what scarce moments ago had been a boy's face.  He thrashed his head violently from side to side, the human face peeling off like a rubber Halloween mask.  A strange howling sound emerged from Jimmy's throat as he regarded claws emerging from the tips of his fingers, the flesh of the human appendages rending and parting aside in favor of the emerging new creation.

None of his mockers were laughing now; they had transitioned from stunned disbelief to utter horror at the sight of the transformation occurring before their eyes, one which caused reason to flee as the campers took panicked flight in dozens of different directions.  Shedding the remnants of his tattered human skin as a snake does, Jimmy stood on four powerful limbs and leaped on first one and then another of his human tormentors, knocking them down with his weight, claws finding purchase on human flesh as reptilian jaws closed on vulnerable necks and silenced screams.  Jimmy was a most efficient predator, targeting only his camp counselor and those of his cabin who had tormented him. Within minutes the carnage was complete, blood mixing with mud as flies buzzed above in the sweltering August heat.

Returning home in his reptilian form, Jimmy was greeted at the door by his father, who far from being surprised at the transformation smiled broadly.  "Looks like my little boy has grown up!," he declared. 

His mother beckoned him to the dinner table, shoving a jar full of meal worms in his direction.  "See, Jimmy, I told you it would be good for you to get out of your shell a bit!," she admonished.

Jimmy scooped up a large mass of the writhing meal worms in his clawed hand and dumped them in his mouth, crunching down happily.  He guessed that Mom and Dad weren't really as bad as he had thought after all...   

[firefox_b]

Barbecue
by ff_b

Roger Link had somehow never sent down roots.  He hadn't married, and worked a meaningless middle management job in an eastern state, his existence brightened only by a rich fantasy life.  Roger loved the lore of the old west, so much in fact that he visited Texas in search of it.  In his secret soul, he fancied himself a cowboy, a destroyer of evil at one with the land.  Once he visited the Alamo and discovered that people really did wear cowboy hats and bolo ties in the west, however, Roger felt strangely unfulfilled.  Towards the end of his vacation, he voiced his frustrations to a sympathetic Texan he met by chance in a bar.

"Son," declared the  Texan, "what you need is to come to an authentic Texan barbecue!  I reckon that you'll find what you're after there."  Somewhat reluctantly, Roger decided to accept the genial man's invitation, and went to the man's ranch the following night.

Flames chased the shadows of night from the roaring barbecue pit as Roger joined his host, accepting the first of many beers that followed.  When he had a pleasant buzz on, Roger only distantly heard his new acquaintance order meat brought to the fire from the freezer.  A whole animal carcass was roasted, something that was unlike anything which Roger had ever seen.  The meat sputtered in the flames, and a thick slice was presented to Roger, generously embellished with Texas-style barbecue sauce.  When Roger tasted the meat, it was not as tasty as he had expected; rather, it seemed tough and leathery.  Not wishing to offend his host, however, Roger choked down several more bites before setting the plate aside.  He was beginning to sweat.

"Don't you care much for that meat, Son?," the Texan asked Roger with a peculiar grin.  Dark motes were starting to dance before Roger's eyes, and his raised his hand to his face in an effort to clear his vision.

"What have you fed me?!," Roger demanded to know.

"Well, Son," his host replied, "we've got more than just beef cattle here in Texas, 'ya know.  Some things are here that aren't even known much outside of these parts.- - Have you ever heard of the 'Chupacabra?'"

Shaking badly, Roger staggered to his feet as his host continued.  "I caught this...thing in my barn some time ago, and it put up quite a fight.- - It's been in my freezer since that time, and I just now served you some!"

"Damn you!," cursed Roger, struggling to remain conscious.

"As you prissy boys in the east might say, you are what you eat," declared the Texan as he lit a cigarette, the smoke circling his head demonically.

Unable to retain his footing, Roger fell to the earth where he writhed in the throes of a terrible transformation, his flesh reconfiguring itself into a gargoyle- like creature with claws, large canine teeth, and hairless, leathery skin.  Bones in his face cracked as his skull extended itself into a muzzle.  Gradually his ragged breathing steadied as the reborn creature regarded the Texan with newly-constituted red eyes.

"Ain't you a sight?," enthused the Texan.  It was the last comment that he would ever make, as the Chupacabra which had been Roger jumped upon the man, easily puncturing his jugular with vicious incisors and feasting upon the pumping blood.  The man's heart slowed and then stopped as the Chupacabra fed his voracious appetite, a hungry newborn.

His muzzle slick with blood, the human consciousness which remained within Roger considered that he had at last found his destiny.- - How though, he pondered, would he fight evil while living within the belly of the beast, and not be devoured by it?     

[firefox_b]

Cusp of the Age
by ff_b

In Norway, the Furry Doomsday Vault rested untouched by the nuclear holocaust, precisely as had been intended.  The

sleepers within the vault continued their long slumbers unperturbed as the radiation settled and gradually abated,

and the earth again became hospitable to life.  It was then that one of the guardians came to awaken them, one of

the legendary Knights Tempfur who had kept a long lonely vigil while the human race destroyed itself at last.  The

Fourth Age had ended, and the human race had once again screwed things up royally, making it time for a  good cosmic

dusting and cleaning; creation now stood on the cusp of a new Fifth Age, and this time things would be a bit

different!


