FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"Muri? Yoo-hoo!"

Behind her desk, the small black rat sat with earphones in, her nose practically buried against her tablet. The device itself sat propped up by a stand, her paws folded as she leaned in as close as she could manage. The cheetah at her door waved to get her attention, to no avail. Finally, he walked over and reached down, putting his own paw between her eyes and the screen, snapping his fingers a few times.

"Muri! Wake up!"

The sudden interruption made Murina Beaubonique jump up with a startled squeak. She quickly pulled her earphones out and turned the tablet face-down on her desk, doing her best to keep her composure.

"Harris! Sorry, didn't see you. I was just in the middle of, uh..."

The older cheetah let her stammer and stumble a moment longer before chuckling dryly. "You were watching videos of that Alfie guy, weren't you?"

Murina sighed and leaned back in her chair, slim paws reaching up under her spectacles to rub her eyes. "YES, dammit yes."

Harrison Wheeler sat on the desk in front of him. He was older than Muri, enough so to be her father, a fact that had shaped his relationship with his often high-strung peer. The feline took in a breath, puffing his cheeks out as he exhaled.

"You know what I'm gonna say next, right?"

Sitting upright again, Murina adopted a mockingly stern expression, shaking her finger at her friend. "Muri, you've had enough problems with unreliable clients. What the hell do you think is gonna happen with this trainwreck? Are you trying to sabotage your career on purpose?" She grinned, regarding the feline in front of her. "Was that about right?"

Harrison snorted. "Pretty good, that'll save me some time. You just forgot the part where I mention your client list is looking a little thin and management isn't too happy about it."

The rat sighed, slumping forward. "I know, I know." She reached into a drawer in her desk, pulling out a nearly-empty bottle of ibuprofen and shaking a few tabs into her paw, which she swallowed dry (something that always drew a dramatic wince from Harris). She shook her head. "I'm just saying... if he's coming into the AFC, he's going to need representation and not only do I doubt many agencies would be willing to pick him up, if what they're saying is true then he might not be comfortable signing with..."

She trailed off, noticing the familiar gaze Harrison was throwing her way. That flat, skeptical, who-do-you-think-you're-fooling-little-miss look.

Murina huffed. "Did you need something, Harris? I really am busy," she said, quickly turning her attention to her computer and clicking the mouse a few times to illustrate just how busy she was.

Now it was Harris's turn to sigh. "Okay, well, I figured you should hear it from me first before it showed up online. Muri... you lost Jaeger."

The rat blanched. "I WHAT?"

Harris did his best to be sympathetic. "I know, I know. I guess he wasn't happy with the contract offers he was getting."

"What did he expect??" Murina blurted out, incredulous. "He had two DUI's last year! He had to drop out of his big fight! He's lucky he's getting ANY offers!!"

The older feline shrugged. "Preachin' to the choir, Muri. But you know how these idiots are. Sport's getting more mainstream and they're seeing what Fang's getting per fight and think they all deserve to be paid like superstars."

A pause hung in the air between them. "Harris. I have a feeling there's more."

"Well..." the cheetah began, hesitantly. "I don't mean to rub salt in the wound, but you're definitely not gonna like who he signed with."

Murina's jaw fell slack. "LaTour? LaTour poached Jaeger from me??"

Harris winced again. He didn't need to nod. Sedrick LaTour was Muri's nemesis in the sports agency world. After working side-by-side at the agency when they started out, the pair butted heads when it came to how to deal with clients. Murina felt that what was important was getting her clients safe contracts that would set them up for as long as possible, even if it meant less money in the short term. Sedrick did not have such empathy for his. Eventually the coati broke off and started his own agency, gleefully stealing clients from Murina when he got the chance.

Muri's fists balled up. "That little shit..." She took in a sharp breath, let it out steadily, and did her best to calm down again. "Okay. That's fine. I was looking to cut Jaeger loose anyway. If LaTour wants to deal with that landmine, fine. Let him."

Groaning, the rat put her elbows on her desk and her face in her hands. "Harris... what do you think the odds are of him trying to get Alfie?"

"Er... you sure you want me to answer that?"

Murina's voice got a distinct whine to it. "Harriiiiiiis!"

The older agent huffed. "Take a look at him. He's a viral superstar right now, that fucking FSPN article got absolutely everyone talking about him. The AFC wants to sign him and they'll probably make him headline his first pay-per-view. Doesn't matter that he has zero training and will probably crash and burn within a year, there's millions to make from him right now. So will LaTour try and snap him up? Come on. You already know the answer to that."

