FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Ellen Grant had never been on an amusement ride. That was, until today.

From early childhood, mother had warned Ellen of the dangers of fun-fairs, which she saw -not only as a sign of moral decency in decline, but as a chocolate covered shortcut to the fire-pits of hell. Mother once read about a fatal roller-coaster accident, and from that day on, she revelled in sharing the gory details -along with a few extras she made up to fit any occasion.

The car can fly off its rails, the safety bar might come undone, the roller-coaster stops at the top of the loop and everyone will plummet to their deaths screaming, or hang upside down until their arteries pop and blood sprays from their nostrils.

Mother hated amusement parks, and she expected her daughter to do no less.

Whenever Ellen faltered and stopped to gawk at posters for the annual_Oakenford Fun Festival_, mother sprang into action like a wind-up toy. She was eager to remind Ellen how the house of mirrors had gone up in flames in 1976, trapping eleven visitors inside. "Imagine THAT," mother warned. "Watching yourself in the mirrors, burning and screaming with your mouth all smeared."

So when mother passed from a botched gall-stone operation, Ellen, well into spinsterhood, allowed herself a taste of the forbidden faire that was the Oakenford S __ummer F_ estival_. She bought herself a tub of unsalted popcorn and a sugarless soda, before seating herself on a bench to decide which attraction should be her first. She had prepared the visit in advance, jotting down names and details for every park ride, into a spiral-bound notebook with tulips on the cover. First, she scratched out all rides that carried rude or scary names, like The Suislide, the Scaredevil and Cock and Bull. Second, she dismissed the bumper cars. They were too loud, and the way the cars slammed into each other, conjured up thoughts of nude people touching each other in carnal, and inappropriate ways. The roller-coaster was (obviously) out of the question. Mother's late words of warning were branded into Ellen's mind, and the shrieks of patrons zooming down the initial slope, triggered an image of screaming people watching themselves die in 360 degrees mirror vision. She blinked to escape her mother's imprint, before scratching the house of mirrors flat off her list. Ellen looked around to find something less terrifying, but it was a difficult task. She was a stranger here. At forty-two, she was twice the age of most visitors; she was inexperienced -but worst of all; she was alone.

From the safety of her bench, Ellen watched couples walking by. They were holding hands, laughing and exchanging sticky cotton candy kisses that lasted much longer than she deemed appropriate. Two young people looked so happy, Ellen got up and trailed behind them. She moved quietly. Half chaperone, half stalker, Ellen wanted to learn and understand their happiness. The couple stopped at the Ferris wheel, where the young man bought tickets. Ellen watched them getting on board, watched them sitting down in a two-passenger gondola and holding hands. Nobody screamed when the ride started, no rusted gondola came loose and no passenger succumbed to a sudden urge of throwing himself over the railing and fall screaming to the tarmac with a sickening thud! With some reservation, Ellen decided this was the one ride for her.

Buying a ticket and allowing the uniformed conductor to escort her into the gondola was a small personal victory. She clutched her purse with both hands and giggled like a girl. Moments before lift-off, the conductor opened the door to let an uninvited late-comer into the gondola. Ellen wanted to object. This was HER gondola, but the attendant mumbled how an even number of passengers was better for the balance. Then he shut the door, leaving the furious Ellen alone with the stranger.

The newcomer, now seated across from her was a man in his mid-thirties. He was thin; almost to the point of being skinny, with short, sandy hair and grey eyes. Ellen sniffed and looked away. There was no __point in making eye contact with a ma_ n_ who -by his looks, didn't know to iron his own shirt __s.

With every ascension of the gondola, the street lights below shrank to luminous dots no larger than stars. The stars above her no brighter than the pin-prick lights escaping the city. As the swinging gondola came to its momentary rest at the apex of the wheel, it was easy to imagine she was caught in a strange limbo between two skies and watching star-fields from two different worlds; one above her and one below. But when the wheel spun again, the pulsating lights below made her queasy. She turned to look at the stranger as the lesser of two evils. He had not said a single word since the ride started. Rather, he seemed lost in a world of his own. Ellen knew little about men's aftershave, but the unfamiliar, smokey fragrance he wore, did not suit him. She imagined something floral would make a better fit. The stranger's mouth moved, as if he were whispering words under his breath.