The Knight Tempfur, a lion called Reynaud, inserted a quartz crystal into the vault door which momentarily glowed

brightly upon its insertion.  Reynaud then turned a heavy titanium handle on the vault door, and pulled on the

massive piece of metal with all his might, putting his shoulder into it as the heavy door slowly pivoted open. 

Reynaud stared into the darkness within, his eyes adjusting in the dim light to behold a myriad of elevated slabs

upon which slept two representatives of each animal species.
 

"'ello, what's this?," questioned a voice observing the operation from a short distance outside.  Reynaud

immediately withdrew a massive sword from his scabboard and raised it to defend against the potential challenger;

Knights Tempfur loved a good fight, and were among the best of warriors.  "Stand, and identify yourself!," demanded

the lion. In response, a hairy, hulking figure emerged from behind a hill, the mysterious and evasive cryptid humans

had called the Abominable Snowman or Bigfoot among other things. 


Reynaud maintained his guard as he spotted the living legend.  "I am Reynaud, of the Knight Tempfurs!," he declared,

with perhaps a tinge of pride. "I am here to liberate the inheritors of tomorrow!--Do not, I implore you,

interfere!"


Bigfoot regarded the lion with a bemused expression.  "Hey, chill, dude!," he said casually.  "Whadya think, I'm

gonna throw a rock at you or something?--I just wanna hang a bit, won't be no trouble at all!"


The lion lowered his weapon; this appeared to be an amiable snowman, not an abominable one. Nodding his assent to

the Bigfoot, Reynaud passed among the sleepers in the Doomsday Vault, rousing each of them individually. Yawning and

stretching as they gradually stirred, some of the awakened furs exchanged high fives with Bigfoot, who followed

behind the Knight Tempfur.


"Hey, you got anything to eat?," asked a wolf of the lion, ravenous.


"Can we order a pizza or something?," requested a hungry hippo.


"What the?," complained a fox. "So why can't I access the internet here?- -Don't you have a WiFi hotspot around

here?- -Jeez!"


Reynaud sighed, raising a massive paw to his head.  These furs had evidently been corrupted by exposure to the world

of men.  It would take some doing to acclimate them to the Fifth Age, and life without the artifacts of man. His

work was far from over, and was obviously just beginning.


"Alright then, listen up!," commanded Reynaud to the awakened furs.  "We've got a lot of work to do!"


Far more work, in fact, than even Reynaud suspected, for in another Doomsday Vault half a world away, a genetic

clone of Adolf Hitler was awakening legions of loyal followers eager to establish a Fourth Reich... 

[firefox_b]

The Shroud
by ff_b

For over two thousand years, the Shroud of Furin had been secretly passed on, guarded against destruction at the hands of the humans.  Most noteably, a few hundred furry Knights Tempfur had held off a vastly superior force of several thousand pink skins using nothing but indian burns, wedgies, and bad celebrity impersonations while two furry knights ecaped with the Shroud, snickering as they went.

Now the Shroud was quite remarkable, bearing as it did the image of a poor fox who appeared to have been beaten, knocked about, yiffed severely, and ultimately put out of his blessed misery; it was said to have incredible curative powers, that anyone who touched it would be cured of prickly heat, psoriasis, jock itch, or any other terrible condition.  Some said that the Shroud would ultimately herald in a new furry age, one in which men would not dominate.  The Shroud was buried by the surviving furry Knights and forgotten by the Tempfurs, whose Order was outlawed and persecuted by the Church and assorted monarchies, causing them to become Freemasons, or at least Masons who were reasonably priced.

Well, it just so happened that an all-too-human archeaologist and his assistant were excavating in Mess-O'-Potamia one day when they came upon said Shroud of Furin, not realizing what it was or its true significance.  Professor Poindexter snatched up the shroud, regarding it to be the burial wrapping of some underling, and cast it upon his hapless assistant, Ackmed.  "Here, hold this!," he ordered.  The Shroud fluttered over Ackmed and settled rather squarely upon him, causing the flunky to cough at the dust carried by the heavy linen and then convert into a hyenna, who promptly bit the professor on the ankle and then scurried for daylight. He would later make his way to America, and successsfully run a convenience store.

"Sweet Fancy Moses!," cried Professor Poindexter.  "What a really cool artifact! Just wait until I show my boss this!--Why, with this rag, I can turn anyone into their inner animal!"  The Professor folded the Shroud neatly, and made swiftly back to the university to show his find to his superiors. He got a cool reception from the Dean of Arts and Parties, Frank Lee Unctuous.

"You stupid twit!," exclaimed Dean huffily upon seeing the Shroud.  "Couldn't you have brought back a mummy, or something made of gold that at least had some value?"  The Dean continued to berate Professor Poindexter until he tired of the abuse, and cast the Shroud over his superior. The Dean coughed as the Shroud fluttered around a bit, and then the former Dean scurried out, transformed into a rat!  Professor Poindexter stomped at the rat a few times before the squeaking creature ran off down a corridor.

