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I'm afraid you wont find anything Censored here, Sprocket, oh no. But that's what we've liked the most about our sordid little relationship, yes? Much like the bittersweet taste of blood and chocolate, two great tastes that go well together are sex and violence, oh yes. If you are offended by slur words and specism, please, go petition or something, just Do Not Taunt HappyFunBall (tm)!!! Selected Lyrics from Marylin Manson's This is the New Shit are copyright Nothing/Interscope. Used without Permission. Appalling.

The FLIR Conspiracy

Chapter II - Bloodsport Porno

2007 by Eldyran

Rivets of sweat poured down the black fur of Klein's shirtless body, the salty perspiration stinging the bleeding gashes in his hard abdominals. As the short, black wolf huffed in exertion under the weak lights of the dim arena, he circled his opponent: three hundred pounds of pissed off tiger. The tense muscles in the wolf's jumpy thighs crinkled his blood stained BDU pants as Klein slid to the side around the wary feline. They glowered at each other with more nothing to say.

_Everything has been said before

There's nothing left to say anymore

When it's all the same

You can ask for it by name_

The roar of the crowd deafened them in the tiny underground arena, the bloodthirsty mob's calls booming off the recently repainted concrete walls without end. Everywhere around Klein and his playmate, paws exchanged money, bookie's took bets, reversed them, and bouncers broke up small pocket riots with brutal efficiency. Up in the private clubhouses overlooking the event, high profile bankers fucked their rented whores to the pit fighting below, the flying blood and sanguinary sheiks of the frenzied crowd only further fueling their varied lusts.

_Babble babble bitch bitch

Rebel rebel party party

Sex sex sex and don't forget the "violence"_

On the peripheral edges of the arena, earlier combatants able to still stand watched as well, taking the occasional bottle of Gatorade(tm) passed over to them. A fewer still, who had managed to stay in the weekly 'Fang Gang' competition for more than three events scribbled out autographs with blood smeared paws. An unspecified sneaker company also signed one fighter up with a multi-thousand dollar contract to endorse their product: Kicking the Shit out of You Since 1994

_Blah blah blah got your lovey-dovey sad-and-lonely

Stick your STUPID SLOGAN in:

Everybody sing_

Klein's cruel eyes narrowed at the savage in front of him, the tiger's stripes rippling as the huge muscles flexed underneath the silky feline coat. The almost nude tiger scooted opposite of the black wolf, his massive feline package inside his black speedo swaying with each subtle slide. Despite the rumble on Klein's muzzle lips, his green lupine eyes were locked on the lewd sight swaying in their snug confines back and forth before him. Hobbes took notice and blew the specist wolf a subtle kiss, eliciting an enraged growl from his special friend. They both lunged at each other, claws, spittle flying.

The spectators roared as two heavy bodies smacked into each other hard in mid air with a sweaty slap. Frantic close quarters swipes met only with glancing strikes, surface wounds at best, but the gush of hot crimson was an instant crowd pleaser each and every time. Like in the times of the ancient Roman Coliseum, their insatiable desire for entertainment and commodity eroded any semblance of moral decency in them.

In a commercialized, homogenized, sanitized culture, what was else was left, besides Wrath?

_Are you motherfuckers ready

For the new shit?

Stand up and admit,

tomorrow's never coming._

Klein pushed away from Hobbes, ducking a lighting swipe that zipped past the tips of his black ears. The wolf sent a iron fist in the rock wall of the tiger's abs, but it didn't even seem to faze the taller fur. A savage knee to his muzzle sent Klein staggering back to the ring's painted border, his once black canid nose a mess of foamy red. Blood and tears blinded the wolf, the rampant auditory chaos around him only adding to his disadvantageous disorientation.

Taller, heavier, stronger, faster, and in all honesty, much better looking, Hobbes seemed to be playing with Klein, who simply would not give up. Hobbes closed on the staggering, wobbly wolf with predatory, feline grace. As his mammoth paws clamped down on Klein's shoulders, the tiger suddenly realized his grievous error, something that even kittens learn in their first few kills: Prey is most dangerous when cornered, wounded.

