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Gerald Miazga, Jerry to friends, had known from the start that Reginald Rockford was a hard but fair boss to serve under. Employee bonuses around Christmastime were given always (and always in large sums), and the retirement package was nothing short of spectacular. Gerald also knew that punishment was swift and severe and kept the company clear of those who tried to coast or cheat their way through. Gerald was on his second strike that year, going on his third, and with that one would come termination.

The first strike had earned him a terrible spanking in the middle of the cafeteria. Reginald, the stout brown bear with his fine black hair and ten-thousand dollar Italian-made suit, disrobed Gerald's pleasantly effeminate body down to the last article (even his necktie) and bent the nude fox over his knee. In view of everyone - none of whom stopped eating or abandoned their workplace conversation - he spanked the fox. It was not a simple few swats but an uncomfortably long beating. For the full half-hour lunch period, Reginald beat Gerald's young, round butt with his hard paw. Years of wearing a tie and delegating from a penthouse office hadn't softened the callouses on the bear's pads; it was like being stricken with a wooden paddle again and again, never ceasing no matter how much the fox sobbed and bleated for mercy.

The fox's behind ached for a month to come, but Reginald was fair. When Gerald apologized and atoned for his misbehavior, the bear kissed his forehead, gave him a soft and lacy pillow (with the phrase RED-ASSED BITCH stenciled in silver leaf on it) to put in his chair, and sent him back to work.

Gerald's second strike had been punished privately, and as Reginald admitted, the second strike punishments were as indulgent for himself as they were terrible for his employees. Simply and ruthlessly, the bear raped the fox. He bent Gerald over his priceless oak desk, yanked down his slacks and boxers, and reamed him even as the fox shrieked and promised never to misfile a financial statement ever again. And even when that was firmly established, Reginald fucked him. Blood streaked the bear's fat, uncut prick before the deed was done. Semen oozed from Gerald's gaped and throbbing anus in a pink-hued slurry. That time, Gerald was given no pillow to sit on; just a magnum-sized tampon which he was obliged to insert and use in full view of his smirking boss.

Third strike and heads will roll, Jerry - do you want to be terminated? You want to lose this cushy job? Well, do you?

"No, sir," Gerald uttered under his breath, talking to the stern-faced bear whose voice lingered in his thoughts whether he was at home or work.

It hadn't even been a week since the boss bent him over his desk. His anus was still a loose donut, and his thoughts were deadlocked in a cycle of fear and panic. You didn't just lose your job when you pissed off Reginald Rockford. When he said heads would roll, he meant it.

The mistake was an honest one. Any old pencil-pusher could have made it: he misread an O (O as in oh shit his subconscious mind blithely thought) as a 0 (zero, the number of beats per minute you're about to be reduced to). It was too late to take it back. It was in the system, and nobody but Reginald Rockford himself had admin privileges.

First Gerald cried at his desk for a little while, then he started to make peace with the idea. When his legs weren't trembling quite so much, he got up, went to the elevator, took it all the way up to Reginald's office. A soft, pleasant chime with a vaguely oriental sound heralded his arrival.

Reginald looked up from his desk, brown eyes savvy behind square frames. "Yes, Jerry?"

"Suh--, sir, mister Ruh-Rockford, sir," Gerald stammered, standing opposite the bear's great oak desk. He swallowed hard. In his girly neck, his Adam's apple protruded and bobbed like a fist. "I made a mistake."

"Did you," said Reginald. It was not a question. "I'll have to correct it, no doubt. Precious time out of my busy day."

"Yeh--," Gerald froze, clutching at his stomach. It was bunched up into a cold knot and he felt like he could vomit. He closed his eyes tightly, hiding his puffy red sclera. When he opened them again, there was some dignity in his gaze. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry."

The bear sucked his flabby bottom jowl, huffed out his nostrils and smoothed back his fine loan shark hair. "Oh, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry. Poor Jerry Miazga. I was hoping you wouldn't become one of them," Reginald tutted, gesturing above the window with his monogrammed fountain pen.

