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If It Bleeds It Leads

By: Lu-Man!

Ever have one of those days you wished you kept your damn mouth shut? Where something you may have said out of anger or fear was just taken out of context? I have been misunderstood plenty of times, lied about to my own face even, but I've never had anything like this happen.

I guess sometimes I am too trusting. A trait picked up from my adopted father. He was a canine. Proud mutt as he liked to say. Being a young leopard, I just didn't understand society or its prejudices. I never knew his biological father and mom worked her claws dull for sixty plus hours a week at minimum wage just to keep the lights on. I never saw dad and hardly saw my mom.

There is somethings I did pick up however. Like the art of picking through a scent and identifying each individual part and its origins. Just like an old fur out at the beach with a metal detector, you can find a lot of stuff beneath the surface of a smell if know how to look. I have a hard time identifying how someone feels by sight, but by scent I could tell how their emotions, if they were lying, I could even tell you if they were sick.

With a well placed fart, I can tell exactly what you've had to eat for the past few meals. This talent went over very well at summer camp in the fourth grade. It was a gift from a local church who felt that us poor under privileged street cubs needed some experience out doors away from the city streets. Our camp felt the best way to do that was to combine all species so we may "learn from each other by the talents nature gave us." Clicks formed very quickly. Felines huddled together in corners and seemed to eye the rest of us with suspicion and hatred. Canines were more open than most I felt, always greeting with a smile and never afraid to help others. Smaller prey could always be found in groups unless the cats cornered one, and then it was open season for bullying. The bovines and equines would always be willing to help the smaller prey, but eyed any predator type with suspicion.

In that small cabin pressed against the trees I didn't learn a greater appreciation for feline kind. I did earn the camp record for identifying the most past meals in a single brown note as well as a name for my efforts from my fine fellow cats: ass sniffer.

I know, we're supposed to be so much more enlightened now, but some things never change. Certain cats are just too damn proud to even be seen with dogs if they don't have to be. A cat raised by one? That's a catastrophe. A crime against nature that surely must be punished, especially when the teacher isn't looking or a cop isn't around. After all, that little ass sniffer needs to be put in his place doesn't he? And if a cat gets it in his brain to actually attempt to adopt a canine? A feline could go missing for that.

That title of my crowning achievement in summer camp followed me around most of my life. I like to keep myself clean as much as anyone, but I don't pride myself in my appearance or hold my nose in the air like a proper cat. I actually know the scent of my own shit and it don't smell like roses.

That's largely why I generally get along with canines better than felines. I don't mind getting

dirty. I'd rather have a loud raucous drunk conversation than sit in a corner drinking and trying to look beautiful.

You can keep your loud feline centered clubs with the seizure inducing light shows. I'll take the smallish bar. The type of establishment where the floor boards are a bit worn from the chairs and stools. Where furs aren't afraid to get up and dance on occasion if the mood hits them, and anyone can feel welcome regardless of their species. They may not have seventeen different types of imported beer for $10 a bottle, but the beer is always cold on tap, the bartenders are always friendly and the owner is willing to sit and chat on a slow night.

The Crowbar is technically its a "dog bar". But don't let Mike hear you call it that. I've known him ever since high school football. He was the pit bull quarter back with huge biceps the dopey canine grin that could melt a cheer leaders heart, and I was the skinny leopard who warmed the bench for him and occasionally fumbled the ball as a running back.

Naming the place the Crowbar was just his sense of humor. "Get it?" He told me when he revealed the huge white and black plastic sign standing proudly above the highway. The sign gleams like a light house in a storm, the black lettering standing above the image of a crowbar beneath the words. I smiled and nodded, but I didn't get it. I still don't get it. Mike will laugh though nearly every time he talks about it.

He gave me an open invitation at his establishment for "whatever dad band I wanted to bring in." Most of my bands were rock and roll bands with a revolving cast of characters who were usually just old friends. They could be canines, felines or some other species all together. I hold no special place or resolve for anyone's genetic make up or gender. I only cared if you could play and wanted to play old rock tunes. I guess that's why the band is usually mostly canines. Most other species want a more stable beat than the hectic and sometimes drunken timber of a rock and roll rhythm section.