Trained in CQC and the LINE combat system, the ex-marine found himself in his zone. In trained reflex, the Klein knocked himself free of the shoulder grapple using the tops of his forearms, and sent a dual four paw tip jabs into the tiger's armpit nerve clusters. Hobbes roared in the unexpected, exquisite pain as his now numb arms flopped uselessly at his sides like limp fish. Klein sent his forehead slamming hard into the feline's sensitive, flat nose, more in rage than in efficiency at this point.

Another gush of hot crimson splashed against the top Klein's snout as Hobbes' cartilage caved in from the impact. After this sassy form of payback, Klein sent in sideways angled chops to Hobbes' jaw hinge. When the stunned tiger dropped to his knees, a short, brutal knee to his striped forehead sent the feline's slack form slamming hard on his backside. Klein saddled his foe, his partner of furious passions like some twisted version of the K?ma ??stra. The berserk wolf bared his irony and crimson fangs, letting out a bestial roar right into Hobbes' blood soaked, ruined face.

The bloodthirsty crowd roared back in reply, demanding more.

_Do we get it? No.

Do we want it? Yeah.

This is the new shit,

Stand up and admit._

Eager to appease his voyeurs' epicurean wants, Klein drew back the claws of his right paw, ready to tear deep into Hobbes' soft jugular. Before the schismatic wolf could do so, a referee fired off electric darts into his backside using a newly commercialized form of suppression. Klein howled in painful convulsions before dropping like a sack of potatoes, and up on the electronic scoreboard the new company's slogan rolled across for investor notice: Saving Lives Every Day.

As a couple of bouncers dragged Klein's limp lupine form out of the blood spattered ring, a couple of event promoters kicked him in the side, others already shouting demands for their next spectacle. Klein had tried to violate the only rule of 'Fang Gang': Everyone comes out of the painted ring alive.

Disfigured, crippled maybe, but at least alive.

Klein's head rocked with the impact from a boot, and while still dazed and out of breath, his head exploded a nova of pain. Before any disgruntled organizer could chuck a beer bottle at him, the bouncers had half hauled, half dragged Klein to safety down the empty corridor leading to the locker rooms. His self appointed manager, Ben Wechsler, followed close behind, throwing up his hoove hands and bemoaning all the way.

"Vei is mir! What was that, shlemiel? You practically stood there while that kitten took you apart!"

Klein shot the old ram a dirty look as the two bouncers deposited him on a bench in the locker room. Mr. Wechsler pushed the two bulls, each of them twice his size, back out the door they came in.

"Thats right boys, don't bother shleping this sandek around next time. I'll butt his tuchis all the way back to the locker room and save you the grief."

The silver ram with an aged pepper speckled coat turned around and spied the black wolf with a narrowing brow. Klein knew he was in the shit when Mr. Wechsler pushed up his old fashioned spectacles with a single hoove finger. Even the mighty Fuhrer would have pissed all over his shiny black boots at the sight of him, and the mental image made the psychotic wolf's muzzle lips curl in sassy grin.

"What you smiling for?" the old ram rumbled out, hooves nails mashing together in frustration. "I saw you out there, in that .... that .... kappora ... taking swipe after swipe! Is that what I'm here for? To bandage you up afterwards like a little shrew of a meshugeneh?"

Klein just watched him with cold, green eyes, still smiling. He couldn't remember when Mr. Wechsler had single handedly consigned himself to be his manager, but a jew of all things? The irony humored the specist, racist wolf each and every time. All the best fighters in had jews backing them up it seemed, like Al Weil, Irving Cohen, Mickey Goldmill, all ready to yell their boy's ear off should they take a dive or something.

Klein was going to make sure that the respectable old ram would be the last to die in his little side project, if the grizzled hymie didn't take Klein out first, that was.