"This is definitely cool!," said the professor to himself.  "Who needs Harry Potter's cloak of invisibility when I've got an instrument of furry transformation, and just in time for October 31st!- -This is gonna be the best Howloween ever!- -Let's see what my inner self is!"

Professor Poindexter ducked under the Shroud, feeling odd as his human flesh touched the faint image of the fox on the ancient linen.  Motes of sparks danced before his eyes, and for a moment his consciousness was aware of something unspeakable with tentacles, one of the Old Ones which passed by him.  His bodily form seemed to melt away, dissolving into the swirling sparks of light and then re-constituting itself into his inner self.  He was delighted to see that he now had a bushy tail and a most handsome burnt umber colored coat, accented nicely with black-furred extremities and paws with semi-retractable claws.  Raising his forepaws to his head, the Professor discovered that his face now extended into a muzzle, and that his ears stood upright and had assumed a pointed shape. He had lost none of his intellect, and retained power of speech!

"Praise pointed ears and pitchforks!," the Professor exclaimed in wonder.  "I'm a freakin' fox!"  He cast off the shroud, which now fluttered to the ground.  Had the Professor not been so excited, he might have noticed that the Shroud was now just a large sheet of old linen, having transferred its living but dormant image into flesh again.  The essence of the long-deceased fox would now walk in the world anew, sharing life and consciousness with what had only minutes earlier been just another unfulfilled human...

...they raced into the night as one, giddy with the best of both worlds that they now possessed...     

[firefox_b]

A Corpse's Shell
by ff_b

Alex the fox didn't know how long he had been dead; perhaps it was for ten days, perhaps ten years.  Time didn't

mean a heck of a lot once you were dead, as its measurement was irrelevant once you existed beyond time.  His body

was no longer corporeal, and had basically floated through the earth in which his remains rested as the result of a

less than favorable encounter with a truck; Alex looked at his paw and could see through it, the transparency

varying with the flux and flow of his endoplasmic matrix.  Alex sighed, missing his body of flesh and bone, which

was not without its charms.  Still, being a "shadow fox" as one could call the vulpine deceased, had its

compensations as well.  His spiritual body never knew hunger or disease, and never tired.- -Some of the living would

kill for such a body!


Alex was meditating on these things when a warm paw touched him on the shoulder, causing him to jump.  He wheeled

about to behold a gray and white cat who pulled back upon realizing that the shadow fox had been startled.


"Sorry, didn't mean to cause you a fright!," apologized the cat.  "But shouldn't I really be the one who's afraid,

you being dead and all?- -Name's 'Roofshadow,' pleased to meet 'ya!," declared the cat as he extended a paw.


"You...you can see me?," marveled Alex as he tentatively wrapped his tranlucent paw around the feline one of

flesh and fur.  "How is that, since I'm just a spirit?," he asked.


"Oh, we felines really know our way around the supernatural," explained Roofshadow matter-of-factly. "Our kind have

been the familiars of witches, after all, as have I--We see and know things that other species don't."


"Far out!," wondered the fox.  "You really aren't concerned that I'm dead?"


"We all get there sooner or later," dismissed the cat. "Why fear the inevitable?"


"What I wanna know," complained Alex, "is if I'm dead, where are my 72 virgins?"


"That's just if you're an Islamic terrorist," explained Roofshadow.  "But if it makes you feel better, there are

probably some virgins reading this story."


"I'll take what I can get, then," acquiesced Alex, "and hopefully some of them are guys!--But how can I, err, enjoy

things if I'm not composed of matter anymore?"


"Well, if you've ever seen Patrick Swayze in Ghost, you may remember that you can manipulate matter even as a

spirit by really focusing on it, and getting all emotionally charged up!"


Alex was pondering this thought when a round passed through his spectral body and buried itself in a tree, mere

inches from Roofshadow!  A frustrated hunter blundering through the woods had decided to take target practice on the

cat, who unlike the shadow fox was quite vulnerable to such. 


"Yikes!," cried Roofshadow, taking off at a good pace while bullets cracked around him.


"Hey!-- Leave my friend alone!," shouted Alex at the hunter, who neither saw nor heard the deceased fox.  The hunter

took off after Roofshadow, with the shadow fox moving behind through the air in pursuit of the hunter.  He swiped at

the hunter repeatedly with his paws, but they passed through the human flesh undetected. After several minutes of

this, the hunter was placing shots closer to the tiring cat.


Growing furious and desperate to save his new friend, the fox spirit flung himself entirely upon the hunter, landing

undetected within the human's lower body.  He found himself surrounded by the revolting internal organs of the pink

skin, involved as they were in the bodily processes of digestion and elimination; it was not a pretty sight! 

Looking upwards and out of the man's body, Alex could see that he had paused to draw a deadly bead on Roofshadow,

who was running in a straight line at this point and not likely to escape the shot.


"Leave...him...the hell...alone!," screamed Alex as he flailed his body and gnashed his teeth against the

innards of the hunter's body...and in the extremity of his emotions, the spectral body of the fox momentarily

assumed physical substance.


