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A Pocketful of Bombs

Well, I really found myself in a pickle this time, salty vinegar juice and all.

I was stripped down to my underwear--black briefs, very nice and applicably comfortable on a dry, sunny day such as this--with my hands tightly bound with rough rope. Someone had tied a knot around the tip of my tail and looped it around a metal collar that was clasped to my neck, keeping my ass in full view of the world. At first I was going to say that I wasn't really in with the whole S&M scene, but guessing from the m16's the pricks were packing, I doubt that they wanted to play frisky. A tall and voluptuous vixen wearing a ridiculously tight red blouse walked up to me, eyeing me up and down like I was damn blue light special on plus-plus-sized bras.

Let me set the scene: I was casually walking down the street just for the hell of it. It was a good day with barely any clouds in the sky, and that's rare this time of the year, so I just wanted to enjoy it...by my own sweet self. I don't really get the time alone to just think to myself like I used to do before the comet came, so I wanted to milk everything good out of this day. Then out pops some thirties Hollywood star imitation, packing enough heat to blow away Fort Knox. I don't pay him much attention, even though a Doberman in a dark boiler suit with several military-grade rifles strapped to his back is something normally worth paying attention to. I just wanted to go about my day, believing strongly in the "dangerous predator" rule--if I don't bother him, he won't bother me.

Well, as my UK friends would say, that plan was fuckin' bollocks from the start.

He unslung one of his cannons, pointed it directly between my eyes--I've had it happen a few times before, so I knew it was pointed right at my forehead judging by the angle--and told me to "stop moving, or else I'm a dead motherfucker." I was about to argue and say that I never fucked his mother, that I just wasn't into stumpy, dopey, slack-jawed, gap-toothed, mullet-wearing, chardonnay-drinking, man-eating, crack-headed, disease-carrying prostitutes anyway when another guy, a thickly built snow leopard wearing an oddly cyberpunk-looking outfit strolled up from behind and put the biggest handgun I had ever seen (or could catch a glimpse of) to the side of my head. So I decided that the best course of action was to keep my mouth shut and go along with what they had planned.

However, it wasn't their plans I was supposed to be a part of--some buxom grey fox bimbo strolled up to me as I was being frog-marched down the street into an alleyway (always the goddamn alleyways), her arms also cradling a big army gun. When we were far into the alley and came up to a dead end, the vixen ordered her two lackeys to strip me. Normally I'd find this enjoyable (or flattering at the least), but with all the guns being pointed at my thinking-contraption, I found it quite hard to get hard, if you will.

They were rough and treated me like a damn ragdoll. They ripped my shirt in two and tossed the pieces onto the trash-ridden ground. When they got to my pants, the Doberman went up behind me and pulled my arms behind my back so that I wouldn't struggle... as if I'd get anywhere down that road. The snow leopard pulled down my pants and made me raise my legs so that he could toss them onto the pile of rubbish with my former shirt. His nose was close to my crotch, and I thought about making some snide little comment about how as long as he was down there if he wouldn't mind finishing up what his sister tried to do last night, but something in the back of my head told me that that would be a bad idea.

Then they tied me up; they tied the rope painfully around my wrists, tight enough to almost block the circulation of blood flow. The vixen put a metal collar around my neck, and the snow leopard tied one bit of rope to my tail, hooking the other end to the collar so that my tail was raised. I felt the snow leopard brush his hand against my butt, and I couldn't be sure if it was his way of flirting or if he was trying to psyche me out, to degrade me or something. If it was the latter, it wasn't really working. If it was the former...that wasn't really working, either.

The grey fox explained to me, strangely in stereotypical supervillian monologue, her plans to form a traveling sex show that would show up wherever there were still people left, because sex was the medium of any society, how the world couldn't exist without sex, how they would become famed all over the nation, that it was all going to start with me being the first exhibition, blah-de-freaking-blah.

Then she asked me what people called me around here, to which I said "Cornholio." When she asked me why they called me that, I looked at her two henchmen and said "Because Beavis and Butthead were already taken." She tried to hold her boys back, but the Doberman managed to break out of her grasp and give the right side of my jaw a good belting. It hurt, but to be honest it made me feel better to know that I got at least one little remark in. I hate it when I have something to say, but my conscience insists that I keep quiet. I just want to stab my brain with a Q-tip sometimes.