The wizened ram soaked a white towel under one of the sinks and then knelt by Klein, before touching up a weeping gash across the wolf's left temple. Klein hissed through his fangs at the white flare of pain that did a merry little jig across his skull. The towel came away a delicious shade of bright red. Up this close, Mr. Wechsler could smell the musky blotch in Klein's boxers, testimony to the arousal the fierce wolf felt astride of his opponent, right before getting zapped in the back.

"Feh, you whine like a goyeh!" his manager spat out, moments before a badger and a lynx in matching Armani suits came in through a side street stairwell leading up from outside. Klein glanced once at Mr. Eddie's goon's and shook the thick layer of sweat out of his fur, small droplets of blood splattering across the ram, who didn't so much as even flinch. Instead his manager stood up and tossed the bloody towel into a nearby sink, before stepping aside for the mafia soldiers.

"Da Boss wants to see 'yous up top, Mister K." the badger spoke softly, if not in dull, flat speech. After Klein retrieved an athletic shirt from a locker, the two soldiers ushered Klein up the stairwell without so much of a word from the ram. His manager at least accepted that the wolf's primary responsibilities to Mr. Eddie came before 'Fang Gang'.

For once Mr. Wechsler let him go without an admonishing bit of Yiddish.

Still, as Klein climbed the spiraling set of concrete stairs leading up with two bruisers flanking close behind him, he couldn't help but rather have the old ram heap insult after insult on him than what was to follow. Soon the mafia trio emerged street level next to a prominent commercial building, through a maintenance doorway used only by the secret fight club's combatants. With the weekly event still underway, only a few squatter disguised bouncers kept vigil at the entrance.

Klein flashed the bouncers a look, who just continued to smoke in the dim, grimy alleyway, and the black wolf started down the trash littered alley with well cut entourage in tow. At the end of the alley, one of Mr. Eddie's trademark black Mercedes Benz S600's twinkled under the gilded ritz of Baltimore's bustling night life. Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dum halted as Klein stepped up beside the luxury car and opened the passenger door, before slipping inside and closing it behind himself.

"Jesus, Mister Klein." the black cougar in the diver's side spat out in a deep, gravelly voice. He hoped the wolf wasn't going to get any blood on his recently cleaned upholstery. Mr. Coccotti hated doing so, but in his line of work, you occasionally got a bit of blood and gray matter on the seats. "You look like a Biroldo ... what the fuck you been doing on the side?"

Klein hated it when his boss called him 'Mister' instead of 'Sergeant', as he was used to his superiors addressing him by rank. It was a minor annoyance since returning from the Gulf, and the dour black wolf had tried to get used to it. He looked out the tinted window next to him as Mr. Eddie pulled away from the curb, easing into downtown traffic with unsettling grace.

"Nothing, Mr. Coccotti." Klein said hesitantly. There was another tense moment of silence as the mafia boss considered what Klein had said, before the furious, immaculately dressed cougar answered.

"Don't you lie to me you piece of shit." Mr. Eddie grumbled. Klein looked over to the fuming feline, shadows playing across his stern features from passing street lights.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Mr. Coccotti ..." The cougar just shook his head to the wolf's response.

"You are a shitty Boxhead lair, Mister Klein."

The cougar fished out a cigar from a pocket and waited for Klein to take out a V-cutter from his glove compartment in trained obedience. After making a clean cut off the tip, Klein struck a match and lit the stogie. That was another of Mr. Eddie's trademarks: Expensive cars but cheap cigars. The cougar drew in a deep pull, and the clipped tip blazed a bright orange cinder.

Perfect time for the Sicilian Eggplant to go into a long winded monologue.

"Sicilians are great liars. The best in the world." He paused to give emphasis, spiced smoke waifing from out of his flared feline nostrils. "I'm Sicilian. My father was the world heavy-weight champion of Sicilian liars. From growing up with him I learned the pantomime." He turned a corner, and almost swerved to hit a mime.

"There are seventeen different things a guy can do when he lies to give himself away. A guys got seventeen pantomimes. A woman's got twenty, but a guy's got seventeen ... but, if you know them, like you know your own face, they beat lie detectors all to hell."