The Crowbar always attracts a mixed crowd. A large portion of the patrons is canine, but you see taller heads of equines wandering around and the ear tips of rabbits on occasion towering above the ear tips of others.

On the night the night everything began, we played our music and mostly people ignored us. A few cheered on a particular song, some even danced on a few tunes, but we mostly got occasional applause at the end of a song and that's it. Usually people just tried to talk over our amplifiers in that muffled shouting tone of voice.

A feline biker gang sat in the corner, with their red jackets leather jackets and white leather pants and sun glasses. They kept close to each other, sneering at the stage, but never really saying anything. They were a patent leather island in a sea of denim, black leather and flannel.

As the night carried on at some point the gang left. I didn't see them leave and honestly thought nothing else about it. I certainly never saw them again. After closing, me and "The Dogs" as our group was called sat around the bar and bullshitted with mike and Chris, his bovine bartender. Chris had strung a bit of Christmas lights between his horns saying he was "getting ready for Mardi Gras".

"How?" Mike asked. A devilish grin was on his face, his lip curling up at the corner of his muzzle that gave his eye a mischievous twinkle. "By dressing up like some Charlie Browns Christmas tree?"

The bull looked up. "I'll have you know that this is the finest in Christmas wear. Charlie Browns tree wished it looked this good!" Mike guffawed (he always was a sucker for a corny joke) and I smiled as I sipped my beer. At some point, someone (probably Mike) offered to make a large paper star for his right horn, but he'd have to "stoop over like the tree for the rest of the night." Chris, not so politely, told Mike where he can stick his star. That got more laughs out of Mike and some out of me as well as we slowly finished our last beers before leaving.

The night sky held just a bit of an edge of the coming dawn over the highway as we finally made our way outside. The darkness was held at bay by the few pools of light given off from the parking lot lamps. Our brown van sat dead center bathed in the largest pool closest to the back door of the bar. A note had been shoved under the windshield haphazardly, like a parking ticket or a flier for another band.

Bands regularly try to stake their own claim in this small city we live in by advertising their next shows or live streams or what not on fliers in parking lots. Not that "The Dogs" and I actually cared. Most of us had day jobs we loved - I enjoy being a mechanic. Davey, our great dane of a drummer is an excellent nurse. He had the gentlest hands that I or anyone has ever seen despite his size. Tracey was a professional photographer. Her size as a chihuahua and eye for detail gave her the perfect vantage point for some stunning photographs. And Jason, our mixed breed of a dalmatian in the group was a store manager for a local fast food chain. He was even working on franchising his own restaurant at the time and now owns 3 Carnivore King locations.

We played for the genuine love of the music: we enjoy this stuff. Just like they talk about in the song "The Sultans of Swing", we don't care if we 'make the scene'. Our jobs are good jobs, we enjoy what we do. We just save our craziness up to let loose a few hours on stage Friday and Saturday nights.

Tracey made it to the note first, her ears going limp as she read it. Her scent shifted into anger and fear. Jason took the note next and the pool of concern grew, fear growing stronger as he read. A snarl curled his lip as a growl escaped his muzzle. Next was Davey. He picked the note up easily, the paper looking tiny in his large paw.

The scent of fear and anger now was starting to drown me. Eyes of everyone glanced up at me, then avoided my gaze. "Alright, let me see it." I said.

Davey held the note up, "I'm not sure you should" he said in that gentle tone he reserved for patients.

"No John, you probably don't want to read it, its just trash" Tracey replied.

The scent was getting to me. By now, I know my tail was twitching in that universal feline manner that says 'back off' as the growing chorus of voices tried to talk me out of reading it. Davey held the note high above his head, as I reached for it. He may have had almost eighteen inches in height over me, but lets be honest there hasn't been a dog born that could jump higher than a cat. All of the Olympic teams use felines in the high jump competition for a reason.