Slowly, timidly, the fox looked up above the big panoramic window through which Reginald's skyscraper offered an overlook of much of the city. The view from the window was breathtaking, but arranged above it in grim tableau was a row of professionally-mounted skulls, all of varying species. He saw a crocodile; a dog; a fox; a horse; a dragon with long, gnarly horns and a hyena. They had names in cursive gold leaf beneath, and respectively they were Brett Smith, James Hart, Geoffrey William IV, Rebecca Silver, Vance Longfang and Veronica Summer. Seeing the names, knowing each of them had been a person with ambitions and family, saw Gerald whimper and hug himself. "Will it be painful, sir?"

As if anticipating the question, Reginald approached the fox with a syringe in his fingers. "It won't," he said in the gentle, but plainly disappointed cadence of a father. He jabbed Gerald's neck with the needle, and before the fox could even shriek that needles terrified him (and they did, oh how they frightened him almost as much as cockroaches did), the contents were in his bloodstream. Within a few seconds his muscles gave out, making him think of his last dentist visit when his lower jaw felt like it was touching the floor. He slumped into Reginald's arms and uttered an inarticulate cry. Drool fell from his slack lips in a long runner, making a dark streak in his cheap suit.

Reginald took Gerald into his private elevator and down they went, all the way to the basement. It was a place Gerald had never been in, but he was given no time to appreciate the plush carpeting or the 200-gallon aquarium swimming with colorful fish or the complete gym which Reginald used to maintain his muscular figure well into his middle age. Neither did he get to look at the full-fledged bar or the massage parlor where Reginald got his aches worked out and sometimes got jerked off at the end. He immediately carted the numb and limp but fully conscious fox into the antechamber where the floor was concrete stained faded pink here and there and a veritable rack of torture devices hung on the wall. Gerald pissed in his suit, and not as a result of his drugging, but fear. Reginald seemed not to care as he plopped the fox on the well-illuminated operating table central to the room.

"It should be wearing off enough that you can talk. You'll actually be able to move your whole body soon," Reginald patiently said, changing out of his expensive suit in exchange for teal scrubs better suited to an orderly. He kept his paws intimately bare.

Like an EMT taking the most direct route to a patient on the pavement, he took one of most crude tools - a box cutter - and sliced from the neck to the bottom of Gerald's coat and shirt. Both gave way with a long, modulated rip, and Gerald blubbered, certain that the bear had just cut open his belly and his entrails were about to dangle out of him like a big, drippy pendulum. Not a scratch was on the fox, however.

The bear did away with the fox's bottoms just as carefully, and with the same disregard for the clothing. He tossed the pissy slacks and boxers into a drum along with the ruined shirt and jacket, and then he set the box cutter aside and took down a scalpel from his wall. Gerald's heart raced madly.

"N'yoh, p'ease," Gerald blubbed, squirming his fingers and toes. His tail, hanging slack off the operating table, flicked.

"Now, now. No moving, Jerry," said Reginald, his smile a jaunty one. But the fox kept squirming, soon beginning to move his arm, and a leg followed. He cried and begged and pleaded. The bear shook his head and huffed. "You signed the form. You knew the consequences of your mistakes." As he dryly pointed this out, he rolled Gerald onto his belly, centered him on the table, and grabbed the box cutter for the second time. "Last chance," said the bear, the dull point of the box cutter's blade refusing to gleam even in the brilliant white light. "Stop moving."

"Nu'ho, p'e-e-ease," said the fox, sniveling and miserable, trying to squirm his way off the table. "Ah'll th'uck your dick... P'ease," he bleated.

His face a hard mask of determination, Reginald pressed the blade into Gerald's unfeeling back, right between the shoulder blades. He dug it in, slicing through flesh, then fat, then muscle until he hit bone. He wiggled the blade until he notched it between two vertebrae, and then he pulled on it firmly, cutting the spinal cord into two ragged ends. Gerald's limbs, already numb, fell slack and useless. The fox couldn't even tell it had happened. He kept trying to squirm with hopes to fight back, thinking he was slowly regaining his motor skills.

"P'uh--, plu'he-e-ease, don't kill me, puh'lease, sir," Gerald went on and on, gradually getting back a little more of his speech. He didn't care that he sounded brain-damaged - he just wanted mercy. "Mi-hister Ro'ford, puh'lease..."

