Path: not-for-mail
From: osfer.kesh@gmail.com
Newsgroups: fur.stories.erotica
Subject: Maranatha -- Chapter I, as told by Owen Zelazny
Date: Fri, 26 Nov 2004 04:17:52 -0800
Organization: http://groups.google.com
Lines: 933
Message-ID: <bc8ddcff.0411260417.351dc615@posting.google.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: 213.84.169.5
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="ISO-8859-1"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
X-Trace: posting.google.com 1101471473 17544 127.0.0.1 (26 Nov 2004 12:17:53 GMT)
X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 26 Nov 2004 12:17:53 +0000 (UTC)

===================

Hello everyone. 

I participated in the National Novel Writing Month with great
enthusiasm this year, even organising a few writing workshops for
fellow NaNoers. However, when I got stuck halfway through the month
and decided to cut my losses. I started on a new project, something
I'd hoped would be easy -- furry pr0n, obviously -- however, the story
got out of control and now actually has -- gasp, horror! -- plot and
characterisation

I'm going to put the first six chapters up here to see what sort of a
respone people have to it, and add more as I write them. I hope you
enjoy.

- Osfer

 

 

M A R A N A T H A
   
   
    © Osfer, November 2004
   
   
    All rights reserved.
   
    May only be distributed for free.
   
    May not be altered in any way.
   
    Contains material of an erotic and homosexual nature which may be
illegal to read in your country, state, province or region.
   
    The author takes no responsibility for transgressions on the part
of the reader
   
    Comments welcome at osfer.kesh@gmail.com.
   
   
    ~ Enjoy. ~
     

 


