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Chapter 7: A Bad Hangover

Paul awoke to a splitting headache and a dry mouth filled with the taste of stale vomit. The bright lights shining in his eyes only compounded the throbbing in his head. He lifted his arm to shield his eyes from the harsh light, or at least, he tried to. Briefly forgetting the light, his eyes shot to his arms as he struggled to move his limbs. His arms and legs seemed to be manacled to the metal chair in which he was seated. Shit, what happened last night?

The muskrat searched his memory: he had been at the bar with a couple of his buddies, Peter and Richie, a marmot and a sable. He'd had a few drinks and gotten into an argument with a weasel who was wearing a Prairie Meadows Parrots baseball cap. Paul was a lifelong Maplesburg Marauders fan himself and felt the need to confront fans of other baseball teams. During their heated argument, Peter and Richie had decided to call it a night. They had tried to get him to go with them, telling him he'd had "too many", but there was no way Paul was going to look like a coward by turning tail in the face of the Parrots fan. When the weasel finally gave up and left the bar, Paul had celebrated his victory by ordering two more rounds. After that, he couldn't remember anything.

How had he ended up here? And where was here for that matter? He looked around the concrete room: it looked like some type of cell. It was roughly square with a heavy-looking metal door towards the far corner of the far wall. On the adjacent wall near the same corner, there was a metal slab with a thin mat on top, and at the middle of the other adjacent wall were a sink and a toilet. Crap. Had he been picked up by the police? It certainly looked like some type of prison cell, but weirdly, it smelled strongly of antiseptic.

His concerns were confirmed when the door swung open, and a short red fox dressed in a blue uniform top and a pair of light blue exam gloves strode into the room.

"Good, you're awake," she chirped.

Pulling a pair of scissors from one of her pockets, she began cutting off his Oswald 87 Marauders jersey.

"What the fuck?! That cost me forty credits!" he yelled.

"What a waste of money!" she piped without slowing her cutting. Enraged, he tried to struggle loose but gave up with a wince: getting so excited wasn't helping his hangover. She finished cutting the t-shaped incision to open the shirt front and sleeves then pulled it away leaving him completely undressed. She shook her head with a disappointed sigh. "It seems you've made a mess of yourself. I'll be back in just a minute."

She strode back out of the room, leaving Paul to puzzle over his situation. He heard the sound of running water through the open door, and shortly afterward, the fox returned with a bucket of hot, soapy water. She pulled a sponge out of the bucket.

"You may want to close your eyes," she advised before thrusting the soapy sponge into his face.

Paul shut his eyes tight as she scrubbed his face; occasionally, he heard a splash as she dunked the sponge back into the bucket. Afterwards she moved to his chest, and he was able to watch her meticulously scrubbing away. She was pretty hot despite being a fox and probably about twice his height and at least four times his weight, not that flirting with the cop was likely to help his case. He wasn't drunk enough to make that mistake now, and he hoped he hadn't last night; though, of course, he couldn't remember.

The fox dropped the sponge in the bucket, pulled off the exam gloves, and gave him a sniff. "Still pretty smelly, but I guess it'll have to do," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Whatever, just tell me what the fuck I'm doing here and what I'm fucking accused of," he grumbled.

The fox tapped her right pointer against the side of her chin looking up thoughtfully. "Hmm, 'accused of'," she murmured. "That's a good question. Would you like to confess to a crime? I'm sure that would be an interesting development."

"No, I don't want to confess!" he shouted. "You think I'm an idiot? I haven't done nothing! Ugh." He clenched his teeth with pain as his rising blood pressure made his headache throb sharply.

The fox patted the air with both hands, "Shh, then there's no reason to get so upset, we just found you passed out in an alley and thought you might need someplace safe to spend the night."

"Then what's with the fucking restraints?" he rejoined, pulling at them pointedly. "Those are for my protection."

He looked at her dubiously. He doubted he would pose much of a threat to her. "Then,

I'd like to get the fuck outta here now. Thanks for the bath, but I'll send you a bill for that shirt," he stated curtly.