Muri picked her tablet back up, waking the screen and glancing at the frame the video had been paused upon. Alfie had his arms up over his head in victory, one of his friends (she assumed) hanging from his back. She stared at his face, aged well past the 20 years he'd been alive so far.

"Well... I'm not gonna let that happen, Harris. Sedrick's just gonna chew this kid up and spit him out. I don't care if he's a gamble. Everyone deserves a shot, isn't that what we keep telling the world? We don't see species, we just see character?"

Harrison's shoulders slumped down. Muri was in her self-righteous mode. There was no way to talk her down now. "Muri... yes, but this isn't about what species he is, for chrissakes, do you really think a guy like that has the kind of 'character' that should be in professional sports?"

His comments earned a derisive sniff from the diminutive rodent. "Harris. This isn't baseball. It's two guys going into a ring and clobbering each other until one can't get up."

Harris chuckled. Okay, she had a point. "All right, fair, but come on. It's still a sport with rules and expectations about professionalism. Look at that punk, you expect him to put on a nice suit and chat at a press conference?"

Muri's eyes went back to the tablet. She tapped the screen, letting the video play in silence while her earphones sat alone on her desk. Alfie had a wild look to him. He wasn't just competing with his opponents, he was reveling in the violence. Even when he got hit he seemed to enjoy it. Like he got off on the bloodshed. The hunt.

By that point, Harris had circled the desk and was watching with her. "Muri... look at him. I mean really look at him. Can you imagine him respectfully bumping gloves before a fight and listening to a referee? And he's coming into the big leagues now, he won't be fighting random scrubs around the neighborhood. He's a circus act. A sideshow. The only reason anyone gives a shit about him is he's a freak of nature with a quote-unquote 'badass' image and a handful of viral videos. The internet grabbed him for the novelty of it and he's about to get a grim dose of reality. Do you REALLY want to stick your neck out for him?."

She swallowed quietly, stopping the video again. "He's not a charity case, Harris. He's a person. And mark my fucking words, he's going to prove you, and everyone else, wrong. I'm signing him and that's all there is to it."

**************************************

Shane Rufus sat, sprawled out more like, on an oversized couch in his spacious living room. He fidgeted, repositioning himself a few times until he felt properly situated. The lanky maned wolf never quite felt at ease in his multi-million dollar home. After growing up in a trailer park, a house where he could get lost just felt unnecessary. Mostly the canid spent his time either right where he was then or in the master bedroom. Everything else was just there to show off. Oh, and the massive deck in the back. He loved having parties out there.

The living room was massive, with marble floors and an open kitchen attached. That was important. He liked to be able to smell his meals as they were being made. The scent of his food was helping to calm his blood down, because he sure didn't like what he was seeing on the television.

"You aight, Fang?" a reedy, faintly raspy, voice rang out.

The leggy wolf turned his head. Out near the kitchen and perched on his countertop sat a stubby spotted hyena, wearing a few thousand dollars worth of designer clothes Fang had bought. He didn't mind. The AFC was pulling in more money than he knew what to do with, why not share the wealth with the guys who'd been loyal to him since the beginning? Besides, gotta make the pack look good.

He grunted. "Fuck no, Jimmy, have you seen this?" he said, angrily thunking bare heels on the giant coffee table in front of him, beer in his hand.

On the nearly cinema-sized flat screen against the opposite wall, Fang had tuned into FSPN. It wasn't the live feed, but something he'd recorded from earlier. A piece on a grungy rat from England and the Anthropomorphic Fighting Championship's interest in getting him a contract.

The hyena whooped a laugh and then just shook his head, leaning back on his hands. "Yo, Fang, why you keep watching that shit? Who fuckin' cares about some dumbass ra-HEY!!"

He laughed, but that can whizzing past his head probably would have stung if it had made contact.

"Cuz these motherfuckers won't shut up about him!" the wolf barked angrily. "Oh wow, that rat sure looks badass, did you hear how tough his neighborhood is, I'll bet he could beat Fang!" Shane slumped back into the couch cushions, lean arms crossed over his chest. "Sumbitch busts up some drunk buddies in a fuckin' beat-ass park an' now it's like he's gonna come in on MY fuckin' turf? The fuck, right?"