"Excuse me," Ellen asked. "Did you say something?"

The stranger did not reply. Instead, he made a soft, continuous noise, like he was humming a song to himself. It was badly out of tune, which left Ellen with an uneasy feeling about the man. Something was not right with him, and she wished she had settled for the floating duck ride.

"Excuse me," Ellen asked again. Her voice scarcely more than a whisper. "Do you smell smoke?"

The stranger stared into the distance with indifference. Ellen sniffed in disdain. This man was obviously a drug addict, riding high on some illegal substance he'd scored at the black market. Ellen had never been to the black market. Didn't even know if they had one in Oakenford, but according to Dianne Walsh -her favorite novelist, there were black markets everywhere. They traded anything from weapons to drugs and white slaves. Instinctively, Ellen crossed her legs at the thought of all the innocent women who were sold on black markets and shipped off to sword-wielding sheiks in dusty countries. Dangerous places are for dangerous people. A faint wisp of smoke seeped out from the stranger's right trouser leg, the sight of which, snapped Ellen back to reality. It looked as if he had pocketed a lit cigarette. I knew it all along, she thought. _Definitely some kind of addict._Unexpectedly and with a gassy pop, the stranger's trouser leg caught on fire. He didn't seem to notice the fact, but remained calm in his seat, idly tapping his fingers on the gondola railing while flames climbed from his feet to his calves.

"My God!" gasped Ellen. "Are you OKAY?" She knew it was a moot question. Of course the stranger was not OKAY, but she couldn't think of anything else to ask a stranger whose crotch was on fire. The Ferris wheel was approaching its apex, but much too slow, and the descent would take twice as long. Mother had been right, all along. Fun-fairs are nothing but death-traps. Ellen looked down, making an estimate of her chance to escape unharmed if she jumped gondola. The ground was far below, maybe forty feet. With no bushes around, only the black tarmac would catch her fall. Jump or burn What will it be? Her mother's voice sounded in her head, almost taunting. It was YOUR decision to go there. It's your own fault. It's ALL your fault!

Ellen clenched her hands to her ears, trying to drown the condescending voice. You're DEAD! She screamed. Get out of my head! Get out of my LIFE.

She tried to stand but her legs would not respond to her command. _Rise!_she insisted, but her stubborn legs were as useless as tapioca pudding. Ellen looked at herself, puzzled. _Why couldn't she escape the fire by jumping into that star field below and drift off?_But a new thought had arisen in her mind. A simple thought that had been smothered by so many warnings over a lifetime, living with mother and her limitless supply of dark forebodings.

I don't want to die up here! Cried Ellen. It's MY turn now; it's time to live.

The fire now engulfed the stranger's stomach and torso. His grey flannel shirt flared like a Roman candle and smouldered, sending glowing ashes high into the air. His eyeballs popped and hissed, releasing bubbly fluid that ran down his face like maple syrup. Yet the stranger remained calm in his seat. Now and then he licked his lips as if to wet them. His hollow eye sockets strained to look at his right wrist, where he had worn a watch. But that too, had dropped to the floor when the leather band burned through.

"What time is it?" Asked the burning stranger in a raspy voice that sounded like pebbles boiling in lava.

"It...it's almost half past ten," stammered Ellen.

"Really?" The stranger sounded surprised. "Then, it's time to die... Again."

The wheel attendant kicked the ride into manual when he heard Ellen let out her first scream. It took him twenty seconds to revolve the wheel, before the gondola rested at the ground. By now, fire had engulfed the stranger's body. Most of his skin had charred away, exposing raw sinew and the bones below. It took the paramedics twenty seconds to put out the fire, and an additional twenty minutes to talk Ellen Grant out of the gondola. She kept screaming in terror all the while. She was screaming when they led her into the ambulance, she was screaming when I first met her in the psychiatric ward of the Oakenford mental hospital. And she hadn't stopped screaming by the time I checked myself out, two weeks later.

---

Sometimes I find people hiding under my bed.