Ignoring the cocktail of blood and spinal fluid seeping from Gerald's wound, Reginald rolled him back over. "Tell me, Jerry," he murmured, picking up the scalpel. Unlike the box cutter, the scalpel's blade glistened like a diamond. "Mmm, tell me," he said again, more wistfully, "would you jerk me off?"

Gerald's eyes brightened. "Yeh'th! Yes!"

A sly smile. "How, son? Your arms don't work."

He tried his hardest to make his arms move. Make his wrists flap, his toes wiggle, something, anything. "Nuh--, not right now, th--, sir, but they will soon, they will soon, I promise, I'll--, sir, I promise, I can do anything you want, I can--, I can--," he was starting to blubber, degrading into hysterics. "I'll suck you off. I'll lick your asshole. Sir, please!" He sobbed and moaned. "Oh, god, I can't move... Yuh--, use my face, use my mouth, I can move that! I can lick and suck!"

Reginald tutted. He gripped Gerald's snout and pressed the scalpel into his flesh below the chin. It wasn't the arteries he was going for - just the flesh. He pushed it in until he felt the hard nick of bone, and then he started to slice across the bottom of the snout. "I cut your spinal cord. Sssnick, right across - much as I'm doing your skin right now. Even if I left you alive, you'd never be ambulatory again." He wiped the scalpel off on the fur on Gerald's chest. It was such a soft, beautiful coat. Reginald had loved the feel of it when he had the fox bent over his lap, and again bent over his desk. Knowing it was the last time he'd touch it was disappointing.

"You cut my spinal cord?" the fox blurted, sounding more surprised than offended. "Why? Sir, why?"

"To keep you still," said Reginald calmly as you please. He started a new cut up the side of the fox's head, digging as deep as the scalpel would go. Gerald found himself wincing and sickened as he heard that lazy, somehow wet scrape of metal against bone. It was a disgusting noise, making his skin crawl and nipples harden.

The bear stopped his deep cut at the edge of Gerald's pert ear. Blood rolled down the crippled fox's head in a sloppy curtain. Wearing his best shit-eating grin, Reginald took the box cutter again and started to slice through that ear, going slowly, cutting as close to the flesh as he could. The crunch of cartilage giving way was nearly as bad as the scrape of the scalpel, and Gerald gagged.

Reginald tossed the ear into the drum along with the clothing. Scalpel in his fingers again, he went to the other side, and he started a matching cut up the side of the young, crying fox's head. "Imagine if I left you alive now," he tutted. "Spinal cord cut? You don't recover from that, no, not at all." He glanced into the fox's wide eyes. "Just imagine... Having to be fed all your meals by a pretty nurse? Being unable to fuck that nurse because you can't feel your penis anymore?" He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Shitting into a bedpan. No thank you. You're better off dead at this point, Jerry. Wasn't I right when I spanked you?"

"You--, mmh," Gerald winced. "Yes, sir."

"I'm always right," Reginald Rockford said with no conceit, just a purely factual tone. It was as true as the sun rising every day and water being wet: he was always right. Every time one of his employees made a mistake, he was there to correct the issue and dish out a punishment severe enough to dissuade another foul-up. He took off the other ear with the box cutter, and just like before, tossed it into the drum. It landed in the bottom, missing the clothes to make a soft, wet plop.

Standing at the head of the table, Reginald sliced deep and slow across Gerald's crown. "There are many blood vessels in the head. They're denser here than any other part of the body, did you know that?" he chirruped. The line he made bridged the big second grin he'd carved for the fox from one absent ear to the other.

"I--, I didn't, sir," Gerald blubbed. He breathed in hard, sucking snot. "Everything sounds so muffled now..."

"That's bound to happen when you hear sans ears," tutted the bear, smiling at his rhyme. He patted the fox atop his bloody head and went to take down another tool: a putty knife with a garish orange handle. He slid its edge under the slit he'd made in Gerald's crown, and he pried off the layers of flesh and fat yet affixed to the skull. The connective tissues gave way in a crescendo of ripping pops. Inside Gerald's head, the destruction of those tissues sounded like frying bacon. He thought wistfully that he'd never have another strip of it again, and his weeping began again.

