FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

There was the tower, high above the rest, far above the normal station, more grandiose than anything its neighbors could dream of. Fat at the root, it slimmed into a spire, pointed at its zenith with piercing sharpness. There it was one with the clouds, giving birth to its singular flaming light, glowing amidst the cottony haze, swirling it into a maelstrom like the Eye of Sauron. Seen for leagues around, prominent as the sky itself, it earned the ire and fear of those who lived nearby. It was the looming danger, the imminent doom. They knew what lurked inside, at the top, ready at any moment to come plunging down and expunge the earth with its terror. It remained a topic of conversation in hushed tones only, lest the tower itself hear their gossip and punish them accordingly.

The evil that lived inside, thank heavens, was too occupied to be bothered by whatever the folk around it had to say about it. It was the poor people toiling within it to survive who held its attention. Zorak, Mantis of the Apocalypse, called that ominous pillar of doom his home. He was the tormentor, supreme leader, ultimate judge of what was allowed to come in, stay, and leave. Harbinger of the hellacious, those who suffered his presence shivered in the aura of his malice and psychopathy. He delivered death at a whim. Suffering was his vice, anguish his pleasure. Conquest of the planet was his to own, but something he refrained from for a far more sinister passion.

That tower was the home of Zorak's fashion school, the place where clothes designers came to either make a name for themselves in the world of fashion, or die trying. Zorak, Plague of Planets, was the most shrewd designer and judge. Brethren to his legacy of conquering and pillage was a reputation as the premier designer, the ultimate name in branding, the brain behind each and every fashion trend that swept the market. A mind fit for subjugating was the same that blessed him with an eye for what the masses wanted. His thoughts on how a design will perform were not predictions but prophecy. He knew what the masses wanted. His taste was never outdated, always bending, flowing with the dictations of the times, aware of what had to stay and what needed to go. His stamp of approval would not fall on the great many he deemed unworthy. Those who dared to present their creations in front of him for his inspection could either expect a catapult into success, or out the window of the highest floor so that he could hear their echoing screams fade into silence.

Those who even made it that far were a select few. The process was rigorous, exhausting, debilitating. They started at the bottom, among the dredges, inflaming their minds to create the finest designs they could concoct. No more than half made it past the first stage, a selection carried out by Zorak's lower echelon of Dokarian minions. From there they would learn his curriculum, studying his mantra, drilling his direction, cramming every byte of his wisdom until their brains could process nothing else. This was the last chance to come out unscathed. Those who failed were told to leave, those who passed moved on. There would be no more turning back. Only the brightest of the brightest remained, and competition was at its peak. Failure did not mean dismissal, but doom.

The rejects were casted to the sharks for wasting Zorak and his teachers' time. The lucky few who survived would now face the last exam: Zorak himself. They would be escorted to the very top, designs in tow. The presentation room was a hallway of gloomy darkness, lit only by a candle chandelier that hung from the ceiling on a cast iron chain. Two tables ran parallel down its length. Their metal surfaces shone like mirrors. They formed a runway leading to Zorak's throne, laid out by a red carpet emblazoned with a black outline of Zorak's insectine face. A gold statue of the mantis loomed behind the throne, lit by a bubbling pool of lava. Tall, rectangular chairs lined the outer sides of the tables, facing the runway. They were currently empty. Only Zorak, sitting on his throne, was there to bear witness to the coming prospect.

The massive double doors opened. There was the student, standing with their hands clasped together in front of them, head slightly bowed, face as blank as they could make it. Two guards pushed the door open, then stood at attention, facing one another.Three more guards carried mannequins dressed in the student's designs. A fourth carried a porcelain head on a stand, wearing a fanciful hat. They marched forward to their master, ready present. The student followed cautiously. Behind them came a double procession of monks wearing hooded robes. Their faces were concealed by a veil of darkness. They marched in step, ringing the throne room with the precision stomps of their feet. The lines peeled outwards along the walls of the throne room, then along the two tables. In one very loud skrrrrt, they each pulled out their chairs, sat down, then folded their hands together on the table in front of them. After that, there was silence.

This was Zorak's council, his scythe-picked collection of fashion connoisseurs who helped him in his selection process. While none of them were anywhere near his tier of expertise, he trusted each of them enough to sway his decision making in a direction he felt would launch new fashion trends. The longest serving and most adept sat at the chairs closest to the throne, where he could hear them. They were the only ones who had even the most minute of say in what Zorak thought when judging dresses. They were the students' lifeline, their best hope in staying alive when in front of His Malice.

But Zorak's say was final. When his mind was set, there was no shaking it. A council member of the highest order could plead all they could for a student's case. It would mean nothing if Zorak wanted them gone. Conversely, if he loved a piece that displeased any or all of the monks, the design would go through, but that was a very rare occurrence indeed. The student walking down that crimson tarmac was well aware of that as the four guards carrying their product set it down in a row before their leader. The student stood beside their creations as proudly as they could, back straight, chin held high, combining the right amount of respect and terror they felt in the presence of such an evil being. Of those two feelings, a great majority of it was the latter.