    Chapter III – As Told By Owen Zelazny
   

   I zip my jacket up again and smooth back my hair. "Rear entrance to
Ferrum's office. Might be a guard. Only exits are the double doors
right opposite the elevator and the stairwell to the left. You really
think this guy has something to do with Alice? You explained it to me
and it made sense at the time, but I've kinda forgotten," I admit as I
watch the numbers on the little LCD screen steadily rise.
    "I told you. He tried to hook you at the Dive the same night
Sharpish took Alice home, and then he was seen meeting with that
ferret last night. He must know something and if he doesn't, well…
There's no way we can take on Sharpish on our own. Even if I collect
every favour I'm owed, and I doubt that more than half the guys who
owe ‘em are goin' to stick to their honour, we still won't have the
moxie to make Sharpish do anything he doesn't want to. That fucking
ferret's got more people in his pockets than I've had suck my dick,"
the dog growls. It's times like this that I'm reminded that my friend,
the big tough dobermann, is a pretty small dog in the scheme of
Maranatha's crime circles. He makes his money dealing, and he's good
at it, but he's never really developed much clout because he has these
pesky morality issues. He won't sell teenagers anything harder than
weak weed or maybe a few tabs of E and he won't sell anything at all
to anybody he considers ‘too young'. It makes others see him as soft,
but he usually doesn't care.
    He does today. I know what he's thinking, as we watch those
numbers creep toward sixteen. If he'd done the things he didn't want
to, pushed the pills into the schools, made himself a reputation, got
some following… If he'd done that, he'd have the clout to simply call
up Sharpish and tell him to let Alice go, and maybe offer him
something in trade. But he didn't, and he can't.
    When the doors open I see two guards across the hallway, guarding
the heavy oaken doors to Ferrum's guest offices. They're wearing the
black, unmarked jumpsuits of Ferrum's personal security force, which
is worrying. I crack a smile, preparing to bluff my way past but
before I can even open my mouth Malloy shoulders past me and decks the
guard on the left, a tiger, right in the face, following with a punch
to his abdomen and as he grabs the tiger's head and bashes it against
the doorframe he delivers a sharp mulekick to the other guard's
stomach, knocking that jackal right against the other doorframe. The
tiger slumps down and the jackal recovers quickly, pulling out his
nightstick and taking a swing at Malloy, so I jump forward out of the
elevator and block the nightstick with my arm. It hurts like hell and
knocks me off balance but Malloy's right there, pulling the
unconscious tiger's nightstick free from its scabbard and gives the
jackal a good whack between the legs, finishing him off with another
blow to the back of the head.
    "Jesus, Mal," I whisper as I cradle my arm to my chest, shocked
and impressed by Malloy's outburst of violence. He doesn't listen. He
doesn't look up at me. He kneels by the fallen jackal, rolls him over
onto his back and unclips the guard's holster, pulling out the sleek
black gun. I feel that odd pain when your eyes go really wide but
before I can stop him or say anything Malloy's already turned his back
to me and runs up to the wooden doors, giving a sharp kick to the
door-handles and letting out a loud roar as he kicks the doors in.
    It's all I can do to scramble after him as he strides into the
spacious, well-lit corner office. We're in the lounge area, passing
comfortable leather sofas and a coffee-table strewn with, of all
things, porn magazines of various descriptions, all featuring a buff,
twinky blond puma on the cover in assorted states of S&M discomfort.
At the far end is the window-wall, with left of that the broad,
expansive desk and chair and computer and to the right a seat for a
secretary, now empty, and the official entrance to his guest office.
    "Right," says the dobermann loudly, marching forward with the gun
pointed at the stallion silhouetted in front of the window-wall. "My
name's Q. I. Malloy and I'm looking for my friend Aleš Vlcek, and
you're going to fucking help me find him, or there's going to be
unpleasantness."
    The horse says nothing, but turns from his perch at the window and
starts walking toward us. He's a hulking, black figure, the light from
the windows blinding enough that he seems a perfect silhouette as he
closes the distance toward us. I feel like I'm watching a movie, I'm
so lost, like I'm not even here and this is all between the dog and
the stallion.
    "Did you hear me, dickhead?" Malloy yells, jabbing the guard's gun
in the horse's direction. "I know you're in bed with that fucking
ferret and I swear, if you've got anything to do with what they did to
our Alice I'll pump you so full of lead–"
    "Aluminum," the stallion replies calmly, coming to a halt right
under one of the soft-focused spotlights, at which point I realise
he's shirtless. That, plus the oddity of his reply, causes Malloy to
stop in his tracks and think for a second. "Not lead, but aluminum.
The gun you're holding is a fourth-generation prototype magnetic
accellerator that fires non-volatile aluminum rounds. It's also
equipped with a biometric sensor on the surface of the trigger and an
integrated theta battery that will emit a disabling electrical shock
when it's fired by unauthorised persons."
    "Oh yeah?" asks Malloy, casting me a quick sideways look, hoping
surely I'll come up with something. I'm drawing a blank and shrug my
shoulders at him and he scowls, reaching behind him with his free hand
and pulls a badass-looking chrome-plated gun from the waistband of his
pants. "Well, I've got Lola here, too, and she does fire lead, so if
you–"
    The stallion shakes his head, with such scary calm. "Not today.
The only clip manufactured for the gun you're holding extends six
millimetres below the end of the grip and is black. There is obviously
no ammunition in your weapon." The stallion's voice is deep and
emotionless and those big, dark eyes glimmer with the intensity of
this equine's intellect. He takes a step forward and Malloy and I
instinctively step back, standing shoulder to shoulder. "I'm going to
take a shower," he announces simply, walking around his desk. "I'll
leave the door open. Have a seat, and tell me about your problem.
Owen, are you on the clock?"
    My heart's pounding in my throat as I hear the shuffling sounds of
the guards outside the door waking up. The stallion nods to them and
groggily they close the doors while he slides open the concealed
partition behind his desk, stepping into what seems to be a
cream-tiled bathroom. I just barely manage to croak an uncertain "no"
in response to his question, hearing his hoofsteps echo tinnily around
the room. Malloy and I exchange a glance, heave a deep sigh, and take
a seat on the couch next to the desk.
    "Pity,"  the horse's voice booms as he turns on the water. "Could
have used a blowjob. Now, your Czech friend. Did you know his surname
means Little Wolf?"
    Malloy slumps down on the couch, dropping the gun he took from the
guard and holstering Lola down the back of his pants, giving me a
pleading look as he tries to cover the trembling in his hands by
burying his face in them. "Er, yeah – I mean no," I stammer. "Alice is
a buddy of ours. I got a call from him today, he said he was in
trouble. And we figured out that he went with Sharpish a few nights
ago, so we think he's got him."
    "Sharpish. Ferret in a trench-coat, right? Curious nickname," the
stud says, groaning as he steps under the spray. I peer at the
door-opening of the bathroom and, in the polished cream tiles, I catch
a glimmer of a reflection of Tiber's dark body. His hide is almost the
same as Malloy's and his body is just as marble-hard, but obviously
way bigger. I'm feeling some uncomfortable stirring in the crotch of
my leathers and I'm having a hard time keeping my attention on the
job.
    "Yeah, that's the one." I can't take my eyes off the reflection in
the tiles, man. I want to go in there and crawl on my hands and knees
and beg for a mouthful, and the urge is really, really strong. "What
was your business with him, mister Ferrum?"
    The horse laughs, snorting water from his nostrils and from the
sound of things he's lathering himself up with some fine,
ambrosia-scented soap. "My business with your friend Sharpish was
prematurely concluded. I had perceived an opportunity but was rather
displeased with the methods that stinking ferret opted to employ.
Methods which, in all likelihood, involve your friend. Now, obviously
I'm not going to tell you what I did or didn't do because I'm not a
fool. But you've been of god service to me, Owen, and your canine
friend has some impressive gumption. More than my soon-to-be-fired
guards, at any rate. My theory would be that your unfortunate Little
Wolf has been selected to be a permanent host to the C-65 microbe
cluster, also known as the Henderson cluster, after the Maranatha
University doctorate student who discovered their properties. If you
had Alice on the phone today he probably hasn't been infected with the