Silent, square-jawed and dressed in black. The strangers look like a conga-line of Aristide Bruant clones. With their black coats, black shoes and black fedoras, only their trademark red scarves break the darkness. They never say a word, not even when I pound them with my fists, not when I yell at them to "get the fuck out of my house," nor when I threaten to call the cops. (That's a hollow threat of course.) In reality I would never call the cops, because they too are involved. With the exception of chief inspector Quinn. He is one of the good guys, but he's got his own problems. He is a werewolf, you see.

I once chased one of the dark men out of the house. I've never seen anyone move so fast. I know the MI-16 train their secret agents, but this one was superhumanly nimble. I finally pinned him up against a tree and rammed my fist into that pale face that never changes expression. Somehow he ducked my every blow and I ended up with bloodied knuckles from striking conifer bark, over and over and over -right until the cops arrived. They were friendly enough and called me by first name, but I knew they wanted to take me to that secret hospital, where they lobotomize people. I was so scared I almost puked on the back seat of the patrol car. They left me alone with a shrink whose massive head filled the room. He asked questions and wrote my answers into a journal he keeps in the top drawer. I'm not sure what I told him, because I could not hold on to my thoughts, so they fluttered away and escaped out the open window. I must have told the shrink something he could write down, because he nodded and smiled and asked the nurse to bring me a handful of pills. But my mouth wouldn't open. I couldn't even chew the tablets after the nurse had jammed them into my mouth. We all sat around waiting, while raspberry flavored drool ran down my shirt. Slowly, the shadows stopped moving, and my thoughts gathered themselves like frightened birds on a telephone wire.

"Welcome back, Mr. Wolf" said the shrink. "Your favorite room is ready."

---

Chief inspector Amari Quinn of the Oakenford police ruffled his mane of red hair and poured us two mugs of Jamaica Blue Mountain.

"How do these cases end up on MY desk?" He grumbled. "Spontaneous human combustion is no police matter. There is no law against igniting from within... Believe me, I've checked."

He was worn down and worked up. I've seen Quinn drowning in cases before, but this time, it was bad... real bad. "It's Thursday," I suggested. "Take an early weekend, drive up to the Farvale forests and shift." Quinn is a werewolf. That's what he tells me. It's not like I've actually seen him in his wolf form, or witnessed him shifting. But I don't need proof to believe him. He is, after all, the closest thing I can call a friend.

Every month, Quinn drives up to the woods a couple of hours from here. This is where he transforms. Then he runs around on all fours for a couple of days, doing -whatever werewolves do in their spare time. I've asked a few times, but his answers have always been vague and indistinct, like "...you know ...Wolf stuff."

"Drug wars, smugglers, DUI's and the occasional murder," Quinn complained. "I can handle all of that. But antique dealers going up in flames... how do you even make an arrest? You can't slap cuffs on a charred radius bone."

I poured two teaspoons of sugar into my coffee, just to annoy Quinn. "You woke me up at four in the morning to tell me you don't have a case?"

"It's a case, alright" he said. "But it's not MY case. I don't want the damn case."

I ignored the "NO SMOKING!" sign and lit another Pall-Mall, knowing where this conversation was heading.

"Lemme guess... you want ME to take it off your hands?" It wasn't a question so much as a statement.

"You have a rare ability, Carter." Quinn said. "You see things; you hear things, you see connections we neuro-typicals ignore."

I do see things. That's no lie; but the things I see don't exist. I hear voices conjured up by a chemical imbalance in my brain. They tell me I'm half human, half demon. Quinn takes the demon-bit at face value, my shrink insists I'm a schizo. Myself... I'm not so sure. All I know is, my voices help solving cases when the cops give up. I get paid and that's what matters. I have a diagnosis and a business card: "Carter Wolf; Private investigator."

I leave out the schizo bit, and the fact I'm six months behind on my rent.

"Let's just assume I took your damn case," I asked. "-which Is NOT going to happen. What would YOU be doing?"

"I'll be making the world a better place," answered Quinn.

"I'm calling bullshit!"

"No.. REALLY," said Quinn. "Ever head of Al-Hajjaj?"

"Err..It's that small sandpit in the middle east, no one has ever head of?"