As he reached back he preparing for my jump and tried to leap away me, I surprised him and leaped over both Tracey and Jason in front of me and snatched the paper from his paws. Up until that note, I've never thought about being the only feline in the group. I didn't see myself as an outlier or making a statement. I just played the music I love. I only want to see people dance, sing along to the songs, occasionally move someone emotionally.

As I read the note three times, I could tell the entire group was holding their breath. I smiled at my friends and nodded. "This shit..." I think I might have said, before storming back inside nearly kicking the door open.

"Whoa! John, you almost set the alarm off!" Mike shouted as I stormed back in. His face went from surprise to confusion and concern as I entered the room, slamming the note on the bar. "Let me get you a beer" the pit bull replied as he stepped back behind the bar and motioned for Chris to come back in.

"Listen to this bit of poetry", I growled as the pit bull set the bottle down. 'Hey ass sniffer, stop sucking up to those fucking mutts and stand proud of who you are, you fucking traitor'. I flipped the note around so he could see it. His ears folded back in anger as he read the note until something else clicked. Then he smiled. He began laughing hysterically as the rest of the band began to huddle around me in the bar. "What's so funny?" asked Davey finally as he probably could smell my increasing anger.

Mike just pointed at the note as he flipped it back around. They spelled the word as T-R A-D-E-R, and not T-R-A-I-T-O-R. Mike smiled at me "Got anything you want to trade?" I got to admit I smiled in spite of myself as Chris started serving drinks to us. We all took our turns making fun of the note, and making fun of the ones who wrote it. This went on for about ten minutes until I finally calmed down some and crumpled the note back up, tossing it towards the trash can.

"You know the thing that really pisses me off though? Feline pride. Like I'm supposed to above hanging out with my friends? Better than you guys? Where was this pride when my biological father ran off? Where were these ignorant fucks at when mom had to take three part time minimum wage jobs just to make ends meet? They weren't there. My adopted father was, and he was canine. His family and friends where, and they were all canine. If assholes like these just tried to help others instead of finding excuses to make themselves feel above everyone else, maybe we'd all be better off. Maybe this stupid hatred shit would go away."

It wasn't beautiful. It sure as hell wasn't poetry. What it was, was a rant by a clearly drunk leopard. I'd even go as far as to call the whole thing an alcohol fueled tirade. I was already pretty drunk before I read the note and I got very drunk after.

There was no intention to start some sort of movement or make any statement on society. In fact, I didn't even know the rant was being recorded until the following day when I woke up and checked my phone to find that my message boxes was full, all of them. Text messages, voice mail, every social media app you can think of, from furs screaming at me, cheering me on, and a billion requests for interviews.

There was hot takes from major news networks. One speculated that I staged the entire thing, in some bid for attention for my "failing band." There was protest groups vowing to stage demonstrations at The Crowbar, and of course death threats of every kind.

I ran a small auto repair shop at the time. It wasn't a large business, only myself and one other feline worked there. A lion who loved machines, liked dance music. His mane was always well kept, trimmed to a perfect one and a half inches all the way around and shaped perfectly. He never seemed to get himself dirty. To this day I don't know how he did it, engine grease and oil seemed to be repelled from him. Whenever this fact was pointed out, he'd smile and say well that was because dirt was so attracted to me 'Me and dirt never have a chance to get acquainted.'

My own cell phone kept ringing non stop for three hours straight before I threw it against the wall and watched with grim satisfaction as it shattered into a thousand pieces. Davey had smuggled me in a burner phone listed under his girlfriend's name. "Only we know you have it" he said, meaning him and the band. "That way you can still keep in touch with the outside world."

I smiled and gave him my thanks, wishing to God that he didn't have to smuggle it in a back pack, or that I didn't see on the news "Dog Friend Drummer Smuggles In Paraphernalia", with talking heads and talk show hosts spending the next forty five minutes speculating what could have been in the backpack, one even going as far as to say it was a 'canine conversion kit', whatever the hell that is supposed to be.

The first real conversation I had on that phone call was with Frank. His usually calm and confident voice sounding a bit nervous as he picked up the phone.