Jimmy laughed again. Fang would have been annoyed, but he'd known the hyena long enough to realize it wasn't directed at him. It just kinda happened.

"Fang, my dude..." the short-limbed male said, hopping down from the counter and making his way over to the couch. He climbed up over the back, sitting up above his wolf buddy and giving him a playful push. "So dipshit here had a video get popular. You're talkin' like he has a chance at ya. C'mooooon, lighten up. I got your favorite snaaaaaaack."

The wolf looked still irritated, but glanced over and saw a can of beer in Jimmy's paw, a craft-brewed pale ale from his old hometown he'd grown fond of. He snorted, accepting the offer.

"Y'know this shit's from my fridge, right? Like, I'm the one that bought it."

Jimmy grinned, jovially petting his friend on top of the head and tussling his mop of untamed hair. "I said I brought it, didn't say shit about buying it. But come on, man. He'll get a lame-ass bout with a tomato just to make him look good and then he'll get flattened first time he's in a real match. Couple months from now he'll be back on the street and everyone'll forget all about him."

Fang's ears were still pointed at the hyena, but his eyes were focused on the television screen again. He ran a tongue over one of his pure gold canines, feeling the pointed tip. He knew his friend was right, but he still didn't like what he was seeing.

The ever-grinning Jimmy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and nodded at the big screen. "Look at 'im. Actin' like he's an actual predator just cuz he's bigger than those piss-ass rats on his block. Wow, check out Tommy Tough Nuts over here, he can beat up a rat. Yo, how much you wanna bet he folds like fuckin' fresh laundry first time that goofy-ass muzzle gets checked, huh? Huh?"

He was trying his best to stay grumpy, but he couldn't. Jimmy's enthusiasm was infectious. Despite himself, Fang laughed and cracked his beer can with one finger, drinking nearly half of it in one go.

"Well fuck, son, now you're makin' me wanna get 'im in the cage," the wolf joked, squaring up his arms and fists, beer can in tow, like he was picturing the big Brit in front of him. "Set a record for fastest knockout, call me the Exterminator. Shane Rufus, whenever ya need some vermin taken care of!"

Bomb defused, Jimmy slid down on the couch and sat more casually. "Yeah man. Like holy shit, ya gotta ease up, man. Smoke a bowl, chill out."

Shane chuckled, "Eh... maybe later. Wanna get some work in after lunch. Ay, speakin' of..." The wolf turned back towards the kitchen. "Murph! That shit ready yet? God damn, the smell's killin' me."

Though he'd been there the whole time, the pudgy badger at the kitchen's outsized stove had stayed out of the conversation. He didn't know much about sports, but he knew a whole lot about food, and so that was where he kept his focus. In front of him, on a large hot plate, a slab of meat sizzled. The outside was frying at extra high heat, sealing in the juices for the nearly raw interior. A black and blue steak, the way Fang liked it. Even though he knew the wolf didn't care, Murphy made sure to add a few vegetables to enhance the flavor of the marbled cut, and just give it a nice presentation.

"No rushin' perfection, Master Rufus!" he called out in his thick drawl and husky voice, chuckling as he did. "If you're gonna spend the money on the supplies, I'm gonna make sure it comes out right! C'mon 'n get it!"

Nearly springing from his seat and bowling his friend over along the way, Shane scrambled over to the large island at the kitchen, his eyes locked on his incoming meal. Murphy slid the plate over, its contents looking like a magazine cover. Murphy knew how to make a feast for the eyes as well as the stomach.

Fang grabbed the fork and knife next to the plate and cut through, letting the scent pour out of it up to his nostrils, inhaling deeply. He let it out again through his mouth, tasting the aroma as it wafted out of his muzzle.

"God DAMN, Murph. So what's this one again?" the wolf asked, spearing a bite-sized portion on his fork and holding it up in front of his snout to inspect.

"That would be Japanese Shorthorn, boy, and you best savor that cuz it's gonna be a damn while 'fore I can get it again."

The canid laughed. He popped the bite into his maw and chewed, shivering as the flavors washed over his tongue.

"Fuck me... swear on everything if everyone knew how good this shit was, it wouldn't be so hard to get..." the wolf murmured to himself.

Murphy snorted, wiping his broad paws off with a towel after giving them a wash. "An' if ifs an' buts were candy an' nuts we'd all have a merry fucking Christmas. Sides, wouldn't be as special if ya could pick it up at the store, would it?"