I'm sure the two guys wanted to stab my brain with something else, though, judging by the look of them. Their boss gave them a stern talking-to just now, and they were not happy at all. I had to smile; I couldn't help it, it just seemed funny to me.

The vixen took out a knife--I panicked for just a moment--and walked up to me. She took my bound hands and cut the rope. Curious, I wanted to know what the hell was going on in her mind, but then I thought it would be better if I didn't know.

She grabbed my crotch and squeezed hard; it felt like every muscle in my body was being tweaked by her grasp, forcing tears up and out my eyes. She took her hand away and asked me for a personal show. I'll admit that I was a bit slow on the uptake just then, but I had a good reason for it, you know (my balls had just been squeezed by Miss lobsterfingers, mind you).

She wanted a little show, did she? She and her accomplices wanted to see some fuzzy naughty bits, eh? Fine, I've got no qualms with that.

I smiled at them, flashing them my brightest smile. I grinned until the other three were grinning along with me. I had to make sure they were enjoying this, too; this little game of theirs that has just switched hands. I slowly ran my hand down my stomach, my fingers slipping down into my briefs. I watched their expressions, gauging their personalities. The vixen was a sexual madwoman; "anything, anywhere, anytime" was what I caught from the hunger in her eyes. The snow leopard was a closet case; the poor guy was blushing so hard I could see red seeping through his white and grey fur, but he definitely liked what he saw. The Doberman wasn't interested in any way.

Ah, well. We all play the game in our own special fashion.

For instance, the vixen and her cronies didn't know that I keep a "safety cache" of small, cranberry-sized grenades in my briefs. Jason says I'm paranoid, but you never know when you find yourself stripped down to your undies in front of hostile strangers and you need to get away. What's the answer to such a situation?

'Nad-'Nades. I haven't gotten that patent yet, but one day...

My fingers ran over the smooth, metal surfaces of my tiny little saviors. They were just two (all you need, really) and they were glued together with crazy glue. With slow and certain deliberation, I took them out of my briefs. Making sure the crazy fox saw what I had, I pulled the double-pin with my teeth, dropped it down the vixen's prodigious blouse, and booked it the hell outta there!

The adrenaline that surged inside my head made me feel weightless as I ran as fast and as hard as I could. I knew that once the very faint window of surprise I had on my side disappeared, there would be a lot of bullets chasing me, and I don't think that I can outrun a goddamn bullet. Behind me there was a moment of hurried shouting, and then a loud explosion, followed by more shouting. I ran out of the alley and up the street I had come from, passing the Laundromat and the old kiosk and a department store that never really was a department store when it was functioning if I remember correctly. When I got to a gas station, I stopped to catch my breath, putting my hand to my chest in a vain effort to keep my heart from popping like a varsity cheerleader's pimple.

I really hope that snow leopard makes it out of there okay. He was rough and a bit socially awkward, but he was also pretty handsome.

When I was sure that my lungs and pounding heart were still anchored firmly in my chest, I took a couple of deep breaths and walked back home to the cabin. Jason would just love to hear this story. I couldn't wait to tell him!

"What's the rush, son?"

The gruff voice came from behind me. I turned around and beheld a large, heavy-set badger walking out of the station, a grin hanging on his lips. I know that particular grin, having seen it on many males and females, and I realized that here was not the best place to be. I turned and was about to run again, but with the first step I took I went straight into the chest of a big, well-toned mountain lion. He was looking down at me with a lusty smile on his face, his grease-and-oil-soaked clothes smelling of gasoline and beer. I took a step back, and I just now realized that I was still in my underwear with my tail raised up to the collar around my neck. I saw others appear from out of a mechanic's garage, their eyes wide and staring greedily at me. I turned and saw the badger walking slowly toward me, one hand holding a toilet brush and the other stuck in one of the pockets of his massive blue trousers. The puma came up behind me, placing his large, greasy hands on my shoulders. I wanted to say something, but nothing really came to mind except for one little almost-sentence.

"Aww, damn it..."