"Get out of here? I don't think I can let you do that. We have much more to discuss, you and I," she intoned archly leaning in with a smirk. "Why? Aren't you comfortable?"

"Of course I'm not fucking comfortable, you bitch!" he squeaked into her face with rage. "I've got a fucking headache with bright fucking lights shining in my fucking eyes, and I'm stuck in this hard fucking chair! And whaddya mean we got more to discuss? If you ain't got nothing on me, then I-Argh-Fuck!" he grimaced as his head throbbed and his stomach twisted.

The fox glanced up at the lights before looking back at him with a shrug. "Not much I can do about those, but let me grab you something to drink." She trotted out of the room, bushy tail bouncing behind her, and a few seconds later he heard another door slam.

This was definitely not what he had thought being taken in by the police would be like. He had never assumed it would be a pleasant experience, but something was wrong here. How could they hold him without charge, and why hadn't he so much as heard a third person in the building? He was still puzzling over these questions when he heard the other door close again. The fox reappeared with a tall glass of water.

She placed the glass to his mouth and started to tilt it slightly. "Drink up!" she encouraged.

At least he could quench his thirst and wash the taste of puke out of his mouth. He took a sip, but immediately gagged on the slimy, bitter liquid. "What the fuck is this shit?!" he spluttered.

"Dish soap," she answered coldly. "I thought you needed it for your filthy mouth."

"You fucking cunt!" he shrieked, "Wait until I tell your boss about how I've been treated! I hope that stunt was worth your job, twat!"

"You haven't finished drinking it yet," she murmured with barely concealed fury; her narrow eyes glinted dangerously.

Holding the glass in her right hand, she grabbed his jaw in her left hand, squeezing hard to dig her fingers into the back and force his jaws open. His eyes welled with tears as her claws pierced into his cheeks. He tried to wrench his head away, but she held him easily.

"Unless you'd prefer to inhale it, I suggest you start drinking," she growled, and she began to pour the dish soap into his mouth.

He had no choice but to drink the vile liquid; the thick slimy soap coated the inside of his mouth and throat and burned all the way down to his stomach. When the glass was finally empty, the fox released his jaw and patted him roughly on the cheek.

"There we go. We don't want a repeat of that, now do we?"

He swallowed nervously, trying to remove the last of the soap from his mouth. "N-no, Ma'am."

She smiled pleasantly. "Good to hear it. Now, how about we have a little fun?"

Fun?

She reached up over his head and pulled down two manacles attached to metal cables. He looked up and saw that the cables hung from two sets of pulleys and extended back beyond where he could see. He looked back at the fox, baffled.

"I was thinking I could hang you up by these and flog you for ten to twenty minutes. How would you like that?"

Paul's eyes bulged in shock, but then he had a sudden realization. This wasn't the police; it was some type of BDSM escort service. But how the fuck had he gotten here? There was only one plausible explanation: Peter and Richie. They had taken advantage of his drunken state to pull this prank on him. They were probably watching this all on a screen somewhere and laughing their asses off. He shook his head, embarrassed by how hard he had fallen for the prank but was also slightly amused.

"Okay, guys, you got me," he called. "But I'm letting you know right now that I'm going to get you back for this! That drinking soap part went too far!"

The fox turned her head to look behind her and then looked back at him inquisitively. "Are you talking to someone?"

Paul smiled patronizingly at the fox. "Listen, Lady; the jig is up. I know my buddies paid you to do this, and I'll admit it was pretty damned convincing up until the 'fun' part. But there's no point in continuing it now that I've got you figured out, and I'm not into this BDSM crap."

"Paid me? So you think I'm a whore, do you?" she spoke softly, but the undertone of menace was clear.

Paul ignored her threatening tone. What did he care if he offended her? "I was assuming female escort," he admitted. "But," he continued as he ran his eyes over her lewdly, paying particular attention to the way her bushy tail peeked between her shapely legs. "If you are a prostitute, after you undo these restraints, I could be the one to pound you if you'd still like to have some fun."

"Oh, no. I think I've had about enough fun with you," she answered coldly.