Shane wasn't listening. He was too sunk into the moment. Pure carnivore bliss with every bite. Then a noise caught his attention and his ears perked, turning to see Jimmy perched at the end of his couch, staring at the dining wolf.

"Ey, you wanna piece?" Fang chuckled, pointing his fork at the plate. It was a damn big cut, and he didn't mind sharing a bit of it.

Jimmy almost tripped as he went over the armrest of the couch, shuffling his way over with his knees extra bent, his body down low. By the time he arrived at the table his nose was only a few inches over it. "Can I?"

The wolf grinned at his friend. "Do ya want it? Do ya? Do ya boy?" he teased, cutting a long strip off of his steak and holding it up over the hyena's head. "C'mon! Tell me ya want it!"

Jimmy whined pitifully. "Aw come ooon, Fang! Don't make me..."

"Do ya? Do ya do ya?" Shane repeated, barely able to contain his laughter.

Already beginning to drool from his craving, Jimmy buckled. He looked up at the dangling hunk of meat above him, little drips of melted fat hitting him on the snout, and craned up. "I do! I want it! Give it to me!"

He let his friend beg a little more just for his own amusement, but then Shane dropped the piece into his friend's eager maw, going back to his plate while Jimmy dropped on his backside and went about gnawing his share. He took in careful breaths as he ate, eyes going closed now and again. Murphy spoke the truth, it was a rare treat for him, and he didn't want to waste it. He wondered if that stupid fucking rat had ever had one of these. He stared at the last piece on his fork, eyes narrowed.

"You step in my yard, ya little mousey faggot, an' any steak you get you're gonna be eating through a straw."

*********************************

Silence hung in the Anthropomorphic Fighting Championship boardroom. The company's half dozen executives sat around an oblong table, their eyes flicking from one to another, each waiting for someone else to say the first word. At one end sat Stephen "Big Steve" Pullman, the company's founder and CEO. What started as a one-off tournament that struggled to find a venue willing to host them had burgeoned into a multi-billion dollar enterprise, with television deals, video games, dedicated magazines, you name it. The harp seal with a lazy eye had gone from tabloids accusing him of sending inter-species relations back a hundred years to being praised as a pioneer.

As much as he loved seeing his baby grow up to be a grown-up sports league, there was one thing Big Steve hated: Corporate meddling. After getting bought out by the Starlight Media Corporation, every little thing seemed to necessitate a board meeting. Where an event would be held, how much to charge for seats, and in today's instance... signing a prospective athlete.

"All right, if no one's gonna start, I guess I will. Steve, have you lost your FUCKING mind?"

Awkward laughter followed the sudden outburst. The speaker, an old stag named Tom Harder, had a tendency to skip pleasantries and just get to the nub of the matter. It rubbed some the wrong way, but it also meant meetings didn't waste as much time as they might otherwise.

"Hm? What do you mean, Tom?" Stephen asked casually, his hands resting on the table, fingers intertwined.

The white-tailed deer at his right gritted his teeth. Today's meeting had been a long time coming. He, as well as most of the board, had hoped they could sit down with Stephen and talk some sense into him before it became an issue, but after the Rozich piece got published, that was all out the window.

"Don't play dumb, you know EXACTLY what I mean!" Thomas shouted, slapping his palm on the table. "Steve, we've given as much latitude as possible over the years, and you damn well know that. Every time a PR fiasco happened, every brawl at a press conference or athlete caught doping, we went to bat for you because when you go out there and talk about this organization being about unity amongst the species, it's believable."

With his infuriatingly cool demeanor as intact as always, Stephen shrugged his shoulders, leaning forward on his elbows gently.

"And... does this not fit right with that mission statement?" he said calmly, his gaze shifting from member to member around the table. "I've said since the beginning that the AFC has no prejudices, fighters from all walks of life are welcome to compete."

"Oh cut the crap, Steve," a voice from the left spat out. Its owner, a burly old longhorn that embodied the phrase "oldshool," crossed his arms over his belly and leaned back in his seat, making its hinges creak.

"This ain't a ping-pong league, dammit. You're talkin' about putting that vermin in th-"

"Whoaaaaaa, Barry," Stephen interrupted, putting both hands up. "Ease up on the slurs, okay?"

The heavy-set bovine rolled his eyes. "You're talking about putting a... a violent punk in a cage with one of our athletes and just, what, hoping he plays by the rules?"