microbes yet, which means that mister Sharpish is awaiting the arrival
of the microbes' carrier."
    I'm trying to figure out what all this means – microbes and
carriers and infection and all that – but Malloy's much quicker,
deciding that all that crap simply doesn't matter and strips the
information down to the basics. "So if we find this carrier we'll have
something Sharpish wants. Something he'll be willing to trade for. Who
are we looking for?"
    The water's turned off, now. Steam billows from the open bathroom
door. I'm almost drooling with lust. My thighs are squeezed together
because my dick hurts so much, trapped in that device, and the leather
creaks as I rub my knees against each other, panting hard. "Your
friend is very, very sharp, Owen. You'll have to introduce me
properly, next time. The carrier will definitely be male, and in order
to carry the microbes for as long as he has, he'll be young, virile,
but very capable of restraining his libido."
    The intercom on the desk buzzes and a soft, female voice says,
"Mister Ferrum? The UEN delegates have just returned Grey. Shall I
send his crate up to your office?"
    "Gentlemen, I'm afraid it's time for you to leave," the stallion
announces, clearly still preening himself in the bathroom. A hand juts
out of the door's opening and points to the desk, at the pile of
folders. I want to be on that desk, on my back, with that horse on top
of me. Or Malloy, I think as I see him stand up. Either will do. "The
green folder, third from the top, contains information on the
properties of C-65. It is very, very confidential and I do sincerely
hope you won't steal it. If you do, I'll be very disappointed. If you
steal any other folder than the green one, I'll have you tracked down,
tortured and killed. Good-bye now."
    His tone is final, and the threat doesn't sound idle. Malloy's
already at the desk and fishes out the folder indicated, tossing it at
me. I open it and peek at the front page, scanning – C-65 – Henderson
– oh my god I need to suck a dick so bad… "Thanks, mister Ferrum,
we're out of here," says Malloy and pushes my arm as he jogs over to
the service doors. He opens them and walks right to the elevator,
which opens as soon as he presses the button. I exit more sheepishly,
folding my ears as I pass between the tiger with the black eye and the
jackal with a little blood running down from his hairline, both of
them looking at me as if they want to fry me with an electric spark
like they're Tesla coils or something. "Owen, let's go!" Malloy yells,
holding the elevator door open for me and I hurry inside, unzipping my
jacket. I'm feeling really hot right now.
    I keep leafing through the file, trying to find anything
meaningful and take my mind off the fucking sexy dog standing next to
me, my best damn friend in the whole damn world, who still refuses to
this day to accept a discount when he fucks me, and he fucks me so
well, and I really want him to fuck me right now.
    He's got his cell-phone out, dialling a number. Looks at me. "You
okay, mate? You look a little–Yeah, it's Malloy. You behind a computer
now? I need to find out how many Hendersons there are at Maranatha U,
doctorate students, and what all they do. Never you mind why. Because
I say so! Jesus, Mark, just look it the fuck up and get back to me or
I'll fucking pwn you, noob!" He flips his phone shut and exhales,
grinning at me. "You gotta know how to talk to these people."
    We exit the elevator and walk to his car. "So, we gonna assume
that Sharpish has him, then? I mean, there's good odds that he does,
but it's still possible that somebody else got him." I don't answer,
lest I salivate too much. It's okay, though, you don't have to talk
for Malloy to have a conversation with you. "Then again, if somebody
else has him then we know fuck-all and we don't stand a chance of
findin' him. You're right, we should gamble on Sharpish. First thing
we ought to do is head over to Maranatha University, don'cha think? By
the time we get there Mark'll have the info on the Hendersons and we
can find out what all this is about. You sure you're all right? You're
awful quiet." he asks as I get in the car and buckle up.
    "I'm fine," I mutter. What I want to say is that I'd like him to
take a little detour so I've got time to give him some head, but then
we'd get into this thing about him not accepting freebies because he
respects me too much and that I really, really want him to drop a load
in me and he'd be doing me a favour. My hands are clammy, my breath is
shallow. I don't know what's fucking wrong with me. I put the folder
I'm reading into the glove compartment as we drive up the ramp and
give the guard panther in the security booth a friendly wink when we
exit.
    During the drive, I read the folder. Now, I'd like to say that the
words don't make sense to me. I'd like to say I'm so horny I can't
focus. Truth is, I'm really, really horny but I could still understand
what I was reading and I'm just too stupid to let it connect. So
here's me admitting I'm a stupidhead, so you don't go ahead and draw
that conclusion for yourself. I know I'm really stupid, but this is
what's happening.
    I mention the chapter titles to Malloy and such snippets as I can
find. The microbes cluster together in certain hormone glands. They
can be passed through semen, but oddly enough only through semen and
not blood and when the microbes are passed, the entire colony migrates
and the previous host retains none of their influence. And they only
pass when they perceive that they're passing into another body. They
can be kept from affecting a host by preventing erection, which would
allow them to move into certain nerve clusters, which means that, for
a time, they can be kept in a host who will be only minimally
affected. The stupid document doesn't mention what the effects are
until one of the very last pages. The C-65 microbe cluster causes a
geometric increase of the host's sexual urges, which sounds like a lot
of fun in itself, but it gets better!
    An extra sheet tacked on at the back, hand-written and signed
Brian B. Henderson, indicates that from an infected person's blood,
and to a far greater degree their semen, several substances can be
extracted that, properly treated, have phenomenal psychotropic and
aphrodisiacal effects, far beyond the effects of the much cruder Rut.
"Hey, our Henderson's called Brian and he's a hoofer," I inform
Malloy.
    If you're a good boy and you grew up in a safe neighbourhood you
maybe don't know what I'm talking about, but Rut's a sex drug for
herbivores, while predators and most omnivores are severely allergic
to it. Heat's the drug they use. So if our Henderson only knows Rut,
we know which side of the fence he's on.
    I leaf through all the pages again, and notice all the facts
again, and fail to connect them all again. Prevent erection. Increased
libido. Sex drugs. And then, something I hadn't noticed before, but
that libido-suppressants like paxadril have unpredictable neurological
effects such as fucking amnesia. Are you getting this? Obviously, this
is what Sharpish wants: to infect somebody good and helpless with this
microbe, say, somebody like our sweet Alice, and milk him for the rest
of his life to keep producing this C-65 stuff. Plus, more importantly,
I should now realise that I am the fucking carrier, what with my
dick-cage and my horniness and the fact that Sharpish sent a bunch of
thugs to come fetch me.
    But I don't notice any of this. What I do notice is a very
familiar young lion sitting at a table behind the window of a diner
just up ahead, looking unhappy, with a threesome of burly leopards in
bomber jackets around him and I point at him and before I have a
chance to shout who it is I saw and what I think Malloy should do he
spins the wheel and dives through the traffic of the oncoming lane,
guns the engine and sends the ‘vette flying up the curb and through
the glass wall of the diner, cruising through the air like a missile.
We crash through wooden tables and hit the ground hard, both of us
getting the wind knocked out of us when we jolt forward in our
seatbelts and the car spins madly as it screeches through the
half-empty diner, knocking one of the leopards off his feet with the
rear bumper before finally coming to rest in the very middle of the
diner, with shocked families and a panicked Alice and furious owners
and even more furious thugs glaring at us.
    In a heartbeat, I slice through my seatbelt with my bare claws and
shoulder my door open with such force that it comes off its battered
hinges and clatters to the floor. Malloy's out the other side,
stepping on the chest of the leopard he knocked down and hops over the
hood of his car, kicking a second thug right in the face. Damn, he's
hot…
    "Alice!" I yell as Malloy rounds on the second thug, who clocks
him right in the face. The lionboy, still dressed in his tight blue
tank top and wide mesh short-sleeved shirt overtop and his pink-dyed
hair and his tight latex pants, the same outfit he wore at the Dive
three days ago – he's so frightened he's still sitting at the table,
an inch away from the smoking, rumbling grille of Malloy's car, so
shocked he doesn't even flinch as Malloy's arm flies over his head to