He pulled to a stop at a red light, letting the 389 horsepower V12 engine purr idle. Mr. Eddie turned halfway in his seat to address Klein, one half of his schizoid mind bubbling in terror despite the other half's stoic facade. It was something the Sicilian couldn't miss. His turned up his feline paws towards Klein, making little motions with them as he continued to verbally corner the canid.

"Now, what we got here is a little game of show and tell. You don't wanna show me nothin', but you're tellin me everything. I know you know what you been up to, so tell me before I do some damage you won't walk away from."

Mr. Eddie's right paw slapped Klein's muzzle cheek hard and held it there for the briefest of moments before pulling it slightly away for emphasis. Klein flinched from the impact, the entire side of his face smarting from the sassy open pawed slap.

"It isn't anything that would interfere in your family's business, Mr. Coccotti." Klein heard himself say, suddenly unsure what he had been doing that might be getting the boss's attention. The stuffy, intimidating cougar chewed on the end of the cigar for a moment and contemplated him, before continuing on his way after the light turned.

"For your sake, Mr. Klein, I hope not."

The mafia boss drummed his partially extended claws on the steering wheel a bit, listening to the ominous jazz that played softly through the luxury car's speakers. The incessant tap on cymbals, the deep sliding growl of a trombone, all only contributed to the already menacing mood in the spacious confines of the Mercedes.

"There is one point of family business, Mr. Klein," Mr. Eddie said after a few pulls off the cigar, "that I'm sending you to look after. I have an old friend who runs a film business, and while production and profits are climbing, I have an obligation to those who work for me."

"What does this have to do with me, Mr. Coccotti?"

"I'm going to drop you off at Peter Mariano's flat, I want you to see how he runs that portion of my business."

"What am I looking for, Mr. Coccotti?" Klein's teeth gritted as he realized he droned on in repetition like some autonomous robot. Mr. Eddie laughed regardless.

"You know what they call my pal since childhood?" the cougar flashed him a somewhat amused look, but his fully extended claws told a different story. "On the streets, they call him 'Sleazy' Pete. Can you imagine that?" Klein just stared through the windshield, watching the lampposts pass by on either side.

"Apparently just because Ive known him for forty years makes him invulnerable to the law, and no one has bothered to tell me how he treats my girls. I had to find out from an anonymous phone call." Klein flinched, something itching in the back of his skull for some reason. "Everybody's trying to keep me from losing face from Peter's little director's complex, but no one's actually telling me anything."

Mr. Eddie mashed out the remnants of the cigar in the ash tray, and pulled over to the sidewalk.

"Go see what my pal Peter is up to these days, Mr. Klein. Don't let anyone know I sent you."

Klein looked at his boss, and then at the condo outside his window. He got out without so much as a word and closed the passenger door behind him. A moment later the Mercedes pulled away from the curb, disappearing into the flow of night traffic like a ghost. The black wolf looked around, and didn't recognize the neighborhood.

For once the murderous, stocky lupine felt exposed, vulnerable.

Klein shuffled up to the bleached stone exterior of the condo, and rang the doorbell, which didn't work. He tapped on the barred glass of the front door, but no one came. He tried the handle, but the door was locked. A small amount of sweat dotted his head fur, the fresh, salty perspiration stinging the fresh gashes in his flesh. The wolf looked at the brass lock and fretted for a moment, angered that the mechanism had already foiled his mission in mere minutes.

He could break down the door, true, panic everyone inside. Real smooth that move.

No, this required a little bit of guile, a bit of subterfuge that the Marines had not taught him.

"Having a bit of a problem, Richard?"

Klein spun around to the voice that came from out of nowhere, the voice who knew his middle name, the name he had not shared with anyone since before the service. A nonchalant coyote stood behind him, the best description the wolf could give was 'unassuming'. Not too tall, not too fat, gray fur with black highlights and a white underbelly. It was only the coyote's eyes that seemed to stand out. They were dark pools, deep, hiding a sort of trickster's malevolence.