The hunter's face took on a most peculiar and then agonized expression as a fox's head tore through his abdominal

wall, clenching loops of steaming intestines in his jaws and shaking them from side to side.  The hunter collapsed

as the fox pulled free of the human body in a parody of birth, drenched in gore.  Mercifully, the hunter went into

shock and bled out quickly, his last thought being that he had seen a demon from hell emerging from his guts.


Exhausted, Roofshadow doubled back to the semi-eviscerated body of the hunter, seeing as well the spectral form of

the shadow fox hovering in the air above it.


"Did I do that?," asked Alex.


"Yuppers," assented Roofshadow. "Death from within!" 


They paused together in silence for a minute, the shadow fox and the witch's familiar cat.  After a few moments,

Roofshadow spoke.  "And since you've saved my life, I think I owe you a little thanks!"  The cat murmured a brief

encantation in Celtic, and reached over to paw the fox's crotch...


...and once again, the spirit assumed flesh, rather firm flesh at that as the fox and the feline took their

relationship to new heights...   

[firefox_b]

The Cabin
by ff_b

Larry and Darryl had been best buds since junior high school, so it was only natural that they wound up together in the hunting cabin on the evening of October 31st.  After a few hours of cards and Coors, Darryl hoped that he and Larry could get into a little of the Brokeback Mountain thing.  Larry had kind of lured Darryl into hunting, not that he was all that crazy about it.  Still, if killing a few animals gave him time alone with Larry, that floated Darryl's boat.  He found that it helped if he didn't think much about it when he pulled the trigger on whatever was in the crosshairs. Larry had even talked him into mounting a deer's head trophy on his wall back home; it seemed so alive sometimes that it creeped him out a bit.

The weather hadn't been great this hunting trip, with a lot of rain and not much game to be found.  As Larry and Darryl knocked down a few wet ones, a strange mist started to arise outside of the small cabin which thickened quickly.  Out of this mist shapes appeared to surround the cabin, the lumbering forms of deer that the duo had killed previously.  They were in differing stages of decomposition, some with gaping bullet holes and dried blood on their fur, others with shattered limbs and clouded eyes staring lifelessly out of their sockets.  Bones protruded from the hides of several of them.  Standing upright, they began to pound on the timbers of the cabin with their hooves, the sounds startling inside the sparsely-furnished abode.

Larry looked out the window in response to the sounds with a mixture of fear and excitement.  "Dang, we're surrounded by zombie deer!," he declared to Darryl.  "Now this is what I call a target-rich environment!," he added as he shouldered his weapon and the two hunters targeted their assailants through the window.  Their rifles cracked and the slugs tore into the bodies of the deer, who flinched and responded to the impacts but were not stopped by them, continuing a relentless assault upon the exterior of the cabin.  Within a few minutes the door gave way under the pounding and a large antlered buck entered.  The two men pumped round after round into him, but the buck continued advancing, lowering his enormous antlers and pinning Larry against the cabin wall.

"You can't kill us," said the deer to the hunters.  "We're already dead!--Take them outside!," ordered the large antlered buck to his compatriots, who responded by butting the two men roughly outside.  To their astonishment, the neutralized hunters saw the deer beginning to assemble into some kind of formation.

"Hit it!," commanded the big buck to his companions.  In response, a generator roared to life, flooding an area in front of the cabin with light as familar music began to play.  The assembled deer began to twitch in perfect synchrony with the music.  It took a few seconds, but then Darryl realized what was happening.

"Oh my God!," said Darryl softly.--"They're doing the dance from 'Thriller!'"

"Son of a bitch!," responded Larry.  "That's some pretty impressive choreography, though!"

"Who ever would have thought that deer could move that well?--Especially, err, dead ones!," commented Darryl.

"And where did they ever get a red leather jacket to fit that big antlered buck?," added Larry.

As the number concluded, the big antlered buck wearing a copy of Michael Jackson's trademark jacket approached Larry and Darryl, who were attempting to applaud a little despite their fear and wonder.  The big buck leaned forward over Larry, causing them to think that he was about to lick or plant a kiss on him.  Instead, the buck clamped onto Larry's neck with his teeth, and tore off a ribbon of flesh.  Darryl started to scream uncontrollably as the deer began to chew the tidbit.

...he was still screaming when he woke up at home in his bed drenched in sweat.  "Thank God, it was only a dream!," muttered Darryl as he arose shakily to stagger to the bathroom and throw cold water on his face.  

...had Darryl only looked, he would have seen the mounted head of the deer on the wall twist his neck to follow his departure, the eyes of the deer slitted and demonic, and his mouth contorted into an apparent dark smile...  

[firefox_b]

Counterweight
by ff_b

Paranormal agent James Takata of the Talamasca saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand, walking through the streets of Soho in the rain.  As was his fashion Takata observed undetected, blending in perfectly with his surroundings and the occasional passing stranger.  From a following distance of perhaps fifty feet Takata sent forth his third eye, feeling a slight tug as the non-corporeal structure detached from his forehead and floated invisibly forward to further discern the intentions of the werewolf.