"So, you got a new number." That was the first thing he said to me. Not hello, how're you holding up, when are you coming back, nothing like that.

"My old phone was ringing off the hook."

"What you said was pretty messed up John."

"Well, can you blame me?"

"Why, yes. I definitely can."

The conversation died there for a moment. I bit back a sarcastic remark as I waited.

"You don't think you should at least apologize?" He finally said. That's when I broke.

"For what?! Being drunk?"

"You made everyone look bad when you said that."

"Well, those assholes made everyone look bad when they left that shit on the van."

"You didn't have to say those things."

"They didn't have to leave that note."

"You should at least apologize. Say you were misquoted or something."

"I refuse to apologize for being hated. It's not my fault that other people hate me based upon what the news chooses to report."

Silence again followed, pregnant with rage and anger. Finally he said, "Look, there's something else. We don't want you around the shop anymore. The customers have complained and many say they're not sure if they want to support your hatred."

"I own half the shop." I growled.

"Not anymore. The land lord is buying out your half."

I hung up the phone after that, and flipped on the television. A well dressed skunk in a business suit sat behind an expensive hand made oak desk. The backdrop was a window that shown the expansive street and skyline of New York behind him. He was the perfect reporter type. His eye held just the right amount of sadness as he read the news, his ears tilted forward in what could only be described as a canine grin. His large striped tail never twitched or faltered as he read the teleprompter in front of him.

"We have a breaking exclusive from the cat-turned dog story. He called his business partner, and gave another rant, this time against his customers. We got the exclusive audio recording. Take a listen."

The screen changed. It went from the Skunk on camera, to a black screen with words printed. 'Those assholes...' I heard myself say. On screen it just gave ellipses after the words, literally cutting the rest of the sentence off. 'You should at least apologize...', there it was again_dot dot dot_. 'I refuse to apologize' dot dot dot'It's not my fault other people hate me'

And then it cuts straight to three TV show personalities sitting around a coffee table of some kind. One very famous canine (who, under contractual obligations I can't say his actual name, so we'll just call him Tom), a feline (This one we'll call Jerry), and a mouse (and how about Bob for this one).

"Wow" Tom said, his ears going back in fake shock, "This cat just gets worse and worse."

"It's under my medical opinion", the mouse said, adjusting his glasses. He was wearing a fine gray suit that looked to be worth more than my car. "That he's mentally incompetent. He needs serious psychiatric help."

Jerry started laughing at this comment. "I'm glad he's not a cat anymore. Good riddance!" She said, her orange furred ears forward, eyes grinning. I blacked out from rage at this point. But I am willing to bet its at this time I decided to test the screen strength of the television against that of the remote. The remote won handily. It left a large smoking hole in the screen as well as shards of glass and plastic on the floor. The remote itself was largely undamaged. None of my temper tantrum ended up on the news. Of all the things that happened over the entire course of events, that's the only thing surprised me.

At any one time I could count five or six news crews sitting on the edge of my lawn. They parked their vans on the curb just enough into the sidewalk to still say they're on "city property". Crews rotated out day and night. My drive way was completely blocked, forcing me to sit under their glare of cameras, flashbulbs and questions that all melted into an insane babble if you go outside. It all blended together and to sound like some strange alien language of some distant planet.

I had attempted once to go out to get groceries. After ten minutes of sitting in my car waiting for them to move, questions being shouted at me through my window, I growled slammed my door open into a reporter and stormed back inside. The squirrel that I slammed it into fell back a few feet, doing a dramatic stumble across the lawn. There's a photo of it still online under the article of "Cat turned dog turns on reporter". It has a nice shot of me snarling down on him as a team of reporters stand back, microphones in hand like drawn pistols at the ready.

It was delivery from then on. Sometimes my friends would bring me food. Usually Davey, but Tracey would come by too, hiding plastic containers in the bottom of backpacks they brought in with them. The delivery drivers always get held up by the reporters, asking them what I ordered, if they had any comments, etc... One reporter even paid a driver to take his shirt and cap, hiding a microphone and camera in his shirt.