The yote dressed in a ratty black trench, some type of pull over underneath, matched up with a pair of tattered jeans. Out of one of the ripped pockets of the dirt smudged trench the canid pulled out a set of heavy duty steel wire. Without saying anything else the stranger stepped up to the door, and with deft skill, pushed, twisted the set of wires into the lock. After few seconds of manipulating the impromptu lock picks, the coyote grinned as his large ears picked up the mechanism's soft click. He opened the door for Klein with a wide grin.

"Who the fuck are you, and how did you do that?" Klein growled, a serious distrust of the coyote already blossoming in him. Maybe the coyote was Hungarian.

"I'm real good at B&E, that's why, Richard." The coyote's sharky grin widened. "In fact ... I'm in your apartment. Right now."

Klein stared deadpan at the coyote, deeply infuriated at the obvious illogical line the yote just threw him.

"Thats absurd." Klein snorted. The yote reached into another pocket and drew out a cell phone.

"Call me."

Klein took the phone with a smirk, then dialed his apartment's number. He had installed more booby traps this time, so many in fact that only a burglar with precognition would stand a change. The phone rang only once, before someone picked up, turning the once hot blood flowing through the wolf's veins into liquid ice.

"I told you I was here." the coyote said, over the phone. There was no mistaking his voice. The trickster in front of his never stopped smiling, but his muzzle lips never moved the entire time. Klein stared at him, dumbfounded.

"How did you do that?" Klein said to the coyote standing in front of him. That one only gestured back the question back to the phone. Klein restated his question, but angrier this time. "How the fuck did you get into my apartment?" The answering voice was calm, measured.

"It's my apartment. I pay the rent. You just live there. Just ask the landlord." Klein blinked, confused. "You know, its not nice planting booby traps in someone else's apartment, Richard. You might hurt someone." The wolf squinted, maw open slightly ajar at the disjunction in the universe his broken mind perceived. The mystery coyote laughed, both in person and over the phone.

"Give me my phone back." The digital voice commanded. Stunned, Klein did so, and the analog coyote pocketed it.

"It's been a real pleasure talking to you again, Richard, but you have to get back on the Boss's little errand, don't you, lap dog?" The coyote pocketed his greasy paws in his trench and turned, before walking away into wavering shadow without another word.

Klein found himself facing the open doorway, staring blankly at it. Inside, he heard the chopped rise and fall of cheesy porno, the kind of music that garage bands get paid to synthesize between bar gigs. The black wolf looked at his paws, still shaking, and thrust them down deep into his BDU pockets, fishing around. He drew out the spool of heavy duty steel wire he had used to help booby trap his apartment, and studied it with beady, green eyes.

He stuffed it back into his pockets and stepped inside the condo, careful to close and lock it back as quietly as possible. The wolf slipped through the mussy flat, and could hear quiet conversation behind just about every closed door. Empty baggies and beer bottles littered the place, a junkies paradise. It was like some party was going on, and he had just crashed it. Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and Klein spun around.

"Hey Mister, you know where the bathroom is?" a half dressed female fennec asked, her black, lacy hosiery tight against her slender body. The black wolf looked her up and down with a fumbling, awkward glance.

"I'm afraid I don't Maam."

The fennec chewed her lip and looked to either side, before exploring down the hallway, and going upstairs. A rhino carrying a cartoon of beer sauntered past him before stepping into a room of appeased yells, and closing the door behind him. He didn't even give Klein a second glance. A male fox stepped up next to him, examining, and then looked down at his clipboard.

"Oh you musstttt be the sex starved POW from scene five ..." the slim, flamboyantly dressed vulpine lisped out, before poking the rubber tip of his pencil underneath Klein's shirt near his belt. He lifted it and gasped at the blood encrusted gashes in the wolf's tight musculature. "Ohh myy Goodd ... what a work of art!"

Klein rolled his eyes and pushed the pencil away.