return the punch he just received. "Alice, come here!" He hears me and
he sits up straight, and when his eyes lock on mine, the panic's gone,
just gone, and he jumps over the table with that marvellous feline
grace and runs over to me.
    "Let's go!" yells Malloy, stepping back from the trio of thugs –
even the one we knocked down has gotten up, advancing toward us. I
grab Aleš by the shoulders and pull him to me, feel him hug me around
the waist, and look out the windows to the streets. I see more
bomberjackets, and they could be just concerned citizens, or they
could be with Sharpish. I place my hand between his shoulders and
push, and the kid makes me proud. He lets go of me immediately and
runs in the direction I push him, following me toward the double doors
leading to the kitchen. The chef, a fat hog in one of those ridiculous
chef's hats is just coming through and I shoulder him down onto the
ground, muttering a half-hearted apology before I grab Alice by the
hand and lead him on through the kitchen, pushing the junior cooks
aside. "Your mother's a whore! Your mother's a whore!" I hear Malloy
yelling, furniture overturning and then a triumphant laugh and he
comes bursting through the doors, stepping on the hog's belly before
he follows us at blinding speed.
    With Malloy bringing up the rear I press on, holding Alice by the
hand, feeling him grip me as hard as he can. I kick open the single
door at the far end of the kitchen, ignoring the screams of outrage
from the pig on the floor and the looks of bewilderment from the poor
junior chefs and jump out into the alley beyond the door. I see
sunlight in one direction and head toward it, toward the street and
the safety of a crowd – and then I hear rough voices and footsteps.
"No! This way!" Malloy hisses and I stop in my tracks, catching Alice
when he bumps into me. With a pat on the ass I shove him in the other
direction and he grabs Malloy's outstretched hand, sprinting like a
hare.
    From the corner of my eye I see the chef sitting upright, getting
knocked down again when a leopard in a bomberjacket bursts in and
trips over him and before I know it I've ducked back into the kitchen,
reaching out to either side to grab the racks of cutlery and crockery
arrayed there and as I pull back out into the alley I pull them down
as hard as I can, blocking the doorway with the crashing shelves. I
turn and run down the alley, following the sight of Alice's golden
tailtuft, forcing myself not to turn and look when I hear heavy
footsteps coming up behind me – fuck, I even hear a car pulling up!
    Malloy and Alice have a good head-start, and Alice is being a good
boy. He's not looking back, he just holds on to Malloy's hand and runs
as fast as he can. Malloy lets go of his hand just long enough that he
can jump up onto a dumpster, long forgotten and rusty with misuse. He
lands on it with a loud, metallic bang and jumps up again to grab a
fire escape ladder, which should extend down, but the springs creak
and the rusty ladder only slides down half-way.
    By this time, I've caught up and I grab Alice by the waist, who's
looking down the alley and at whatever it is behind me with abject
fear in his eyes. I hoist him up onto the dumpster and clamber after
him, stumbling as I feel it roll away from the wall on its wheels.
Holding Alice by the waist I lift him up and he grabs the lowest rung
of the ladder with one hand, the other gets grabbed at the wrist by
Malloy, who hoists him upward and Alice quickly starts climbing the
fire escape. Malloy stays where he is, hanging off the lowest rung,
his hand outstretched to help me up. I clap my hand around his wrist
and he mine, then plant one boot against the brick wall and one
against the edge of the dumpster and with a growl I kick off and push
the dumpster away, hearing it thunder down the alley along with a
startled cry and a crash.
    Clumsily, but with great desperation, Malloy and I climb a ladder
together that was meant for only one and just as we're about to reach
the catwalk that leads to the fire ladders to the roof, I hear the
rusty iron groan again and the ladder slips, first a little and then
completely. I just manage to grab one rung of the solid half of the
ladder when the lower half falls away, taking Malloy with it, and in
blind reflex I reach out with my free hand to grab him. The ladder
hits my knee pretty bad on its way down, but all I care about is that
I get a good grip – I've got him by the shirt, by the shoulder, and I
can hear the fabric start to tear. Something metal clatters down on
the concrete after the ladder slams down and my eyes lock on Malloy's
when I hear his shirt tear again and in that moment, just before he
makes the two-storey drop to the concrete pavement and the vicious
thugs below, we both look up to see Alice, lying belly-down on the
catwalk, reaching down with feline reflexes to grab the dobermann by
the elbow, sinking his claws in deep enough to draw blood.
    The kid's got remarkable strength when it comes to it and holds on
to the dog long enough for me to grab his other arm and together we
heave him up onto the ladder. He's the first to climb up onto the
catwalk and helps Alice back on his feet, with me coming up behind as
they head up the fire-escape stairs. It's a rickety, hazardous
contraption but it holds out long enough for us to reach the roof, and
when I look back down the alley, seeing one thug leaning against the
wall next to the spot where the rolling dumpster came to rest,
clutching his knee and all the others running away from the alley and
down different directions of the street, I have to wonder: what the
fuck are we going to do when we're on the roof?
    Malloy seems to have a clear idea on where we should go, leading
us across the gravely flat roof with its rotating ventilation scoops
and air vents. My lungs are burning, but I honestly can't feel it, all
I can feel is an urge to run and to protect this young lion, this
Little Wolf., at any cost. It occurs to me, while I catch up and take
Alice's other hand in mine, that I never once looked back to see if
Malloy was okay and he never once looked back to check on me, when he
was ahead. Both of us would gladly stay behind if it gave Alice a
better chance and instinctively we know that about each other. If
Malloy fell behind, I wouldn't stop for him, I'd keep leading Alice
till he was safe and Malloy would do the same. Now that's friendship,
people.
    The jump to the next roof is a breeze and we don't even stop
holding hands as the three of us sprint in perfect sync, kick off at
the edge of the building and land on the brick ledge of the next. We
jump down and cross this roof as well. "Do you know where you're
going?" I ask Malloy, and Alice looks at the dog with some worry, as
if the thought is only now striking him as well.
    "Don't worry, lads," the dobermann says with that confident grin
of his, his black eyes glimmering. "I've got us sorted." The next
building's an easy jump as well, but Malloy pulls up short at the edge
of the building and veers to the side, jogging over to the fire escape
and lets go of Alice's hand to slide down the ladder, bracing his
boots on the sidebars. There's no catwalks on this building, just one
ladder straight down and he slides until he's about half way, on the
second floor. "Here," he announces and braces his knee against the
ladder, and pushes off. He turns in mid-air, planting his foot on the
ledge of the windowsill on the opposing building, but the brick ledge
falls away and he tumbles down, just barely catching the window-sill
to keep himself from falling completely. Alice grips my shoulder hard,
sucking in a breath in fright and heaves a relieved sigh when he sees
Malloy clambering back up on to the ledge, fiddling with the window's
latch until something snaps and he can slide the window up.
    I go down the ladder next, giving Alice a squeeze on the shoulder
when I sense his mild panic at being left alone on this building. I
stop a little higher than where Malloy did, but my jump goes much
better, my foot landing on the open window-frame and my body coming to
rest against the wall. I give Malloy a nice, in-your-face grin.
    "Show-off," he mutters and we both turn our attention back to the
other building, where Alice is climbing down the ladder, looking down
at the alley below with obvious vertigo. Shit, I should have
remembered that about him. Still, nothing to be done, and this really
is the safest way. "Come on, luv, jump across," Malloy whispers.
    The poor kid's trembling as he clings to the rungs of the ladder
and looks over his shoulder at us, and then down, and then up, and
then at us again. "Alice, come on, it's okay. We won't let anything
happen to you."
    "I'm scared," he whispers. My ears droop, and so do Malloy's. He
sounds so terribly helpless – and I feel a fresh pang of rage at that
fucking ferret Sharpish for taking the sweetest kid in all of
Maranatha and putting him through this. "We're right here, luv.
Nothing can happen to you," says Malloy and the calm certainty in his
deep, masculine voice has even my tail wagging. Alice looks at us a
moment longer, clearly resisting the urge to look down, takes a deep
breath, and with a leonine mrowl he launches himself across the gap