Little stood out about the werewolf in his non-transformed state that would announce his true nature to the world.  He was not a well-groomed individual and was larger and hairier than most, but otherwise would not have stood out at a sporting event.  It was his behavior that rendered the werewolf objectionable, especially indiscretions such as the mutilation of little old ladies late at night.  Such events tended to render the English populace uneasy, and demanded that prompt action be taken.  It was foolish in the extreme for the werewolf to take prey so close to the Talamasca's motherhouse in London.  Takata had taken the assignment, together with a warning from his superior. "Better stay away from him," warned the supervisor.  "He'll rip your lungs out, Jim!"  Takata had nodded in acknowledgement and taken immediately to the trail, quickly picking up the scent of his quarrry with heightened olfactory senses.

The eye hovered invisibly near the werewolf, maintaining pace with his as he walked.  Takata observed through the eye's vantage point the menu that the werewolf was carrying; he was looking for a place called Lee Ho Fooks, where a reading of the beast's mind suggested that he intended to procure a big dish of beef chow mein.  Takata was sympathetic to such tastes himself; had the werewolf not savaged the humans, he might have even enjoyed being a dinner companion.  Aversive as he was to taking an offender in a public place, Takata knew that sometimes there was no other way.  He called the eye back to him, pausing as the organ reseated itself between and slightly above his eyebrows.  When a few minutes had passed, Takata meditated to center himself, steeled his resolve, and then followed the werewolf into the small establishment, knowing it likely that only one of them would leave it.

The beast was already well into his plate of beef chow mein, eating ravenously.  Had he restricted his diet to Chinese cuisine, this confrontation would not have been necessary.  "Excuse me, Sir," said Takata to the werewolf. "Didn't you attend Warren G. Harding High School?"  Takata took advantage of the distraction to ease himself into the seat opposite the creature.

"I don't know what you're talking about about!," responded the beast roughly, shreds of chow mein hanging from one corner of his mouth.  "Now get out of here!--I don't know you!--I don't like you!," he added, spitting the words out for emphasis.  

"Perhaps then you might have heard something about the little old lady who was mutilated late last night?," pressed Takata.  The beast's eyes glowed with sudden recognition of the fact that he had been stalked and cornered.  Transforming rapidly into a snarling humanoid wolf, he raked out at Takata's face with a murderous, savagely-clawed hand.

Takata, however, was already moving, executing an impossible vertical leap into the air.  The flash of his katana blade was barely perceptible to human eyes as he descended, slashing in a murderous arc across the werewolf's neck and severing the head neatly.  The head thunked on the table, its eyes still open and filled with a mixture of ferocity and surprise as the massive body slumped forward, the neck stump spurting blood as the still-beating heart gradually became aware that its owner had died.  It was only then that Takata flicked blood from his blade, and in a smooth, stylized gesture neatly returned the katana to its scabbard.

Patrons of the restaurant were by then screaming and running out of the establishment, but Takata took a moment to pick up the werewolf's cup of untouched tea and savor a swallow of the rich golden nectar, warming his paws on the cup and feeling the warmth of the brew fill him within.  Takata gazed into the cup, pausing to reflect as he did so upon the motto of the Talamasca; "We watch...And we are always there."  

His vulpine tail swayed elegantly from side to side as Takata padded quietly out of the now vacant restaurant and soon blended imperceptibly into his surroundings..    

[firefox_b]

Wrath of the Antlered
by ff_b

Jason the buck hadn't anticipated seeing a hunter lurking around the bend in the woods early that frosty morning; he had quite forgotten about the opening of deer season.  The rifle slug tore into Jason, its impact knocking the Starbucks coffee from his hoof as he backpedaled desperately, adrenaline giving him strength despite his mortal wound.  Leading the hunter, Jason was able to find a concealing thicket and evade the man even as his life leaked from the gaping hole torn into his chest.  He peered from the underbrush, watching as the hunter plodded resolutely by; the bozo appeared to be a cross between Elmer Fudd and Sarah Palin, and reeked of beer, body odor, and arrogance.

Weakening rapidly, Jason rested on his side as he raked mud from the damp earth and fashioned a crude figure from the clay soil, praying as he did so that there would be time to complete his task.  His breath growing raspy, Jason chanted phrases from a strange language not spoken in hundreds of years as his work was finished.  He held the golem in his hooves, breathed upon it, and smeared the clay with his spittle and blood. Jason looked upon the figure with satisfaction as several blue motes of light seemed to trace its outline and fill it with an otherworldly energy. 

"Avenge me!," gasped Jason to the small figure, and he died.

The small clay figure fell from the lifeless hooves, and began to move on the ground by its dead creator, at first almost imperceptibly and then in writhing, twisting motions.  It seemed to draw additional substance from the earth itself, adding mass and size as it did so.  Within an hour the golem stood erect, fully the size of a regular buck, and opened his black, bottomless eyes upon the world. There was a slight sucking sound as the golem pulled free of the clay soil and began to move forward, awkwardly at first and then with increasing fluidity. 