"I meant the makeup, Big Boy, don't get your panties in a bunch!" The foxy producer snipped back, smiling at eye level back at Klein. Despite his chiseled physic, the wolf's shortness cut down on his intimidation factor quite a bit. "Now come downstairs, they are in the middle of the shoot for scene four. You might as well as meet your co-star."

With a swish of his white tipped bushy tail, the producer lead the mistaken porn star down to the basement, where an entire studio had been set up. Inside spacious rooms, umbrella lights cast soft glows over beds in various stages of use. Klein gave sideways glances at the naked pairs of furs that gave primal dances before half trained camera lenses.

Despite thin walls that did little to muffle the moans that ran rampant through the sets, the producer, whoever he was, didn't seem to mind the invasion of each individual scene's atmosphere. The fox halted as three naked female antelope, identical triplets even, walked by, their fluffy boas concealing little.

"Just where do you think you are going, ladies?" The producer asked before straightening up their only accessory in turn. They giggled to each other at his obsessed persistence, before running off to their shoot, their pert breasts giggling. The fox turned around, staring at Klein with is huffy paws on his hips. "You know just how hard it is to make a serious vintage erotic masterpiece about the tribulations of war ravaged Europe when your movie is entitled 'Schindler's Fist' ?"

Klein just smiled.

The producer waved Klein into a room, identical in function to the numerous ones he had passed. If internal continuity, not sex, was the selling point of this low budget work of smut, then Mr. Eddie's little venture into the adult entertainment venue would have set him back a Mercedes or two. Last time the German wolf checked, POW camps didn't have plush, downy beds, or even private mahogany dressers stolen from expensive hotels.

Instead the director, a strange gray stripped feline sitting in the director's chair, probably didn't care. He sat there watching the sex scene unfold before him through rhinestone cowboy sunglasses with a sort of self obsessed, narcissistic gleam. The lanky feline dressed in a gaudy style that would have made a Bronx pimp cringe. How the director and producer of this little studio managed to co-habituate the same universe went beyond Klein.

Klein wondered what type of cat Sleazy Pete was, and someone whispered the answer to him even over the stomach churning bump-chick-a-bump of the scene's outlandish background music.

Felis lybica sarda, you unwashed lummox, go pick up a subscription to National Geographic ...

The black wolf looked to either side of him, but every one else along the wall he stood by seemed intent on their job monitoring the porn flick's progress. Klein's green eyes finally wandered to the action at center stage, and the pair of sweaty furred bodies rocking back and forth on the clean, decidedly un-POW like, concentration camp sheets.

It wasn't the male actor of the amorous pair that attracted Klein's attention, even through the feline looked a lot like the director, but underage. For all the wolf knew the scrawny kid working the female jackal underneath him was the director's nephew or something. Klein's gaze wandered down to the curvy female jackal, watching as she took his nubby feline length in classic doggy style position.

Pert beasts swayed under her in gravity's gentle tug each time the feline bucked his own hips into her puffy rump. The pointed, harden nubs only showed how much she got into the scene, her maw open in heavy pants as she took it hard and fast from her costar. Her forepaws gripped the rungs of the headboard tightly, sweat rolling off her back fur in rivets from the hot and heavy portrayal she gave. The jackal's hind legs parted even more for the camera, knees settling again for balance, and Klein heard the lens zoom into the action for a closer look with a soft whirl.

Klein could only imagine the close up on the finished product, watching the barbed feline prick slip in out of the jackal's puffy pink sex, and found himself grow hard at the exhibition before him. When the female co-stars eye's opened half way, belaying all the pleasure her needy body received, Klein looked into the soft olive eyes and realized who he was watching.

He recognized her as one of Mr. Eddie's girls, one whose main job was pusher. He had often seen Ms. Nakali from afar, but never talked to her directly, despite the fact she lived just below him on the first floor of his apartment complex. He watched her, coveted the way the Boot knocked her. Nakali's olive eyes slid over to him, and they locked glances. Inside his chest, Klein's heartbeat thundered.