The video shows him walking up my now neglected front yard, banging hard on the door. He got my signature for my card and tried to make it sound casual "so I was wondering, um, why did you say that stuff? Are you really wanting to be a dog?" I looked at his face hard. The ear tuffs of the cat peaking out from the hat. Orange fur with white tips, is kind of recognizable, especially when you see it on your nightly news every night for nearly a week. I casually pulled two slices out, flipped the lid open and threw the remaining pizza at his face. The cheese and sauce dripped down over him as he growled obscenities at me. I slammed my door shut in time for him to claw at the door and screech a few more insults. Ass sniffer was the kindest thing I was called that day. It's still my favorite video on the internet.

The back of my house was all public property with a nice ravine with a few trees that I used to love watching the sunlight peak through in the mornings until I saw cameras peering at me between the trees. Everything I did was scrutinized, publicized and even politicized. One reporter had called my being home bound a "protest against felines everywhere."

It's during times like this that you really start to understand who your real friends actually are. I've had a few friends drop out on me sure, but my band stood by me through all of this. Even Mike stayed loyal. If anyone had any reason to be angry at me, it would be him with protest groups standing on his property screaming obscenities at him and his workers all week. Mike called me, shouting above the noise in the background.

"What?" I asked.

"I said do you want to come in and play Friday?"

I could hear chanting in the background, all of it against me.

"You sure you want me to be there?"

"Are you kidding? How could we do this without you?"

"I should call the guys and ask them."

"Already done. You're the last call on the list actually."

"Well, could you make one more call for me?"

Mike listened gave an occasional "uh-huh", the vocal equivalent of a nod. You can always tell when gears would begin turning in that pit bull's head. His voice shifts from this calm friendly demeanor to a more devilish tone. Our high school coach was a mean lion, large even for his species. His tawny large arms would bulge out and his tail would twitch like mad as he squeezed his fists tight to contain his rage and fear every time Mike got that twinkle in his eye.

I could hear that devilish tone in his voice. "Don't worry, I'll make a few more calls." He said. The line went dead before I could protest. Crap. I was walking into something. But as Mike said to me one day on the field after a game "The plans always seem to work best when you have absolutely no clue as to what's going on." I hope you're right Mike. I thought as I stared at my phone in my paw I hope to God you're right.

Golden fur and black spots covered the face staring back at me. His ears were plastered against his skull in fear as he looked down. My cousin Glendin was still standing in my doorway of the garage. Apart from a couple inches in height an a misplaced spot on the back of his head, Glendin was practically my twin.

The news crews was still waited in front of the drive way, forcing the van to jump the curb and drive through my front lawn, taping the entire thing from a convenient camera angle to hide the news van blocking my drive way entrance.

Glendin had come willingly, but fearfully, uncertain as to what was actually going to happen. "I came. I'm willing to do it John, you've always been there for me." He said.

I gave Glen a fake smile and hugged him tight for a moment. "Thank you." I said. "Remember, it's easy. Just drive towards my old business address. Go by it, but not inside. Circle the block a few times if you have to, but give us about thirty minutes. Then call the cops and tell them you're being harassed and in fear of your life."

"Remember, you got to sound convincing" Tracey said, patting him comfortingly on the shoulder.

"Sound like I'm afraid of that group of wack-jobs out there? That won't be hard."

He hugged me tight as if this was going to be our last time seeing each other then held me at arms length. "Good luck."

"Same to you."

Davey jumped in from behind squeezing us both in a large hug as we cried out in surprise. "Down Mungo, Down!" I cried, referencing Davey's other nick name, from a certain Mel Brooks movie.

"But Mungo gonna miss Glendin!" He cried in a deep voice, as Jason and Tracey laughed.

Finally he set us down, our fur now bristled out completely. We both looking more like over grown bottle brushes now and not felines. "Dogs!" we shouted in unison.

Inside the van, I heard the sound of my small car's engine come to life and slowly fade away as the car pulled out of the garage. I could see in my minds eye the black import driving slowly down the driveway, then forcing its way through the reporters as they raced to their own vehicles to continue pursuit. I could see the news anchors smacking the sides of the cabs of their own news vehicles shouting "lets go!" like soldiers preparing for a convoy.