between the two buildings, eyes closed and arms outstretched.
    In one smooth movement, Malloy and I each catch one of his arms
and guide his momentum forward, pushing him in through the window and
smoothly sliding in behind him. Malloy shuts the window and I push
Alice into one corner of the kitchen we find ourselves in while I
tiptoe toward the door. It occurs to me, now, that we're in somebody's
house. "I don't hear anybody," I whisper.
    "Course not," chuckles Malloy as he goes over to ruffle Alice's
pink hair, a playful act he always does which always makes Alice growl
in protest, and it garners him a giggle as well. The dog's gone to the
sink, running water into a kettle. "This is my mate Collin's house. He
fixes people up with fake ID's, mostly for teens. It's where you got
yours, didn't ya, luv?" he says and hugs the lionboy around the
shoulders, kissing his ruffled pink hair.
    Alice giggles, though his voice still trembles a little and tries
to push the dog away. "Yeah, he was nice. Really bad at poker, though.
I cleaned him out after you left and I didn't even cheat!"
    That's right. He's such a sweet boy, our Alice, that I often
forget he's got a devious, scheming side to him too. There's no ounce
of malice in our Alice, but he's quite the trickster and he's
certainly no innocent. He's had close to a hundred different clients
since he started hooking, which is ten times more than I'd had when I
was a year older than him and he's mouthed off more than a few
would-be bullies with some well-placed insults and a good piece of
attitude. Another thing that's impressive is that he isn't even out of
breath after this run, making me and Malloy feel like old men as we
struggle not to pant too hard.
    Malloy's phone rings and makes us all jolt, gripping the nearest
item or wall. I glare at him and he shrugs apologetically, picking up
the phone as I open the door into the living room. He barks at the
person on the phone – Mark, it seems, with the info on MU's
Hendersons. I can't describe the fury with which Malloy curses at him,
and I have to giggle at the thought of the lengths Malloy will have to
go to, to win Mark's co-operation again.
    The room's a spare-looking place, not as Spartan as my pad but
still nowhere near as lived-in as Malloy's. Malloy's apartment… A
thought hits me and I turn around just in time for Malloy to flip the
phone shut and both of us say "We should warn your neighbours," at the
same time. It's a good thought. Sharpish had a lot of men guarding one
teenaged lionboy, so he must have a lot more muscle than the last time
I heard of him. And the obvious place for those men to start looking
for us, when they realise they've lost our trail hopping from building
to building and that we could be hiding out anywhere, is to check
where we live. Malloy goes back into the kitchen as the kettle starts
to whistle and I sit down in the couch next to the phone on the wall,
picking the wireless receiver up and dialling the number for
Butterfly.
    I put the receiver to my ear, listening to the crackling sound of
the ring tone and see Alice, standing in the doorway, looking a little
lost and glancing back and forth between me and Malloy. I flash him a
smile and beckon him over, patting my thigh and by the time my weasel
landlord picks up with the phrase, "Kusch meer in toches!" I've got a
leonine pretty-boy draped across my lap, his arms around me, his
sleek, feline body pressed against mine. I wrap my arm around his
waist and press my cheek against his, feeling his trembling ease
merely from being close to me. I feel like a big, strong man, and it
does feel really good.
    "What the fuck?" I answer.
    Butterfly laughs a musical laugh. "Oh, Owen, it's you! It's a
Yiddish greeting a friend of mine taught me. I think I pronounced it
right!"
    "Dude, it's German for kiss my ass."
    The line is silent for a while. Butterfly takes a deep breath and,
trying hard not to let the bitter disappointment be too clear in his
voice, he asks "What can I do for you?"
    I shift Alice on my lap, raking my fingers through his short,
pink-dyed hair, hugging his face to my neck. He strokes my jacket,
sniffing the leather appreciatively and reaches in through the zipper
to hug my tank-top-clad torso. "I'm in a bit of trouble, man, and
until I get it sorted, it might mean that trouble spills over to you.
Could you do me a huge favour – get out of the house, and get Mrs A
and Double Bill out as well? Doesn't matter where you go, just get
away for a day or two, until you hear from me. If you need to get in
touch with me, you can call Malloy's cell-phone, I wrote his number in
your book."
    "The way of peace knows many stops, Owen," Butterfly responds and
I still to this day have no idea what he means.
    "I know," I lie, which I know is a sin and bad for my karma but
it'll just take too long if I ask him what he means right now. "Just,
please, go and get Mrs A and the wake the cats up and get ‘em all
someplace else, yeah? Don't worry about bringing your valuables,
they're looking for me, not for anything to steal."
    "I will, Owen, thank you for the warning. A chaleyre!" he says
cheerfully and hangs up.
    Malloy comes back in the room, carrying his phone between his
teeth and in his hands a tray with a teapot, sugar-lumps, and three
cups. Setting them down on the coffee-table in front of us, he spits
his phone out and joins us on the couch. Immediately I lean toward him
and the lionboy on my lap spills over onto Malloy, saying that he just
called Anezka and she's already packing her truck to go stay with her
Jiu Jitsu coach for a few days. "What's this, now?" Malloy asks,
cradling Alice's head in his arms, toying with the lazy curls of his
pink hair, stroking that beautiful muzzle.
    I open my mouth to make some lewd remark, but Alice beats me to
it. "I knew you'd come for me," he says and for a moment I think he's
about to cry, but when I look down at him I realise I couldn't be
farther from the truth. The teenaged lion splayed across our laps is
completely calm now, completely content. He trusts us the way a little
kid trusts Santa, the way a good priest trusts God even when the times
are hard. It sounds weird and really dramatic, I know, but I feel
honoured that he has this much faith in us.
    Malloy catches my eye and glances over at the open door of the
bedroom, and I nod. Alice has probably gone without sleep since that
night at the Dive, so we'd best get him into bed while we figure out
our next move. Malloy starts to pull off Alice's mesh shirt and tank
top and I unbutton his latex pants, the boy splaying out comfortably,
eyes closed, half-asleep already. "That ferret came up to me at the
dive… said he had a job for me, he'd pay me two thousand bucks in cash
and I wouldn't even have to let him fuck me… He said you'd be with me,
so I thought it'd be okay, but he drove me to this place, this big
warehouse, and he put me in a cage and then I didn't see him again,
and nobody would tell me why they were doing it…"
    My ears fold as I peel the boy's tight pants off him, stroking
down the golden fur of his slender legs, shaking the pants out and
draping them nicely over the arm-rest of the couch rather than just
dropping them in a crumpled heap, because I know how much Alice loves
those pants. Malloy's got him raising his arms and pulls his tank top
and mesh shirt off while I rub the boy's belly, getting him to purr.
Sleepily, he continues, as if dreaming. "I tried the tricks I heard
you talking about, Owen, when you told stories about that time you
were put in jail… I tried not to be scared and, you know, make friends
with the guard. I blew a couple of them, but they wouldn't let me out,
not even for a few minutes. But then one of them wanted me to suck him
a second time, so I did, and I really did my best to make it good… and
he passed out after he squirted. I stuck my arm out through the bars
as far as I could and I got his cell phone and I tried to call Malloy,
because he has a gun and he could come rescue me, and then I heard you
pick up the phone and I knew it'd be all right."
    I'm grinning like a fool now, and so's Malloy, both of us feeling
like fucking heroes as we bundle the boy up in our arms and carry him
toward the bedroom, Alice curled up in our arms, snuggling up against
Malloy's chest. "Then that ferret came back, the one with the leather
coat, and he said that the deal he wanted me for wasn't going to
happen, and he was really angry about that and he hit me a few times.
He said he wanted to make sure I was ‘good enough' so he put me in a
van with those men and we drove to the city and he brought me to this
diner and told me to sit still and be quiet and if I screamed or
called for help, he'd hurt Nezzy. And then he went away to go pick up
somebody, I don't remember his name and then you came in and… and you
saved me."
    He's barely audible, exhausted beyond the limits of his young
years, but when we lay him down on the simple double bed in the room
Alice's eyes snap open and he clutches at my jacket and Malloy's arm.
"No, don't go… please?" he asks, blinking his eyes, trying to keep
them open. "Stay with me?"
    Now, I ask you.
    How can you resist a question like that?
   