Without warning, the inexperienced kitten faltered in his rhythmic thrusts, and the jackal's muzzle distorted in a momentary flare of pain at the twist the penile barbs did inside her. Growling, she nipped back at the faltering male, and with gypsy grace, pulled herself out from under her fumbling co-star. With liquid ease, the curvy, slender female pushed her male onto his back without so much as a rehearsed preamble. Not so much with a hiss as a mewl, the feline arched his back as Nakali straddled his hips and impaled herself on the slick tip of his barbed rod.

Sleazy Pete flipped hastily through the script in his paws. All six pages of it.

Nakali took her co-star's shaft deep inside herself with one swift motion, her dripping folds parting as her body engulfed the slick organ. She ground the nub of her clit down into his pubic bone, throwing her head back with a bark of jackal bliss. Her large, sexy ears flushed with blood, pert 'b' cup breasts bouncing as she rode the feline under her. Klein's gaze glued itself to the way the lithe jackal form stretched and bucked, hips grinding and gyrating like a cowgirl riding a broncing bull.

Her endless olive eyes locked on Klein's own, vibrant pools buzzing with electric pleasure. There could be no doubt that the jackal got off on this, with her mark glued to her little wanton display. Their partnership was irrefutable: Nakali exhibited, Klein voyered.

Their growing, molten desire for each other almost seemed more erotic then the act itself.

The sultry jackal was not finished however, one of her black paws running up to cup a gyrating mammary. As Nakali gave the lump of fat and fur a rough squeeze, the paw tips of her other paw worked down her navel, past the apex of her thighs, to rub tight circles around her engorged clit. Short barks of ecstasy tore from her muzzle lips as her climax built, sending pulses of pleasure through the core of her being all the way to her extremities.

Her sulfurous Roma eyes stole Klein's heart, seared another's soul.

This was too much for the poor boy underneath to take, and with a yowl, emptied his virile load up into her womb. Everyone stood dumbfounded, transfixed at the raw animal intensity that had unexpectedly transpired. A few of the key grips dropped what they were holding, their muzzle's agape.

"Cut Ccccccut!" Peter Mariano screeched out in a heavy Italian accent, flailing his arms about madly. "That wasn't in da script!"

The feline tore out of the directors chair and stormed over to the POW bunk, aka the Ritz. Nakali scrambled off the director's nephew, crisp sheets crinkling under her pink paw pads, and the nephew cowered down as well. The female jackal tried to cover herself with a part of the sheet at the director's titrate, but her desperate gamble at protecting her dignity ended abruptly when Sleazy Pete back pawed her.

The hard slap made everyone ear's perk up. Unfortunately for Pete, the cameras were still rolling.

"What was dis? Youa stick to da stript." He slapped her across the face the other way with a pitiful bark, this time emphasizing his well chosen syllables. "You In-signifi-Cant little fuck!" Sleazy Pete's right paw drew back for a third blow, but a black wolven paw enclosed around his stripped gray wrist, staying it.

"Enough." Klein said, his steel hard eyes glaring through the dark tint of Sleazy Pete gaudy shades, which had turned to stare at him, dumbstruck.

"What da fuck, finocchio, do you know who I am?"

Sleazy Pete hissed out, and slammed his free fist into the wolf's grim muzzle. Klein's muzzle snapped hard to the other side, and the Nine glowered back at the Boot. A second later Puss in Boots screeched as the K9 broke his wrist with a wet snap.

"Yeah," Klein said as the screeching, hissing feline crumpled to the floor in agony, "You're the pussy who raspares with the left paw."

Klein helped Nakali to her feet, draping the sheet over her, and left the porn studio, never saying anything to each other. They left for their apartment complex, for safety, and perhaps a bit more ...

~ Fin: Part II ~

Astute readers may notice certain homages to two of my favorite films, True Romance, written by Tarantino, and Lost Highway, directed by Lynch. If you have not seen either of these works, they come highly recommended. Until then, I hope the next installment of this twisted and surreal little yarn isn't held up as long as this one was.

For Now, Adieu ...