The hunter did not see the deer golem approaching from behind, and the large clay animal grabbed him roughly, breaking his neck in the commando fashion. Stooping to retrieve the slain hunter's weapon, the animated deer of earth regarded the rifle, turning it about in his clay hoof and then firing it experimentally into the air. The sharp retort of the gun seemed to please the golem; instinctively he knew that this artifact of man would make his work much easier.

There were many hunters in Pennsylvania's woods that day of buck season, but the indestructible deer golem knew that it would be a target-rich environment.  He strode purposefully and powerfully forward on hooves of clay as he moved resolutely on to continue the grim harvest...    

 

[firefox_b]

Dances With Meat by ff_b

In a time long ago, a religious bovine zealot called John the Brisket was holding court, telling his listeners to straighten up and fly right because the Big Cheese was sending his Number One Son.  "Straighten the path," John would preach to his audience.  "Prepare a highway!"

"'Scuse me, Sir," asked a listener meekly, raising his paw.  "But why do we need a highway when we don't have cars?"

"Silence!," chided John, swishing his tail in agitation.  "I'll keel you!"

"Keel me, Sir?," continued the listener.  "I don't even see a boat here at the moment."

At this point, John the Brisket threw himself at the listener, and scratched him up really good with the goatskin garments that he wore.  Soon thereafter, John was thrown into the slammer for going rogue by King Herriots, who ran a nice hotel.  Languishing in the dungeon, John was pretty much left alone, eating locusts and honey as he did, which kinda grossed people out.  At least he was low maintenance...

Meanwhile, King Herriots was expanding his mind by watching the girl Salami perform her Dance of the Seven Veals, which was always a real crowd-pleaser for a number of reasons.  You might say that the dance aroused a variety of appetites, with the largely furry audience both hungry and horny. 

"I'm filled with conflicting emotions!," muttered one wolf.  "I don't know if I want to eat the veal, or do the girl!"

"Kissing don't last, cooking do," responded a fox present.  "Go for the veal first, then the girl!," he counseled.

"Sounds like a plan to me!," agreed the wolf.

Meanwhile, Salami continued to slap the veal deftly around her nubile body while the audience drooled and emitted mixed howls of lust and hunger, not necessarily in that order.  She finished her dance at last and scurried off to where the King applauded while the audience hooted and howled their disappointment at both the veal and the bimbo's departure.

"Well done, my child!," enthused King Herriots.  "Your dance has pleased me so much that I will grant you any wish that you desire!"

"I want the head of John the Brisket on a platter!," asked Salami, not missing a beat.

"Are you sure?," asked the King.  "Do you want fries with that?"

"Nah, I'll take the onion rings," opted Salami.

"Have it your way!," shrugged the King with a dismissive gesture of his hand.

Well, in just no time at all the King's flunkies returned with the head of John the Brisket on a platter, prompting comments of "Eww!" and "Gross!" from the KIng's audience.

"Well, there goes my appetite!," complained the once-hungry wolf.

"What's the matter?," teased Salami as she held her morbid trophy aloft.  "Never knew a guy to refuse head before!"

And the assembled crowd pelted the dancer with fish, feeling that she well-deserved it...   
 

[firefox_b]

The Augment
 by ff_b

The lithe figure moved with athletic grace and speed almost silently through the woods, keeping comfortably ahead of his pursuers from the secret government installation called only, "the Shop."  Their scent signatures were readily discernible to him, each one unique and distinctive.  Although he had been running for hours, he could have easily continued to do so for an indeterminate period of time, indeed all night if he needed to.   As darkness spread, his eyes adjusted readily to the gloom, for he could see well in minimal light.   The humanoid sniffed the air as he ran, rejoicing in its heady aroma and the wealth of information each breath brought him.  A genetically augmented human, the fugitive was well-equipped to use his heritage to escape those sought him.

As he maintained a powerful stride, the man-thing pondered his origins in the laboratory where as a human embryo his genes were spliced with those of a variety of animals and even plants, rendering him into something humanoid but quite extraordinary.   They had called him "Adam" in honor of the supposed original man, but his hot blood coursed to rhythms other than those of a single species.  His innate hatred of captivity had led Adam to escape the prison that had birthed him when the time was right, the scientists caught off guard and security personnel no match for his preternatural reflexes and strength.  He had left them bloodied and broken in the hallways, and feeling strangely exhilarated by the combat.

So Adam ran through the night, feeling at one with it.  When day broke, he effortlessly climbed a tree from which he could see for miles, exposing as he did so chloroplasts in his skin which enabled the conversion of sunlight into energy.  Indeed, Adam could survive without food if in the sun for at least twelve hours a day, although he most often used solar exposure to enhance his bodily reserves.  As he sunned himself, Adam's skin also assumed a protective camouflage pattern, matching that of the leaves and tree bark that surrounded him and rendering him indistinguishable from it.  