What I saw when I was imagining all of this was ankles and tails. The floor board smelled of stale dirt, beer, nachos and faintly of Glendin who had used the same spot to hide on the way in. The gear was packed up around me in a cocoon of speakers and instruments. The base drum would roll in its case and continuously roll onto of my shoulder or hit me in the head.

My tail may have been twitching, but I wasn't annoyed as much as I was nervous. What if the news vans didn't buy it? What if they were behind us, or worse already there? What if, what if what if....a thousand questions running through my head as I was slowly smuggled out of the house.

"Ah shit" I heard Jason growl from up front.

"What?" I asked with my heart in my throat. I half expected that skunk news anchor at any moment jump to in front of the van with a pistol and start firing shots screaming 'I have to ask a question!'

"There's news crews here." Tracey said defeatedly.

"Maybe we can..." Davey began, his booming voice a contrast to Tracey's higher one. "Nope, we've been spotted. Gun it, Jason."

I felt the van lurch in one direction then another. The breaks squealed in pain as the driver stomped on the pedal. He jerked the wheel in the opposite direction while he did so, causing one of the speaker cabinets to fall on me.

"Ow!" I cried as the van cut off.

"Well, John, we got you here. Uh, sorry for the news crews and stuff." Davey said, before pushing a door open shouting "back! Get back!" The rear doors opened up spilling light inside. Flashbulbs flashed their strobe light effects while questions increased in volume to a near shouting tone. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch something. But most of all I wanted away, away from everything and everyone.

What happened next I learned days after over beers at Mikes place with Glendin sitting in a lawn chair next to me. He live streamed the entire incident and played it back for us while sipping beer. "Plans work best John," He said as we watched the video, "when you have no idea of what's going on."

While we pulled up, there was a group of felines waiting to greet us, a supremacist group who was protesting my very existence. If that wasn't enough, there was a canine group who was protesting not only my friendship of my canines, but my existence and the 'transition' that I had not undergone, and wasn't planning on attempting.

They had been staked out in the parking lot shouting insults at each other, and protest slogans. The news was reporting the brewing war, labeling it "John's revolt." In front of both groups and between them and the bar was another group I had no clue existed.

This group, Mike would later explain, frequented his watering hole quite often. They were a biker club. They weren't Hell's Angel's though. They wore cuts of leather, but was not exclusionary as to who they recruited: old or young, feline or canine, predator or prey, gay, straight, or whatever in between, as long as you loved rock music and loud motorcycle engines you were welcomed with open arms. They participated in no illegal activities that I have seen, instead concentrating on bike rides and charity work.

They stood calmly between reporters and the bar, their largest members forming a protective wall that Jason had whipped the van behind. They tried closing the gap before the news vans could get through, but the news bullied their way in, smacking an ursine member of their club on the shoulder with the side of their news truck.

The bear sat with his back against our van, clutching what appeared to be a rapidly swelling arm. News crews claimed it to be the "first casualty" and kept insinuating he might be in 'serious trouble' but never actually cleared the way for the ambulance who was trying to push in behind them.

The entire circus had gotten crazier. Protest groups collided with one another, a mass of perfectly primped and dressed felines pressed against canines in two or three day old clothing. Claws and fists flew. A bottles and trash was occasionally thrown at the group in front that now struggled to contain the crowd.

Red and blue lights crested the hill speeding towards the growing riot in front of the bar. A horse with a grim face and a calm voice whom I've become great friends with stood in front of the cameras. He was wearing a vest of the club who struggled to contain the increasingly violent protesters. "Now, I just have a few things to mention before the police escort all of you off the premises" He said, with microphones shoved in his face like the stingers of angry wasps defending their nest, "First off, you have all impeded that bears medical care. Since I am the lawyer for The Crowbar, this motorcycle club as well as the lawyer for the rock band known as 'The Dogs' you will all be getting a couple things from me. One is a protective order for everyone in the band, including the leopard known as John. You, nor no one in your organizations will be allowed within one hundred yards of their homes, business, or person. Secondly you will be sued for the medical care and mental trauma you have caused these individuals." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thick padded envelope "Each one of your stations have been issued one of these. Now I bid you good day, and you have exactly three minutes to get off of the property before I have you all arrested for trespassing."