"Close enough," replied Quinn. "And they are sending an ambassador to visit our Beautiful Oakenford." He poured the contents of a brown envelope onto the desk. Among the jumble of papers, he singled out a photo of a dark-skinned man with a short cropped beard. He looked very much like a middle eastern business man, if it wasn't for his piercing blue eyes.

"This gentleman," said Quinn" is Izzat al-Selim; a diplomatic envoy from Al-Hajjaj. He'll be arriving today for the peace talks, and this precinct has been awarded the task of keeping him alive, comfortable and entertained for the week."

The color-photo had the feel and quality of a professional press-release. Thick paper, high-grade ink, expensive stuff. If Mr. Selim had been a rock star, this photo would have carried his autograph "with love." But Mr. Selim looked like an all-business type. In this way he reminded me of agent Dakota of the MI-16. She too, is a_no-bullshit_ type, but she has never claimed to be a diplomat. We've solved two cases together, so I guess Dakota and I are friends, but she still bugged my place up with MI-16 issue microphones. "It's for YOUR own protection, dummy!" she insists. Dakota talks less than I do, so our conversations lean towards uninspiring.

I returned Mr. Selim's photo to Quinn. I don't know much about diplomacy, but I guess I would have expected someone more grandfatherly than the stern Mr. Selim to talk peace with. Someone you would want to shake hands with and have a beer. But I guess they don't drink beer in Al-Hajjaj. They're too busy feuding the neighbouring country of Pustua over a dry strip of desert valley. Nobody needs it, but everyone wants to claim ownership over it, and they have done so for centuries. Last year, a German engineering team thought up the idea of flooding the valley and turning it into a hydro-plant. That's when the feuding Shahs found themselves back on speaking terms. Let's provide the Arabian peninsulawith cheap electric power, and grow rich together, seemed to be the connecting idea. I heard on Al-Jazeera they now call each other "brother." If one thing can bring enemies together, it's the prospect of making money. I too, have heard the roar of my own guardian demons, but nothing is as alluring and all-demanding as the soft whispering of greenbacks.

"We can't afford to fuck this visit up." Quinn handed me another photo. This one wasn't professional quality, but something plucked out of a family album." I recognized the face in an instant. "Ellen Grant," I said, waving my hand over the photo in a mock display of psychic powers. "She's early forties, single, has never had a boyfriend because her mother thought it would lead her into a life of sin. She watched your victim go up in flames and now she blames herself for the accident. Typical protestant guilt."

"Damn!" grinned Quinn. "You're better than I remember. You can tell all that from a picture?"

The truth was, I knew the woman in the photo well. As close as it gets when you share two weeks on benzodiazepine in the same psychiatric ward. Being under sedation is no fun. It's like replacing your brain with lukewarm Jello. But when Ellen Grant began her daily scream-a-thon, we all wished the nurse would bring downers by the quart. Downers for her, or for the inmates. It didn't really matter, as long as they drowned out the screams of the one patient who was even crazier then the rest of us. Over and over, she repeated the same five words; sobbing, screaming, awake and in her sleep. The same five words for two weeks. "It's time to die... again!"

"I'm not going back," I said bluntly, making Quinn take an involuntary step back. The last case I did for Quinn was only a month ago. It seemed simple enough. A recent series of child murders could be traced to five known molesters, one of which was now dead. That left the cops with four suspects.

But soon, my mind twisted every clue in the case into something darker than reality, more foreboding, more evil. I grew convinced the molester belonged to a secret cult that abducted children as human sacrifice to Moloch. It made sense at the time, and the pay was good. But the criminal turned out to be a single loner named_Stanley O'Dowd_. By the time I tracked him down, he'd already hanged himself with a rainbow colored jump-rope he'd taken from one of his victims. The mental strain cost me two weeks in a padded cell, with the screaming Ellen Grant for my next door neighbour. You can't escape through the air vents; only screams do.

"No fucking way!" I snapped.

"But DUDE!!! It's good money," said Quinn. He knows my weaknesses. My rare ability, my episodic schizophrenia, my empty wallet.

"I'm not taking your damn case," I sighed. "Not until the shadows stop moving."

