FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Steven Baggs roared down the country road in his black SUV. The weasel was talking loudly at his Bluetooth headset as his high beams illuminated the trees for at least a mile ahead of him. "Look, it's an in and out job. They got no liabilities, so we buy, liquidate, and walk away. Easy half a mill' by the weekend."

He didn't notice the GPS on his center console's display pixelate and glitch out. He did, however, notice that his Bluetooth disconnected. Steve tapped the earpiece in annoyance. "Hello? Hello?" He reached onto the passenger seat and picked up his phone, glaring at it.

No signal.

"Piece of shit." He threw it back onto the seat with a huff, slapping both paws back onto the wheel as the road started a long bend around the side of a tall hill. The weasel felt a sharp hunger pain strike him. He winced... hadn't he just had dinner? Fancy restaurants always had such tiny portions anyway...

As the road finished its curve, a big roadside sign came into view. 'Frankie's All-Night Diner. 1 Mile.' On the billboard was a faded image of a friendly, smiling raccoon in a chef's cap and apron.

Steve scrunched his muzzle... well, at least diners serve big portions.

Just as the sign said, he soon saw the diner. It was a double wide trailer set out on the side of the road, with a gravel parking lot. The weasel slowed down to not get dings in his SUV's finish from the shattered rock, but didn't bother with a turn signal. Soon the soft white noise of tires on asphalt was replaced by the far louder grinding of stone on stone as his tires displaced the gravel.

Cursing at his phone again, he tossed his earpiece onto the seat with it and stepped out of the car, looking up at the lit up interior of the diner and the flickering neon sign: 'Frankie's'

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Steve took the laminated menu trimmed in worn leather when the raccoon behind the counter handed it over. The weasel started looking over the selections of classic Americana dishes.

"Tell me when you've made your decision." The squat raccoon, presumably Frankie, said coolly. He looked much like the illustration had been on his sign, but his fur was far messier, giving him an almost jagged appearance.

The mustelid adjusted his tie and nodded. "Alright." He turned the menu out so that the cook could see, pointing. "The chicken-fried steak looks good."

Licking his lips, Frankie started to write the order down. "White or Red-eye gravy?" The raccoon smiled, showing far too many teeth.

Thinking he was already plenty awake, Steve set the menu down. "White."

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Suddenly, hot white gravy was pouring onto the weasel's body, speckled with ground black pepper. Steve was stripped down on a broad plate, curled up on his side. He looked up just before a splash of the hot greasy sauce struck his snout.

Frankie hummed casually as he wielded the gravy boat. He gave the opportunist a short reprieve pouring a pool of the gravy into the mound of mashed potatoes that butted up against Steve's back.

"W-what are you doing? How did I get like this?" The weasel tried to struggle, but his body wouldn't obey.

"Graveyard of family-owned businesses... unions busted... politicians bought..." The raccoon recited coolly as his stomach let out a loud growl.

The realization of why he was on a plate struck Steve hard. "No. No no no no no no no..." The weasel could only move his head, and when he looked down he thought that he saw breading underneath the splattered gravy on his side. "What do you want? I can get you anything. Wanna make this a franchise? Want the land you're living on? I can make it happen!"

"Anything?" Frankie's grin returned, far wider than any living raccoon should have been able to manage. "There's only one thing I want, and I think you already know what it is." His stomach called out for filling behind his grease-stained apron. The Procyon grasped onto the plate and hefted it, his sharp knit teeth parting open in front of an abyss.

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Frankie belched aloud, a dress tie flying out of his mouth and into a nearby trashcan. "Swish." He grinned to himself, pressing his paws down firmly on the writhing mass that had forced his apron off. The not-quite-a-raccoon groaned happily. "Compliments to the me." He giggled and hiccupped, causing his gut to jolt and the movement inside to redouble.

Steve had no bearings, no breath, no senses except feeling the fleshy walls grinding gravy and mashed potatoes into his increasingly sensitive flesh. He was beginning to weaken as the monster's voice reverberated around him.

"Welcome to the team, here at my diner." With an abrupt glorping sound, the struggling form beneath the jagged, mussed fur softened into a hefty, soft mass. Frankie slapped the side of his gut and then put his apron back in place.

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The next morning a black SUV was found parked in a gravel turn-off of the highway. There was no sign that the brakes had failed or any other reason to use the turn-off. Cell phone and Bluetooth earpiece were sitting in the passenger seat, along with a work laptop in a case in the back. Cracking the password on these led to the arrest of multiple collaborators with the missing person, Steven Baggs.

They all made bail, of course.

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Steve scrubbed hard at the dish in the sink in front of him. His fur was matted down from the steam and splattered grease in the kitchen. He worked with the brush until the platter he'd been served on sparkled and showed no sign of clinging food.

The weasel wasn't sure when he'd started washing, but it felt like forever. The platter had been at the bottom of a large pile of normal sized dishes, all of which sitting in the drying racks to his side.

Frankie walked up, humming casually, carrying a tower of stained and food-caked pots and pans that nearly reached the ceiling. He effortlessly set them down on the counter across from the clean dishes. "If you clean these well, you might earn yourself a bit of a break." The not-a-raccoon-at-all licked his lips, his stomach letting out a meaningful rumble.