    I'm not sure how exactly it happened or when, but somewhere along
the way Malloy and I stripped. I can't tell if there was sex, really.
I have a couple of memories, of snuggling up really close, hugging
Malloy while squeezing Alice between us and our movements might have
been sex, but then again, maybe just the joy of touching was all we
were after. I remember being awake with Malloy – he had his pants on,
I remember that, so it must have been pretty early on, and we were
stroking the sleeping lionboy between us and discussing our next move.
    It looked like it'd be hard, whatever the case. We needed more
information than we had; we wouldn't be able to make any kind of move
until we knew what was what. We could talk to McIlwain, he's one of
the bigger, more civil bosses in this part of town, but if Sharpish
turned out to be working for him, we'd be screwed tighter than a
Christmas tree light-bulb. An easier gamble would be to simply pull up
stake and move, get Alice to another city.
    I'm actually thinking about that right now, lying in this
stranger's bed with my best friend and the young lion that, I realise,
I've come to see as a little brother ­– heh, a Little Wolf after all –
curled in each other's arms. I think of coming home to this sight
after a night of whoring, putting my hard-earned cash in the rent-jar
along with whatever Alice earned that night and what Malloy stole, and
slipping into bed with these two males, trying not to wake them… It'd
be a hard life, to begin with. We'd have to lay low stay someplace
shitty and work hard, but discretely.
    And it'd be wonderful, really. Malloy and I would be sharing a
place right now if we hadn't grown apart so long and now, neither of
us can really suggest it because we're each so self-sufficient that
the only reason we'd move in was for each other's company, which is
like saying we were going to be boyfriends and really, neither of us
wants that. I think he's so sexy and I love sucking him off and I know
he'd hire me for a whole night, every night, if his wallet and his ego
would let him… But that's just sex. And our friendship is just
friendship. To think that's romance would ruin both.
    But we're totally united in our love for Alice. Not romance,
either, but love, you know, the kind that hurts. Nezzy, too, if she
was in trouble. Family. Well, almost. You're not supposed to have sex
with family, I'm told, although you'd be surprised how often I'm hired
to be the filling in a father-son sandwich.
    I smile, and I think back to that night in Malloy's apartment, a
memory that's been coming to me in fits and starts lately. We'd just
stripped, Malloy'd put some money on the dressing-table, our usual
pre-fuck ritual. I'd never cum when we fucked, which was just perfect.
I gave pleasure and he got pleasure, so we each got our favourite
thing in the world. This time, though… I was kissing his balls while
he made himself comfortable on the bed, flicking my tongue over them
and lazily stroking that fine black dogdick of his, took it deep in my
mouth, once, to wet it… Then I crawled on top of him and straddled his
waist but his dick missed its mark and just settled between my buns
and neither of us reached back to put it where it belonged.
    And we just talked. We talked about how old we were getting and
how sentimental. When we were kids we'd gone out with the goal of
becoming bad boys, doing what shouldn't be done and being damn good at
it. I'd hopped on every adult's dick who could afford me and Malloy
learned the art of making people want things they really shouldn't
want – and then selling it to them. We were good at it, and we still
are and neither of us has any regrets about what we've done.
    But we do wonder about the future. Neither of us can see ourselves
doing anything different or better five years down the line. Malloy
can't expand his operation because the competition is so deeply
entrenched, Maranatha's long been carved up into well-defined and
generally respected territories. And me, well, I service my regulars
and a couple of strangers at the Dive every now and again and that's
as exotic as my sex-life gets.
    We talked about moving, that night, and whether we should tell
anybody. It was playful dreaming, really, but behind our jesting grins
we were… feeling each other out, seeing how we each felt. It was
impossible. We were both too hesitant to expose ourselves, we were too
busy trying to hear the other out to say what we thought on the topic.
I don't even know myself what I thought that night, if I thought it'd
be a good idea to tell Alice or Anezka and invite them to come with us
and find some house to live in like some mockery of a family. Maybe I
thought it'd be better not to do that. Now, I think of how wonderful
it would be to have my best friend and my Little Wolf in my bed each
night.
    It'd be too risky, though. Wherever we go, sooner or later
Sharpish or somebody else will find us and we'd have to run again, and
I don't want that for Alice. That's why I'm lying awake. Outside, the
sun's just gone down, so we've been sleeping or fucking for a few
hours. God, I feel just like I did that night, you remember, way at
the beginning of the story. Sitting in that chair in my apartment,
which is by now totally deserted, without even the ruckus of the two
punker cats' music and the infernal snoring of Pickles, Mrs Ackerby's
dog and Butterfly's chanting. It feels like that night was a
premonition of this night, a teaser of what was to come.
    Then, I dreamt of burning the apartment and walking away. Now, I
dream of running away with these two wonderful males. I didn't give in
to the dream that night, and I'm not going to tonight, either. But
that night I went out and went to the Dive. I did what I always did.
Tonight, I'm going to do something different.
    I get out of bed with a great deal of reluctance and pull my
clothes on. Leather pants, boots, tank top, leather jacket, I've told
you that before. I'm about to do something really foolish, really,
really stupid – not even the heroic kind of stupid, just stupid stupid
– and I want to make sure you know I look good while I'm doing it. My
hair, blond and shoulder-length, falls neatly backwards, a few long
strands slipping down in front of my ears like bangs and the tint of
the black leather is a perfect offset to the light grey of my fur. I'm
a good-looking fool.
    I remind myself of that when an hour later, after a brisk
night-time walk, I walk into the Cavendish Bistro, a favourite haunt
of my favourite ferret, and find him sitting at a table with a
well-groomed fox in a suit that could rival Tiber Ferrum's. "Hello,
Sharpish. I hear you were looking for me?"
    Sharpish doesn't even look up from the steak he's cutting, while
the fox continues to ignore the salad in front of him and fixes me
with an appraising look. Only now do I recognise him – he has one of
those generic, easy-to-forget faces, but those eyes stay with you.
It's Harcourt Ezekiel McIlwain. Which means I'm in trouble, and that I
really, really shoulda stood in bed. "You got some stones, Owen my
lad," says Sharpish Where Malloy's English accent is sexy as all fuck,
this ferret, though he doesn't sound much different, makes me want to
clean my ears with every word I hear from his lips. "How'd you know
I'd be here?"
    Stay cool, Owen. I stand at the table, thumbs hooked in my
pockets, trying to look as if I don't notice the large burly males
standing up from their tables and moving into position behind me. "I
didn't. I tried some other places first."
    "Came lookin' for me, did you? My word, you'd almost think I had
something that belonged to you," the ferret jokes, chewing on his
steak. He's wearing that fucking coat of his, a trench-coat made of
the thick leather they used in the first world war, the kind that
could protect a man from shrapnel or even, if he was really lucky, a
stray bullet. I bet if he took it off and set it down it would stand
upright, the leather's so tough. "Of course, we both know it's the
other way around… don't we."
    Now he looks at me. Those grey eyes, with pupils so tiny they
might as well not be there at all. That faint, threatening grin. He
may be a slinky ferret, but there's a fire and a determination behind
his eyes that can make anyone worried who meets him. No wonder he has
so little trouble ensuring the loyalty of men easily three times his
size. They fear him, and rightly so, because with that kind of
intensity burning in his eyes, he could easily do anything.
    "Alice isn't to be touched. I'm here to take his place," I say,
and I'm pretty impressed with myself. I'm putting on a very good show.
Now if only my knees would stop relaxing and firm up so I don't feel
like I'm on the verge of falling down.
    "Ah, it's like I told you, mister McIlwain," Sharpish says,
putting another piece of steak in his mouth as he turns to his
dining-partner. "It seems young Owen here got his paws on the C-65
documents." Shit. I'd forgotten I'd left them in Malloy's car. It is
at this point that realisation hits me and I figure out that I'm
probably carrying those C-65 microbes and that that's why I've been
feeling so incorrigibly horny these last few hours and that Sharpish
was intending to use Alice as a host to these microbes so he could
harvest the drugs from the boy's fluids and make a fortune. All of
this comes to me in a split second and with every fresh realisation,
the certainty that I shouldn't have come grows and grows.
    "Listen," I say and lean my hands on the table. A dozen hands
reach into a dozen bomber jackets for, no doubt, a dozen
nine-millimetres, but I level my eyes with the ferret's. "You need
someone to get infected with these bugs, right? Well, I've got ‘em
anyway. So what do you say you take that stupid cage off my dick and
take me as your fucking milking-host, huh?"
    "Stones indeed," says Sharpish, chewing his steak. "Normally I'd
object to being told what to do. Today… No, I still object. See,
you're no good as a host. You're too old, for starters and you've had
the microbes in you so long they've probably colonised in some other
organ for the time being and the drugs we'd harvest from you would be
all weird, and that'd be really disappointing to mister McIlwain. I
promised him a good, pure product. And mister Henderson, he did the
whole science thing for me. We had to hurt him a little, dope him up a
little more, but he got it down. Said the best host would be a feline,
preferably pre-adolescent, but sexually active. And how many other
guys like that do you know, beside Alice? No, I think you can make up
for the trouble you've caused me. Boys, take him away. Have some fun
with him, that's what he's for – just don't mess him up too badly."
    It all sounds pretty comical, you gotta admit. Bad guy, sitting in
a restaurant, saying "take him away, boys," it's just soooo fucking
cliché. Still, I can't say as I totally see the humour of it when
beefy hands wrap around my stylishly leather-clad biceps and squeeze
real, real hard and I understand that I Meade a big, big mistake.
   