The seal grunted a dry, humorless laugh. "You do realize we're not just gonna send him a plane ticket and drop him into a fight, right? He's gonna have a team, trainers, coaches, and we do have a couple referees knockin' around that should help out."

Leaning forward to make herself seen, a stern-looking peahen in glasses with an ornate retainer situated around her neck chimed in.

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Barry," she said, her voice flat and firm.

Stephen sighed quietly. This was bad. Barbara wasn't known for her brevity. "And why is that, Barb," he said, with barely any inflection.

The fowl sniffed indignantly, clearly not pleased with the CEO's tone. "When Starlight entered its relationship with the AFC, our primary goal was to legitimize mixed martial arts as a professional athletic competition. Ten years ago your company was seen as little more than street fighting, a primitive spectacle that served to satiate the bloodlust in its viewers. I believe we've done a good job at making sure the world sees our events as just that. Yes, there are a few... kinks... that we still need to work out, I needn't mention the Diaz incident."

Of course, she did mention it, and that mention made a few faces around the table tighten up. Jorge Diaz had been a promising fighter in the middleweight division. Bucking all expectations, the spry young pudu became a quick sensation in the AFC, tearing his way through the lightweight division and becoming a fan favorite in the process for his flamboyant celebrations and exuberant interviews.

All of that came to an abrupt end during a fight to decide the number one contender spot for the championship. His opponent, a known dirty fighter of a mongoose named Jovany da Silva, took his claws to the deer less than a minute into the first round. The broadcast had to be immediately cut, and the young man needed a transfusion as soon as he got to the hospital. Two careers were over in an instant.

Barbara continued. "Putting a friendly face on most sports is easy. Even hockey has toned down the violence in recent years and penalties are harsher than ever for fights on the ice, but fighting IS our sport. The AFC is, by its very nature, always walking a tightrope. Finding a way to make a contest that stops when one of the two is physically incapable of continuing, where bonuses are still offered for the most spectacular knockouts, making that seem respectable is difficult. Bad boys are one thing, trash talk is expected and without some arrogance and aggression the sport is boring, but, not to belabor the point, this is not baseball. It's not running track at the Olympics. You're talking about taking a rat with a violent history and a known disdain for other species and paying him to have the opportunity to fight them."

Stephen Pullman swallowed uncomfortably. The da Silva memory was still fresh, despite being several years prior. "Yes, well... don't forget that when da Silva was tested, his iron and IGF-1 levels were damn near off the charts. It's... a real shame it took us that long to get ASADA testing done, but, well, we do get that done. If this kid's doping, he's not getting in the cage."

The green peahen looked less than impressed. "While I'm sure you're confident in that, my concerns run rather deeper than simply making sure our athlete's hormones are regulated. We can test a fighter for that and prevent him from competing. I don't believe this Alphonse needs drugs for such behaviour to manifest. I believe he has that in his bones."

Murmurs around the table indicated agreement from several of those in attendance.

If Steve claimed he was surprised by the resistance he was getting, the only one who might believe the lie would have been himself. From the instant it came into his head to reach out to Alphonse Norwich IV, he knew damn well the board was going to have opinions on it. Still, he did his best to play it calmly, and not let on that he'd been spending most of his time leading up to this meeting practicing what he would say in it. So the seal leaned forward once more, taking a slow breath.

"Well... would anyone else care to share some of their concerns with the class?"

Silence once again crept into the room. Glances passed between members. This time, Barry took the charge.

"You saw the damn videos, Steve. He ain't lookin' for competition, he's lookin' to hurt someone, and I ain't convinced he'll stick to the rules. He's not a professional athlete, he's a gaw-dam thug!" The old bull rubbed at his face. "Even if he pisses clear... da Silva was a lightweight, this SOB's a heavy. If he goes off his nut it's gonna take more'n a referee to get him off his opponent. I just... why do you care so much about him anyway? We don't even know if the kid can fight for shit in a real match! All we got are these damn videos where he's bustin' up drunk idiots in his neighborhood, why are you so hell-bent on bringin' him in?"

That was perfect. It was just the question he was hoping to answer. The one he had the best response to. He took a satisfied breath and began the speech he'd been working on. To make it even more dramatic, he stood up to address the room.

"Well, it's like Barb said, Barry. Everyone. The AFC has gone past its, shall we say, brutish history and evolved into a respectable sport. I'd argue more so than boxing these days because of how we referee our fights. More than that, we've stressed harder than ever that these fights ARE nothing more than competition between professionals and that, no matter how vicious things get in that cage, as soon as the bell rings they can hug it out and no feelings are hurt."