---

Izzat al-Selim flew business class only. His superiors frowned at this -in their eyes, unusual demand. "Fly first class if you MUST," they told him at every opportunity. "But only occasionally. Never do anything predictable." Izzat knew all of this. He had been taught to walk a different route every day, to never eat lunch twice in the same restaurant, to book two rooms in separate hotels. This is how he had survived twenty-five years in this job. If he hadn't paid constant attention, he would be dead three times over; one life for each time the KGB tried to poison him. They almost succeeded on the second attempt -but only almost, and almost just isn't good enough. Eventually, the KGB gave up and President Putin signed the proposed deal, securing friendship and a profitable oil trade between Russia and Georgia. As long as the pay was good, Izzat accepted the risk of a predictable life. He ignored the advice given by his superiors, flew first class when he wanted to and rented exclusive cars when he was on a job.

For a diplomat to travel tourist class was unthinkable. Uncomfortable too.

Thirty minutes before touchdown, Izzat asked the flight attendant for a glass of orange juice. He opened a brown dossier given to him before take-off, to make sure he knew the details of the meeting ahead. Inside, he found three A4 sheets, and one color photo of a skinny white male with unkempt brown hair and green eyes. The man in the photo was in his mid twenties, about 6ft five and, oh! so pale. The photo showed him sitting on a park bench, with a blank expression on his face and smoking a filterless cigarette. He was feeding seeds to pigeons by the handful. Messy, and blissfully unaware he was being filmed. "Not much of an agent," noted Izzat, before continuing his reading.

"Primary objective," read the instructions. "Establish __security measures with the Oakenford officials, prior to scheduled_ peace talks."_ Too easy, thought Izzat. The Oakenford city officials were creaming themselves over the prospect of having their city hosting an international event. It was a unique opportunity to put themselves on the map and make some revenue. He could ask the city for seventy-two virgins smothered in whipped cream, and the Oakenford council would provide with a "Yes Sir! Will that be single or double cream?"

The Secondary objective was more to his liking:

Locate individual "Carter Wolf." Age: Twenty six. Co-owner of the "Phantom Cat Jazz Club." Private investigator, closely affiliated with the Oakenford police and possibly associated with the MI-16. Diagnosed with schizophrenia and prone to violent outbursts.

"The headquarters must have made a mistake," thought Izzat. According to intelligence, the sickly, chain-smoking guy in the photo had killed four trained MI-16 agents with his bare hands. And now he was working for that same unit? Hard to believe this guy could bring in his mail without barfing up a lung. Izzat turned the sheet over for further instructions, only to find the flip side blank. "That's IT?" Grumbled Izzat. A blurry photo and the name of a nightclub? And what was he supposed to do with the skinny Mr. Wolf? Sit down and chain-smoke with him? Izzat sighed, and unfolded the final sheet of instructions. This one page containing the tertiary objectives.

Come ON! he prayed. Give me something to do. Going sightseeing with the local fuzz and shaking hands with a skinny guy who likes his Pall Mall was an exercise in boredom, but hardly worth his five thousand dollar a day fee.

Moments later, Izzat broke out in an ear-to-ear smile. "Waitress!" he shouted. "Another Orange juice, and plenty of ice."

The flight attendant was sweet, with a heart-shaped face and a great ass. "You look happy, Mister Selim. Did you receive good news?"

"Oh yes!" beamed Izzat. "This news is good... very... VERY good indeed." There was something exotic about the flight attendant's voice. Something he remembered from many years ago. A mission in the Caribbean, perhaps?

"You're Creole?"

"Haitian. From Port-au-Prince." The waitress smiled politely, as she gathered empty plastic cups from Izzat's tray.

"Haitian, I should have known. Such a lovely place." Izzat smiled back at the waitress, but inside he was fuming. "I'm growing sloppy," he realized. In the old days he could pinpoint the nationality of people, right down to their town of birth. No so, anymore. All those UN peace-talks had taken their toll on him. He was growing too comfortable, too fat, losing his edge.

"Let me know if you need anything else," said the smiling flight attendant, before leaving Izzat with his orange juice.

"There won't be anything else," replied Izzat. "I just got everything I could ask for." He hesitated before returning the blurry photo of Carter Wolf into the folder, and traced the outlines of his target with an index finger, almost lovingly.

Don't worry, my friend. I will find you. And when that happens... I will kill you."

---

TO BE CONTINUED

---