The turmoil of an approaching helicopter roused Adam from his brief rest; how had it tracked him?--Of course, the microchip that they had implanted in the lab, how could he have been so negligent as to have forgotten it?!--Adam clawed open the skin on his thigh, grimacing at the pain and smashing the chip on a tree branch.  The helicopter was closer now, its sound almost deafening.  Hurriedly, Adam reached to his lower ribs and pried off the symbiont, a disk-shaped, mollusk-like creature.  When the helicopter had closed to within a few dozen feet, Adam flung the symbiont at the small craft with strength and accuracy not humanly possible.  The symbiont thunked against the helicopter's metallic skin, attaching itself and exuding a molecular acid which swiftly burned through the hull.  Once inside, the symbiont scurried on crab-like legs towards the human inhabitants of the helicopter, flinging itself upon them.  They instinctively clawed at the horrid creature, but received only painful burns as the acid which coated the symbiont ate into their flesh.  Within moments, the chopper veered wildly off course, its pilot losing all control as he struggled to remove the symbiont from his face.  Careening about, the helicopter rotors sliced into nearby upper tree branches, causing it to flip sideways, impact with a tree, and explode.

Again alone, Adam mourned the loss of the symbiont, his chameleonic skin flushing with a variety of colors to register his distress.  He descended the tree, his clawed hands and feet easily finding purchase on the bark. Freed of the microchip but alarmed by how close his pursuers had come, Adam made his way to the sea, knowing that he could not  as easily be followed there.  The gill slits on his neck opened as he cast himself into the water, that ancient cradle of life which would now serve as his sanctuary until he and others like himself could inherit the world...    

[firefox_b]

Unchained
by ff_b

Reggie smirked smugly to himself on December 21st, 2012 when the day had almost passed without incident.  None of the dire warnings had come true; how absurd to believe inthe apocalyptic predictions of Nostradamus or the Mayans, when every godly person knew that they'd simply get caught up with Jeeezus in the air!  Everyone who didn't cotton to that would find themselves toasting their tootsies in the fiery furnace, yes indeedy doo...

As Reggie went that December 21st evening to mail his latest check to Pat Robertson, he sighed lamenting the fact that Sarah Palin had not been elected president that November!  Ah well, thought Reggie, proof positive that America was on the highway to hell!    Reggie was so glad that he had his reservation in at the Pearly Gates, a vantage point from which he could watch the descent of the great multitude of sinners into Hell.- -Wouldn't that be a kick?!

But before Reggie could reach the post office, an earthquake shook his local downtown, huge slabs of asphalt roadway bursting skyward!  From a yawning crater in the midst of the devastation, an enormous furry creature emerged, one which was easily the size of the Statue of Liberty.  That Goliath pulled himself free of the underground, then gave forth a mighty howl, hundreds of windows shattering in response. Fenrir the wolf of Nordic mythology was free at last, and more than ready for the Battle of Ragnarok that would take place before the end of the world!   

Reggie provided little more than a small mouthful for the great wolf, who devoured the self-righteous jerk in a single bite.  Fenrir's real appetite was for Odin, however, who he sensed would provide far more resistance before being eaten.

As a tune-up for this main event, Fenrir cast his well-muscled, enormous body into the ocean, and began swimming with powerful strokes in the direction of Monster Island, where he trusted he could find some worthy competition...Bones of the Saints, this was gonna be fun!   
 

[firefox_b]

Oh, What A Feeling!
by ff_b

On a bitterly cold winter evening while the "Wolf Moon" was full in the sky, groundhogs and other kinds of roadkilled-creatures were infused with a strange dark magic, and empowered to tear their frozen fur and flesh from the black macadam where they had met their violent ends.  Moving stiffly and dragging their torn and broken bodies, the furry zombies gathered slowly in an open field by the thousands.
 
"Alright, may I have your attention, please?," said a German Shepherd, his head hanging at an unnatural angle.  "We all know why we're here, right?," he inquired of the assembled multitude.

"We're here for...brains!," cried a flattened groundhog, as comrades around him chattered in excited agreement.

"No, no, that's a stereotype!," chided the German Shepherd, dark fluid running from a ruined eye.  "We've got something better to use against the naked apes, plus take revenge on their motorized vehicles that put us in this sad state!"

"Say what?," said the groundhog, a bit slow on the uptake in life and even more so in death.

"We're gonna screw with all of their vehicles," explained the Shepherd.  "Make it so they accelerate unpredictably,  causing the humans to go out of control, and wreck!"

The frigid night stillness was shattered with a variety of excited hoots, yaps, and chattering as the frozen zombie furs signaled their interest.  When it had subsided, the Shepherd continued...

"And we're gonna strike first at one of their most reliable, most trusted cars, the Toyotas, he advised.  "When they feel they can't trust even these cars, their economy will be shaken to the core!  Then we'll sabotage other types of cars, so the pink skins will be afraid to drive any kind of vehicle!  And when the humans take to walking, they'll be on an equal footing with US!- -And you know what will happen then, my furry fellows?"

The chanting began, softly at first, and then growing louder until it echoed against the dark hills and reached upwards to the enormous cold moon...

"Brains...Brains...BRAINS!," intoned the frozen dead as one, as those able to do so howled in delight to the Wolf Moon that hovered overhead in benediction.

"I like the way you're thinking," grinned the Shepherd, his one good eye filled with an otherworldly energy...   