Steve stood a little taller now. He was feeling good. The speech was going well, no stumbles, and everyone in the room looked like they were taking him seriously.

"Well that's easy to say if we're taking in guys that were on judo teams and high school wrestling stars, but take a guy like him? Pull him out of there and give him a dose of the world away from his slum? If we can take him and turn him away from all that garbage, that's gonna show just far we HAVE come as a society. If someone from the absolute bottom can be reformed, and do so in our great sport, that's not just a nice little feel-good story, that's something we can all hang our hats on. Because think about it, we know all this about him, none of it is a surprise. We can look at the world and say you're damn right we gave Alphonse a chance, and we showed that if he can do it, anyone can. Kid could be a hero for how you can grow past your prejudices and still be a badass."

The seal took a big breath. All that ranting had taken it out of him. Unlike his fighters, Steve Pullman didn't have much of a gas tank to him. He looked out at the members of the board (as best as he could, anyway), before dropping down in his chair once more and crossing his chunky arms.

"...you're fulla shit, Steve," came a deep-voiced chuckle.

Of all the responses he anticipated, that was absolutely not one of them. The portly seal blinked, confused. "What uh... what do you mean, Tom?"

The stag still had an amused look on his face. "That was real pretty, but come on. The only reason you give a shit is that his videos are so damn popular. He's a freak show, and that means pay-per-view buys. It means network subscribers. It means viewers, and that means money. It's great that you can make it sound like you're a champion of species equality, but don't bullshit us in here. Er, no offense, Barry."

The bull snorted, but stayed quiet. A few beats passed. Big Steve Pullman laughed, his head hanging down.

"Hey, you gotta give me credit, at least. That speech will play damn well on FSPN."

At the far end of the table, a slender bat with big glasses and even bigger ears spoke up. He was younger than the rest, a recent addition to the board, and tended to stay quiet during meetings.

"Don't you think there'll be some... pushback? We've seen a few organizations make posts online already."

Steve waved a hand dismissively. "Throw some donations at them, hold a fundraiser, make him bump fists with some young'uns, they'll quiet down. Spin it right and we could even convince 'em we're all fighting for the same thing."

He should have known. Appealing to the corporate board's morals didn't mean shit, but tell them how it benefits the company's image and bottom line and now they're listening.

"Who does he fight?"

Barbara's question managed to catch Steve off guard for the second time in barely as many minutes. He shrugged. "Hell, I don't know. We got plenty of scrubs still under contract, or maybe pull in someone new for him, why does it matter?"

She looked back at him like this was the most obvious thing in the world. "If our concern is that he'll go off-script, as it were, don't you think it would be more prudent to give him a tougher opponent? You're talking about giving this rat a team of coaches and trainers, essentially making him MORE lethal. Mightn't it be a touch foolish if he were squaring off against someone who isn't accomplished enough to shut him down should that occur?"

Barry snorted once more. "Hell, throw 'im in there with Fang."

The board laughed... all except for one.

This time, Barry's nose stayed quiet, but his eyes rolled hard enough to clatter against his browline. "Oh come on, Steve, you're not thinking..."

The seal laughed, waving a hand. "Well not in his first damn fight! But... hell, what if it turns out he's got the chops? You saw the videos, kid's hands are good, and he sure isn't afraid to get hit. Maybe he'll surprise us. Harness all that anger and who knows, right? That'd be a hell of an underdog story, and everyone loves those."

"And if he doesn't?"

Steve turned his head. "If he doesn't what, Tom?"

"If he doesn't surprise us. We've been talking like he's this vicious monster about to get unleashed on the AFC, but we haven't brought up the VERY distinct possibility that he won't have the discipline and then gets KO'd in his first fight."

It was true. While they'd been dotting the I's of how to keep Alfie from wreaking havoc on the organization, they forgot to cross the T's of what would happen if he was a total bust.

The company owner bobbed his head back and forth a few times, thinking it over. He grinned. "Well, folks, then the racist shithead gets his ass kicked, we can still say we gave him a shot, we'll get some serious PPV buys and then in a few months it'll be like it never happened."

He looked around the room again. There was far less hesitation on display now.

"So then it's settled!" he said, clapping his wide hands. "Alphonse Norwich is coming to the Anthropomorphic Fighting Championship."