The video at this point shows what most consider a nervous look. But as my cousin later told me when we watched it together "That son of a bitch looks pretty smug." His ears tilted, his head held high, on a feline that could mean nervous. But on a horse? His chest nut colored fur seemed to shine in the evening fading light as the first smoke canisters came flying in from the police behind the crowd. The protesters screamed as the tear gas flooded the parking lot. The video camera next shook as the guy holding it ran inside away from the tear gas and bodies pushing through the crowd in riot gear.

Sometime later I was sitting at a table in The Crowbar with a sheepish looking bull, his ears and tail drooped in embarrassment. "Sorry." He finally said. We had been sitting there for several minutes, sipping on a bottle of cheap beer. He was wearing the colors from the club outside.

"Why?" I asked. I felt rage boiling up inside me. I knew it wasn't his fault. He couldn't have known all of that would occur, or that the news would pick up my story and just run with it the way they did, but I still felt hurt and angry.

"I saw those assholes in there that night." He said. "I was tending bar, they were cutting jokes. Talking about crossing species barriers and how you needed to be taught a lesson. I tried to stay out of it, but when they talked about carving 'Ass sniffer' in your hide I had to do something."

"So you recorded me?"

"Well, not at first. Me and Mike threw them out. When you came back in with that note, well I figured I could show the world what hate does to people."

I sighed. "The world showed us instead at how its better at this game than we are."

In the dim light of the bar, a long eared figure appeared wearing the cut of the local gang. "We do have to do this" he said, as another creature, I couldn't see what it was, but might have been a goat, set up a camera.

"I'm going to ask you a few basic questions. And that will hopefully throw some water on this dumpster fire."

The lupine was professional, respectful, and thorough. The story started at the beginning, how I met the guys, how I got into playing in the bar band in the first place. The tale twisted as stories always do towards the course of events, and how I felt about the entire thing.

"So, lets get a few last minute things straight" He asked, his ears tipped forward. We'd been talking for over an hour now, going back and forth during this story from me to the bull back to me. "First, are you considering transitioning to a canine?"

"No. I'm happy being a feline. I'm glad I'm a leopard. I have a great family who I wouldn't trade for the world. But because I'm proud of who I am or glad of my lineage doesn't mean that I can't respect or enjoy spending time with another species."

"What about your speech online?"

"I didn't know I was being recorded. I was just drunk and angry because of the note."

The interview went on for another twenty minutes. I was asked if I could offer advice to anyone and I didn't have anything. I still don't. Even after going through that entire wrestling match with insanity and its much larger uglier cousin, I still didn't have anything.

The next few days was interesting. I spoke with my new lawyer who informed me that he was suing them for harassment, vandalism (for the destruction to my lawn), slander and libel, as well as trespassing. Most of these organizations, so eager to ambush me for any statement they could get decided that they'd rather quietly settle out of court and bury the rest of the story.

Glendin came out okay. After he left and the craziness started at the bar, he looked in the rear view mirror to find that every single reporter had abandoned him, figuring out the ruse.

It still took several weeks for the insanity to actually finally die off. I do repair work out of my own home now for my business instead of at a professional garage, that makes me plenty of money and keeps me busy.

If you're not doing anything and you're near The Crowbar either Friday or Saturday night, you can probably catch us on stage. There isn't a wide selection of beers there, and yes there's chicken wire surrounding the stage now to protect the band after an asshole or two sneaked their way in and threw a beer bottle and a kitchen knife at us. The floorboards may have peanut shells on them from time to time, and we get a little loud and rowdy here. But its the way we like it. Though now, if you do happen to catch our act, our opening song is a cover of Don Henley's "Dirty laundry". I've yet to have anyone ask me why.