    Let's fast forward a while. I know you're after juicy details of
my various sexcapades, but really, if I give you a, shall we say, blow
by blow (and I do mean both kinds of blow) then I'll easily fill more
pages than I already have. A couple of highlights:
    · Passing out from strangulation, because a limping leopard likes
to squeeze my throat while he's humping me, pumping that barbed feline
cock between my legs – the fucker even kisses me!
    · A very creative otter who, it turns out, likes electricity play
and spends half an hour taking apart a power outlet (during which time
I desperately try to suck off a mule, despite how rancid their cum
always tastes, because my ass really, really needs a rest.
    · Then the otter takes a turn and wires me up, putting me under a
mild current that has me spasming and gasping for breath while he
whoops and hollers as he fucks me.
    · Another bout of unconsciousness from asphyxiation when another
of the leopards, who seems to have a similar breath-control kink,
plugs his dick down my throat for a full minute after I swallow his
load. His buddies hold my hands as I thrash about, trying to get some
air and the only reason I don't bite his fucking dick off is because
I've got these pesky instincts to take care of any dick I've got in my
mouth. Price you pay for being a pro.
    · Belly-down, on the floor of the warehouse they brought me to. A
guard dog, an actual fourfooter is brought over to have a turn and he
has a real, real good time on me. Truth is, of all the sex I've been
subjected to in the last few hours, this is the most enjoyable. The
dog's honest, at least. All he cares about is getting off, he doesn't
care about making me miserable or taking revenge because I rolled a
dumpster onto him and dislocated his knee.
   