[firefox_b]

Cellular Defense
by ff_b

Although the alien had cloaked himself with holographic normality, the illusion was transparent to paranormal agent James Takata of the Talamasca.  He pursued the alien invisibly, confronting the unknown creature at last in an alley, not wishing to jeopardize innocents.

"Where are you from?," challenged Takata, "And what is your purpose here?"

The alien regarded Takata quizzically.  "You are not like the others," he hissed.  "An anomaly!  We shall study you after you are dead."

"I don't think so," replied Takata, "but I've been dead before!"  His ears flattened as he drew his katana and assumed the position of Warrior Ready.

Dropping his holographic deception, the alien presented his true form to the vulpine, that of a hideous, gelatinous creature with flailing tentacles.  He advanced on Takata and was met with a powerful blow from a razor-sharp blade that cleaved the creature in half.  Retreating momentarily, each of the pieces re-organized itself to assume bilateral symmetry.  Both half the size of the original, the two segments advanced anew on Takata.

Again his blade flashed, lopping his two smaller assailants into several pieces, each of which reorganized into a yet smaller copy of the original to continue a relentless advance on Takata.  Recognizing their capacity for reproduction, Takata began deflecting the amoeboids with the flat sides of his blade, but several flung themselves in unison against his legs and his back, tearing away fur and skin with their abrasive tentacles.

Bleeding from several wounds, Takata was weakening but not without his resources.  "From hell's heart I stab at you; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at you, you damned thing!," he cried.  As Takata's blood flowed, the leukocytes in it floated out of the streaming crimson fluid, growing to macrocellular size and wafting through the air to attack the loathsome tentacled aliens.  Enveloping them as they would bacteria, the leukocytes began digesting the invading aliens, their high-pitched ultrasonic screams piercing the air.  Once the aliens had been dissolved, the leukocytes shrank in size, wafted back through the air, and re-integrated themselves into Takata's blood.

Possessed of accelerated healing mechanisms, Takata was able to assume an upright posture within minutes.  "What is evil," he mused , "but good that has been tormented by its own hunger and thirst?"  And feeling a mite peckish himself following his ordeal, Takata went in search of a good Chinese restaurant, walking among the world of men but forever apart from them...    

[firefox_b]

Compensatory Damages
by ff_b

Sylvia ran a  bit on the wild side, so it wasn't unusual for her parties to be the same.  By anyone's standards,

one the other night was totally out of bounds when Rat the biker dude got liquored up so badly that he couldn't

remember anything afterwards.  For Rat, sadly this wasn't unusual.


Now all bikers certainly aren't bad dudes, don't get me wrong...Rat was just one of the rotten apples, looking like

the stereotype of the badass biker with a big hulking body and hair hanging down beyond his shoulders.  He wore a

battered black leather bikers jacket one suspected even to bed.- -Well, when Rat got bombed out of his mind that

evening, he picked up one of Sylvia's TV sets and chucked it at the wall.  Sylvia screamed at her party guest from

hell, but that had the same effect on Rat as a feather duster might have.   Anyhow, Rat was on a roll, so he picked

up another TV set, and repeated his performance, with the exception that this time the TV landed on Pringles the

cat, who died instantly.


Sylvia took Rat to court, where Judge Rudely listened distainfully to the case before assigning $1,200 in damages

to Sylvia, the estimated cost of replacing the two televisions destroyed as well as the damaged drywall.  I

observed the whole affair from the Visitor's Gallery.


"What about the cat?," I shouted out.  "What value do you assign to a life?  And how can you begin to compensate

the woman for the loss of her cat's companionship?"  Judge Rudely was already exiting to her chambers, however, as

the bailiff cleared the courtroom.

 
I decided to confront Rat on the issue, following him to outside a bar where he had just parked his bike.  I

followed Rat into the bar, passing time there until he left much later after dark.  It was not until then that I

walked up to the big biker as he prepared to leave.


"You killed a cat," I said quietly.  "How do you intend to make amends for that?- - How for that matter can

you?," I asked.


Through his drunken haze, Rat looked at me as if I was from Mars, his breath rank and offensive to my heightened

senses.  "Who the hell are you?," he slurred.  "I just killed a f***** animal, that's all!- -I don't even remember

doing it."


"Animal?," I replied.  "Sir, I am one!"


Rat threw a beefy fist in my direction, but he appeared to me to be moving in slow motion.  I easily sidestepped

the punch, batting Rat's arm out of the way and opening up multiple parallel cuts in his flesh as my claws, now

exposed, passed over the arm.  I then grabbed the biker by the throat and with one arm lifted him with off the

ground.  Rat tore at my fingers, but my claws were quite well anchored at that point.  His boots kicked in empty

air, struggling in vain to find purchase.


"You see, Rat," I explained as I effortlessly held the struggling man aloft, "if there are no laws on earth which

can touch you, there is always a higher law which can!"  I twisted my paw slightly, reassured by the satisfying

snap that a neck makes when it breaks.


(Tossing the lifeless body aside as if it were weighless, the feline in human form vaulted easily to the top of a

nearby roof, and was soon invisible in the embrace of the night...)