Slowly, cautiously, Reginald dug underneath the fox's flesh, at times bulging it hideously with the edge of the putty knife. He softly hummed a tune: What a Wonderful World as sung by Louis Armstrong. He scraped and peeled, peeled and scraped around the fox's face and the sides of his head. The furred flesh came off like a mask. Bone dully gleamed in the harsh lighting, and Reginald lapsed briefly into mumbled lyrics: "...bright blessed day, and the dark sacred night, and I think to myself... mmm-mmm-mmm hmm-hmm hmm..."

Gerald got to see the inside of his face. It was the sort of horrific thing nobody should have ever had to witness, and somehow not being able to feel a thing made it worse. It felt like one of those out-of-body experiences he'd heard about from Keith the intern, a young honey badger with a professed love for psychoactive drugs. His first punishment at Reginald Rockford's discretion had been a terrifying cocktail of hardcore psychoactive drugs injected, swallowed, stuffed rectally, blasted up his nose and rubbed into his eyes, and the resultant twelve-hour trip was so horrifying that by the end of it, Keith had developed a mild stutter and swore of all drugs, even aspirin.

Funny how Gerald's thoughts drifted there. Anything was better than acknowledging the horror of seeing his facial flesh ripping loose from his skull, two ragged holes with sagging, somehow twitching eyelids which glowed white through the fluorescents above. Blood dripped into his naked eyeballs, making them twitch and dilate. He tried to blink but had no lids to do it with, and a sick moan passed his lips.

Reginald peeled and peeled and peeled, ripping loose the fox's face. His pretty vulpine snout became a disfigured Halloween prop. Pallid bones shone through random clearings of blood. Through it all, Reginald hummed his song, finished, and started to hum another: Somewhere Over the Rainbow of Wizard of Oz fame.

Now all that remained of the front half of the flesh on Gerald's face was his nose. That would have to go too. He knew it, and Reginald knew it, but that didn't make it any less tragic. Gerald's nose was simply adorable. The bear, with his big, somewhat square snout, actually appreciated the narrow point of a fox's face, but punishment was punishment. Letting the fox's flesh hang lumped and slack against his head like the mask of a Scooby-Doo villain, he took up the box cutter again. "Don't inhale through your nose anymore," he stolidly said, "or you'll start to asphyxiate on your own blood."

"Yes--, yes sir," Gerald timidly said, his eyes by then losing all focus. His vision was swimming and pink-tinted by the blood on his eyes, which he couldn't blink away. "My eyes hurt, sir..."

"They can't hurt, you can't feel them," the bear said with a smile. "But I think I know what you mean. I'll take care of them soon." He blew Gerald a gentle kiss (which, surprisingly, comforted the fox) and started on the button of his nose. There was no mutilation going on here: he simply dug the point of the box cutter in behind it, slicing it clean off the snout. He left a little connective tissue and cartilage; he hated to scrape the skull. Mild acid did a better and cleaner job of clearing the bone of all meat.

When the nose was gone, Reginald gave it not a second look before he tossed it into the barrel like discarding an apple core. He cut off the mask he'd made of the fox's face, then, slicing deftly through that in a quick and efficient circle cut. This, too, went in the barrel, and it made a grotesque, wet flap as it slopped against the side and fell to the bottom.

Reginald took a moment to admire the fixed rictus of his soon-to-be former employee. He took in the blood-smeared bone, tried to visualize how pretty it would look cleaned and polished and mounted on a nice oak plaque. Even the fox's name would look pretty underneath it. He planned to use the familiar to make it clear that Gerald was one of his more dear employees: Gerald "Jerry" Miazga.

From the fox came a meek, soft cry. Reginald leaned close, and Gerald focused on the shape he made in the light. Finer details were impossible to pick out for him. "Your eyes are next," the bear softly said. There was somehow a sweetness in his tone which Gerald picked up on.

"Thank you, sir," he whined.

"Mhm." Reginald took the scalpel, the stainless blade of which was covered in blood of a sickly burgundy shade. He touched around the socket of the right eye, then pressed in the blade. It scraped ever so slightly into the sclera, drawing blood from it. He nevertheless managed to wedge the blade beside and then under the eye, and he leveraged the scalpel against the orbital socket. With a little help from the see-saw effect, he popped the eye out of its socket, and it dangled unfocused and bleeding from its nerve which he quickly severed. Into the bucket it went, and he went around the other side to do the same to the left eye.