    I can't remember half of the other things they did to me. I'm
sitting here now, in my cage, the one that smells so strongly of Alice
and fear, and the memories are hazy. All of them fucked me, all f
them, even the ones that claimed to be straight when they expressed
their disgust at ‘bonin' a faggit'. My joints ache, there's scratches
on my face, my lower lip's got a split in it and so does my eyebrow,
just above what I'm sure is a hell of a shiner. One of my teeth feels
loose, I can faintly taste blood in my mouth, black bruises throb on
my abdomen and chest and arms and legs and I'm cold and naked and I
want a blanket, just something so I can be warm enough to get some
sleep.
    And you know what the worst part is?
    I loved it. Everything they did to me. When they used me as a
punching-bag, pushing me around, hitting me hard and when I tried to
defend myself, even harder. I'd like to say that what I felt was
pride, at the fact that I was taking the fate of sweet Alice, that
he'd be spared this because I was taking it for him… But the truth is,
the worst ache of all, the one keeping me awake is down there, in that
fucking metal thing between my thighs. My balls throb as if they'd
been kicked but, miraculously, they never aimed their punches down
there. Didn't so much as squeeze.
    I want more. That's why I'm awake. Not because it's cold, but
because I don't have a dick In me. I'm fucking sweating, licking my
lips, like a junkie in withdrawal. I tried not to plead, and I managed
it, which sucks because by the time I gave up and started to bang on
the bars and beg for a cock to suck the guards were all too tired and
they weren't horny any more. Which fucking sucked. I even tried to
lure over the dog, but there was no way he could mount me, with me
trapped in a cage just barely large enough for me to sit up in and how
can you explain to a dog that you want his dick in your mouth and
it'll feel really good for him?
    I'm lying on my side, curled up in a ball, shivering, hugging my
knees to my chest. I need something to do, somebody to service, to
feel someone orgasming in me and for that brief moment, when their
seed's flowing into me, to feel this ache disappear, just for a
second, like when the leopards took turns double-teaming me. I know
what I should be thinking of – I want Malloy to come drive his car
through the doors of the warehouse and take on all the guards at once
and fight them off and come get me… But he left behind his beloved
‘vette at the diner, so focused on saving Alice that he completely
forgot about it.
    But when I think of Malloy, all I can think of is ‘Highway 68',
which is our little term for when I unbuckle my seat belt and give him
a blowjob while he's driving and he pays me afterward. That's why it's
called 68 – I suck him and he owes me one. You know the joke. All I
can think of is that hard man between my thighs, his warm semen in my
mouth and the way his face scrunches up when he shoots his load.
    All in all, I'm in a pretty bad state, when something weird
happens. The side door of the warehouse opens and in walks a fox,
stately despite his diminutive stature, dressed in a fine suit. It's
McIlwain, and an overpowering sense of calm emanates from him. He's so
poised, so reserved and it makes the guards and me aware of what
wretched creatures we are. At a mere nod, the guards slink away and
he's alone in the warehouse. Alone with me. I hear the hum of the
fluorescent lights.
    "Owen," the fox says in that soft, concerned but wholly controlled
tone that strikes equal measures of admiration, comfort, superiority
and worry into the hearts of all who hear him, "We've known each other
for a while, haven't we." I sort of wheeze at him, although I intend
to reply in the affirmative. He sorta gets the drift. "You and Malloy,
you came here… six years ago? Both of you so full of ambition. It was
a delight to tutor you both."
    He smiles and I must admit, I feel a little sentimental as well.
McIlwain wasn't as fine a gentleman then as he is now, he was about as
high in the ranks back then as Sharpish I these days. He was my first
pimp, rewarded me when I did good, punished me when I was difficult…
Hooked me up with challenging clients to help me expand my horizons.
You're probably gonna think that he manipulated or brainwashed me, but
really, I'm grateful to him. He helped me past my inhibitions and
taught me to embrace the joy of servicing others, and he wasn't
selfish either. When I told him I wanted to go independent, he said
‘sure', had me work for him for another three months (although he
worked me pretty hard, to make the most of me, I guess), told me which
clubs I wasn't allowed to work in, gave me some extra cash and waved
good-bye. I wasn't expecting anything less at the time, but really, if
you look at the kind of scumbag pimps there are these days… They'd
have wrung my neck as soon as let me leave their service. So I guess
McIlwain was pretty good to me and Malloy, as far as that sort of
thing goes. Which is why I'm kind of worried at the sadness in his
voice right now.
    "But you caused far too much trouble, and that's something I can't
readily forgive. When we acquired the C-65 microbes we needed to
transfer it so we could convince… the other interested party, that the
microbes were gone and that we didn't have them. I sent Sharpish to
get you and all you had to do was play host to the microbes for three
days without ejaculating – hence the clamp on your penis. It rather
suits you, I must say," he jokes and I try to laugh, but the sound
comes out like a raspy bark. McIlwain's face darkens and my eyes go
wide. Here it comes. "It's just as well, since it won't be coming off
you. I know Sharpish' methods are a little… unseemly, but you ruined a
perfectly good business opportunity. And that stunt you pulled with
Malloy, as they say, ‘busting' that little lion out of custody… That
simply won't do, Owen. It's unprofessional."
    McIlwain's standing by the bars by now. He pulls something small
and metal from his pocket, a PDA of some sort. He withdraws the stylus
and taps a few buttons. The device beeps and the little screen glows
blue, and so does the glass panel on my sheath-cage. And then there's
a sharp pain in my groin and a deep sense of relief, and then warmth,
and then more pain as my dick strains to get hard and the last words I
hear are McIlwain's, "I'm afraid you'll have to make up for it, Owen,"
before a haze of lust overtakes me that's so powerful that it shatters
whatever now passes for consciousness.
    And with that and a whole shitload of horny, good ol' Owen's gone.
    

20041126041752