"Heh, well that's too bad. You're not bad looking, and I've never fucked a fox before." "I'm afraid you won't ever have that honor then," she stated matter-of-factly as she pulled

the left manacle the rest of the way down and clasped it around his wrist.

"Hey! I said I'm done with this crap!" he yelped

"Don't worry. It's not going to last much longer," she assured him, clasping the other

manacle.

"Look, I get that Peter and Richie may have paid you for a certain amount of time, but

enough is enough. If they demand money back, I'll make up the difference and then some." "That's very generous of you, I'm sure," she replied calmly while she pulled a pair of

handcuffs out of a pocket and locked them around his ankles.

Paul didn't know what else to say. He watched dumbfounded as she unlocked the

manacles that held him to the chair and walked around behind.

"You can go ahead and stand up now," she called.

Paul looked back at her but just sat dumbly, still wondering what to do.

"Suit yourself."

She grabbed the cables and pulled, using her weight to easily lift Paul by his wrists. He

swung helplessly about one and a half of his body lengths above the floor.

"But I said I didn't want to go ahead with the flogging," he finally managed.

"Well, you're in luck then because I also decided against that," she replied as she

sauntered back around to stand in front of him.

She pulled the scissors back out of her pocket, slipped them open, and rammed the top

blade into his chest just below his sternum.

"Guh!" His eyes bulged with shock and the gut-wrenching pain of the stab.

Pulling down savagely with the razor-sharp blade, she ripped him open from sternum to

lower pelvis. His body exploded with fiery pain, and he screeched in agony and horror. The overwhelming pain caused him to swoon briefly. He recovered consciousness with a gag and vomited a frothy mixture of blood and detergent. Staring down in terror, he saw his intestines spilling out of the gaping hole.

The fox stood a short distance away with her arms crossed, still holding the bloody scissors. He managed to drag his eyes up from his ruined body to meet hers. She was giving him a hard stare, and he looked back fearfully, pleadingly.

"I'll leave you to your own company," she said coldly. Then she turned and trotted out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Leaving Paul to bleed out in excruciating pain. Alone.

***

Rita tromped up the stairs from the dungeon in a huff. She was going to have a serious

talk with Wolfgang and Johann, her wolverine bodyguards. Yes, some prey were better than others, but this one had been intolerable: crude and low. And he thought I was some filthy whore! Monstrous! As punishment for their lack of initiative (Because that's all it was really! Snatching some drunkard instead of putting in the effort to catch a proper piece of prey!), she would make them go downstairs and clean things up after a few hours, a task she usually left to Boots. Thinking of Boots, she could use his attentions right about now.

Rita entered the living room and flopped down on the pale pink, gold embroidered sofa. Several matching pieces of furniture were neatly arranged throughout the spacious, high- ceilinged room, which had thick dark cream-colored carpet, rich crimson and gold wallpaper, and an intricately carved off-white ceiling. At the center of the twisting designs, which were suggestive of twisting and coiling vines, hung an ornate four-tiered crystal chandelier that glittered as the crystal caught the bright, warm light from the candelabra bulbs. Over the slightly musty smell that permeated the entirety of the ancient house was the light scent of roses.

Whilst the luxurious surroundings were not lost on Rita, who was very proud of her family home, they did little to quell her disappointment from the morning's recreation, especially after having to wait overnight for the drunk muskrat to recover enough to know what was going on. She clapped her hands sharply twice.

"Boots!" she called

Immediately, a heavy clomping began to echo throughout the house, and shortly, the towering human appeared, smartly dressed as ever in tuxedo and heavy steel-toe boots.

"At your service, Mistress," he addressed her with a bow.

"Bootsy, I've had a dreadful morning. Be a dear and massage my feet, will you?" Boots nodded with obsequious eagerness, "Yes, Mistress!"

He hurried across the room and fell to his knees in front of the sofa. Rita stretched out

her legs, and he took the nearest leg and began to gently press and caress her left foot and ankle. Rita sighed with pleasure and closed her eyes, resting contentedly on the soft sofa while Boots' gargantuan hands somehow managed to stimulate all of the right pressure points. She let the thoughts of the unpleasant morning drift away like clouds being swept from a sunny blue sky.