Zorak stood from his throne, mandibles cocked into a gnarly smile. His sickly thin carapace was a grassy green. His thorax was hunched, bringing his knobby shoulders above the top of his head. At the end of a pencil-thin neck was his enormous head, complete with bulging eyes and flicky antennae. Yellow gloves covered his scythe-hands. A skimpy blue leotard clung to his body. He rubbed his hands together greedily. "Why, hello there, young one! What brings you to my lair?" His voice buzzed like the flutter of insect wings, alien and robotic. It razed the air like an electric razor.

The student bowed. "I have some designs for you, Your Hideousness, for your inspection."

"I see! I see!" He walked his way to the mannequins and began circling them and the student. They remained perfectly still, feeling his eyes on their creations like burning lasers on their own skin. There were three dresses and a straw hat. The dresses came in three materials, shiny silk, straight satin, and mink fur. The silk was a navy blue. The shoulder straps were clasped together by a scrunch of blue fabric resembling rose petals. It was cropped diagonally on its right side, revealing a good portion of porcelain white leg. The red satin dress was even skimpier, hardly covering the mannequin's breast and the bottom cusp of its bottom. Zorak eyed it intensely, muttering to himself incoherently, making the student sweat. The one made of mink blurred the line between dress and coat, covering most of the mannequin while also remaining fashionably revealing. At last there was the straw hat, a wide brimmed canopy tilted at an angle on the wearer's head, topped by a small bouquet of pink flowers.

Zorak came to a stop next to the hat. He stared into the rosy petals with those enormous eyes. His beady black pupils remained deathly still while the whiskery feelers on his head twitched. He was so close, the student thought he would stop and sniff the flowers. Finally he resumed his circling, hands shuffling in front of him, words unknown to the student whispering through his serrated mandibles.

Suddenly, he stopped. "Yes, yes, yes," he said rapidly. "I see, I see." He rubbed his chin. "Very interesting. Quite the assortment. Yes." His pupils suddenly darted to meet the student's. "How long did you work on this?"

They jerked where they stood. "A year now, Your Heinousness."

"A year, a year. Hmmmmmmm..." He stroked at his chin more quickly. "And what was your inspiration?" The student gulped and divulged their creative source. Zorak nodded along, deeply invested. "I see. Very good, very good."

The student's hopes flared. They dared ask a question. "Do you like them?"

A collective flinch tore through the council. It was unwise to speak out of turn. Zorak did not betray any reaction, instead focusing on the hat once more. "I'm not sure." The student deflated at once. "I've seen better, but I've certainly seen worse." He tapped his jinger on his mandible, then suddenly departed back to his throne, hands clasped behind his back. He sat back down, a patient smile on his face. "I think you'll be going places, young one. For sure."

Joy surged. "Really?, Your Terror?"

He nodded. "Yes, yes. I like what I've seen. I'd be glad to send you where you're needed. You have much to do and accomplish."

It was their everything not to fall to their knees and grovel. Euphoria swept through them. "Thank you, Your Vileness. I am in your debt."

His smile deepened, narrowing his eyes. "Yes, you are. Tell me, how much do you weigh?"

The student frowned. "155 pounds, Your Awfulness."

"155. I see, I see. Yes, that should be enough." He leaned forward in his throne. "Let's just hope that your flesh isn't as insipid as your taste in dresses!"

With that declaration, he pounded the pommel of his fist on the armrest of his throne. The student could not beg or argue. The floor was already falling open beneath them. Trap doors swung open on their swivels with a tremendous clatter. The student and their creations fell into the yawing pit. They felt their would go weightless and saw the throne room turn into a black featureless wall. They opened their mouth to scream, only to be cut off by the salt water they crashed into. They plunged beneath the surface, leaving a comet tail of bubbles above their head. Water sucked into their nostrils, their scream escaped them as a muffled eruption of fizz. They kicked their legs and clawed at the water. They breached the surface and gasped loudly.

It was their last breath before the crocodiles got them. A massive green jaw fell on their shoulder. Another clamped their ankle. The third closed on their head. A swarm of knobby scales flew into a fury of frothing splashes, descending on the reject. His creations were chomped and torn apart, only to be abandoned upon the discovery of no meat. The water turned red, and the real source was found. Soon there was nothing left of the student but a pile of thrashing reptiles and a pool of gurgling red.

And just like that, the trap door closed. Whoom. The council did not protest. They foresaw the failure before it occurred, so they stayed silent. Only Zorak made noise, a very evil cackle that echoed through the throne room and out into the swirling clouds outside.

THE END