Both eyes gone, Gerald sighed. He seemed somehow to take peace in the darkness this left him in. "What now, mister Rockford, sir?" he quietly asked.

"Now I remove the rest of the flesh from your skull," he evenly replied, and he rolled the fox onto his belly again. His bony face made an oddly stony scrape as it rubbed on the table's steel surface. "I won't remove your tongue until you've expired." He smiled softly, scraping under the back of the fox's scalp. "I enjoy your voice, Jerry. I always did."

A pause. Gerald listened to the weird sizzle and pop of his connective tissues breaking loose. "I enjoyed your voice too, sir. I'm sorry it came to this."

"I am too," sighed the bear, and then his work continued in silence. No humming, no banter, just the scraping and peeling. He soon had the flesh loose, and he trimmed it off at the nape. Gerald Miazga's skull was made ugly with a patchwork of badly-removed collagen and splotched with blood, but the foundation for a beautiful trophy was there. Reginald imagined again the display it would make.

For the last time, Reginald Rockford rolled his young employee over. He took down another tool from the wall, and he said softly before he even neared with it, "This next tool is a power drill. Don't be afraid. It's going to be over soon."

Gerald listened with a nevertheless quickening heartbeat as Reginald fitted in a drill bit - actually a small-bore auger, but all he could hear was the drill whining as its chuck clamped on the shaft. "You're--, oh, my god," he squeaked. "You're gonna drill into my brain?"

"No, of course not," Reginald chuckled, sounding as jolly as Santa Claus. "Shush, now." And he started to drill, going right between the holes of the ears. The drill bogged down as it chewed into the bone. Even carving such a small hole (only slighter wider than a pencil) seemed to be asking a lot of the tool. The rank stench of scorching bone filled the air and even turned the bear's stomach, but he persevered.

The hole, which he could see when he picked out the plug of bone, was immaculate even by the standards of Reginald's careful touch. He had just barely nicked the dura mater, and though it was of no importance as to whether or not it was intact, he was pleased with his steady work. Gerald's brain, pinkish-gray and throbbing, could be seen in the peephole.

"I can smell something burning," Gerald murmured. Reginald was surprised that he could smell anything at all; that was impressive without a nose.

"It's worse for me," he chuckled. He slipped on a respirator, goggles too, and he said in his new muffled voice, "This is it, Jerry. Goodbye."

A soft whine. "Goodbye, sir. I'm sorry."

Reginald put one more tool against the hole he'd drilled. It was an air chuck, leading off from a coiling blue tube. The compressor itself was in another room so its noise wouldn't interfere.

He bit his lip and pulled the trigger. Immediately, Gerald's brains and the identity and consciousness that went with them were obliterated, blasted into a fine pink mist by a quick toot of air at 200 PSI. It blasted out of his nostrils, ear holes and empty eye sockets like a volcano, and it hung in the air, painting the room a sickly shade of pink. "Goodbye, Jerry," the bear quietly, solemnly said.

Two weeks later, give or take a day, a youthful polar bear in PR by the name of Kristen was summoned to Reginald Rockford's office. It was her second strike. The first had been, as it was for many but not all others, a brutal spanking which in her case include special attention to the labia. She stood before her boss, his desk seeming as big as a continent between them, but his eyes were terribly sharp when he met her gaze.

"Second strike, Kristen. Do you want to end up like them?" he asked, nodding at the panorama window.

Skulls of a crocodile; a dog; a fox; a horse; a dragon, a hyena and another fox whose skull was the shiniest of them all grinned down at her. She gulped heavily and looked down at her heel-clad feet. "No, sir, mister Rockford. God no..."

He walked around the desk, unzipping his slacks, unbuckling his belt. "Lift your skirt, girl. Touch your toes. That's a good girl..."

Kristen hardly minded the anal rape. She didn't care that it was dry, that it was her first time, that blood ran down across her cunt and dripped on her stockings. She didn't care that her possessive boyfriend was going to smell this on her and beat the tar out of her when she admitted to him she'd fucked her boss. None of that was important, as long as she didn't get added to that row of skulls.