High Card - A Parody
It is amusing sometimes to think of all the things throughout history done to elevate furkind from their feral ancestors. To sever ties and express with certainty that there is a greater gulf between furson and animal than thumbs. Clothes, elaborate rituals to disguise 'feral' urges, and so on through out the ages. However, no matter how much a furson might elevate himself with elaborate poetry, stunning clothes, elegant ritual, seamless philosophy, and enlightened restraint, that furson will have to piss.
Excretion is just Nature's way of reminding everyone that they are mortal, that they are alive, and that their fundamental function is still Her bailiwick. Trevor ruminated on this thought as he held his dick, aiming a strong stream of golden yellow fluid as important to life as his blood. He made a little game of nudging the urinal puck along the bottom with his stream, still giddy with his escape from the cultist hordes. Falling in with a small crew of non-contestant stranded island employees had been a bonus, and supplied him with the shorts and full belly. Life was good!
As Trevor began to shake his dick free of the remaining droplets, the door to the restroom began to swing open. Incredibly slowly, silently, until the gap was large enough to admit one burly framed bearcat. Menace dripped off every strand of fur, and his eyes were dead of remorse or pity. Blood dripped off the shears held loosely in one paw, silent drops concealed under the patter of Trevor's emptying bladder. The shears opened, twin blades sharp and inviting as they aimed low. Lower still, towards the young okapi's low hanging, heavy nuts. For their own protection each fat ball was covered in a downy layer of striped fur, in an attempt to blend with the luscious striped thighs on either side. This attempt was in vain, as the shears slid unerringly toward the root. Trevor hummed a little ditty, dangerously unaware of the steel about to sever his manhood, moving into silent position.
Suddenly, the door to the restroom slammed open. The tile echoed with the sound of rapid hooves, and Trevor spun around just in time to avoid his sudden and senseless castration. A figure, glad in green, slammed into the black furred bearcat with a picture perfect headbutt. The shears flew through the air with a whistling sound, sinking into the wall. The bearcat flew as well, backwards and through a frosted window. The sound of the glass meshed with the the bearcat's high pictured warbling cry of terror, or rage? Trevor could not tell, he was transfixed by the sight of the dark figure, wreathed in the white shards of glass as he plummeted out of sight. He stood frozen, shorts around his thighs.
"Come with me if you want to live." The words from his savior's lips broke Trevor's spell of paralysis, got the okapi to look more fully at the mysterious fur that saved him. Tall and old enough to be his uncle, a bit broad shouldered, with distinct pronged horns. A type of antelope, a distant relation from another continent. One of the pronghorn's hands was offered, and not knowing what else to do, Trevor took it. They began to run together. Out of the bathroom, and into the corridor. Past and over limp bodies of the groaning dead and dying. The injured. What had once been a small office complex had become an abattoir. Trevor panted, struggling to pull up and fasten his shorts one-handed.
"Why are we running so fast? That was a three story drop! Dude has to be dead!" Trevor tried not to look at the prone forms as they rushed outside, their feet slapping against the asphalt and concrete. Wordlessly, the pronghorn ushered the young okapi into a jeep, the older fur then desperately began to mess with the tangled wires beneath the column, hotwiring it. The jeep lurched forward with a heavy groan.
"No, that wouldn't kill him. He's up right now, and after you, Trevor." The pronghorn's muzzle was set in a serious cast as he shifted the jeep into gear, his foot coming down heavy on the pedal. Trevor was thrown back against his seat as the older fur circled around the building with abandon. The okapi's muzzle went slack as he they passed the side of the building where the broken bathroom window gaped like a blind eye. On the asphalt there lay a cloud of broken glass, arranged in a halo around a shallow depression. A depression roughly binturong shaped, actually.
"What. The. Fuck."
Over the humming of the engine and the squeal of tires, the antelope began a rambling, almost frenzied explanation. "The binturong's an infiltration unit, part fur, part machine. Underneath, it's a hyper-alloy combat chassis - micro processor-controlled, fully armored. Very tough. But outside, it's living furson tissue - flesh, skin, fur, blood, grown for the cyborgs...The 600 series had rubber skin. We spotted them easy. But these are new, they look normal. Musk, bad breath, everything. Very hard to spot. I had to wait till he moved on you before I could zero him." The pronghorn's eyes had a kind of glaze to them, drugs, stress, insanity, but he said every word with a deep and terrible conviction. His hands were so tight on the steering wheel that every tendon and cord of muscle stood out powerfully from his triceps, so tight that tremors snaked up to his shoulders. "He just slipped right in, and started nutting everyfur. It was so.....fast."
Trevor blinked, even went so far as to shake his head as if to clear it of the pronghorn's words. Had the cultists slipped him some crazy pills, or shot him up with In-Sane-O gas? He must have imagined those words spilling from the grizzled antelope's muzzle. No, a better explanation would be that the stressed out pronghorn was crazy. That immediately fit into the okapi's worldview with ease. "I am not stupid, you know. My dad owns several research companies, and I am sure they can't make anything like that. Otherwise I'd have some as pets!"
The pronghorn took a turn tightly, a bit too tight, throwing Trevor against the door. "Not now. Not yet. In about forty years, maybe." Another tight turn, and the Jeep slipped past a garage, a row of cabins, and then stopped behind the last one. A twist of a wire, and the jeep sighed as it turned off, the engine pinging softly. The pronghorn turned, to face Trevor squarely, nose trembling. "A future, the future, I can't say for sure. I don't know tech stuff."
Diagnosis, crazy. Trevor nodded his head, really slowly. "Right......" Trying to disarm the pronghorn with the proper response before beginning to flail. He yanked at the door, he punched in the pronghorn's direction, he kicked his little feet this way and that. In a lot of ways, it was the same kind of flailing and screaming he had down when he was just a little striped coltlet. He even took the chance to bite down hard on the pronghorn's arm when it got close enough, just by the wrist. He ground his flat, herbivore teeth into the sinewy flesh in desperation.
The pronghorn antelope battered aside the flailing limbs with an almost practiced ease. The biting caused him to hiss, and a single paw slapped across Trevor's face. The okapi, shocked, released the bite and just slumped back. Defeated, he began to cry. Completely overwhelmed, and regressing perhaps a bit into a tantrum. "J-j-just lemme go!" Trevor wailed, tears welling up in his eyes as he slumped lower, the grizzled antelope looming over him.
"Listen, and understand! That binturong is out there! It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are nutted!" Froth actually spilled from between the antelope's lips, and steel firm conviction lay under every word. The two males actually shared breath there, in the front seat of the hotwired jeep. Their eyes locked, and Trevor actually believed. Maybe not the crazy from the future cyborg part, but the truth that the male was after his nuts. Also, that this antelope, old enough to be his father, wanted to protect him.
Slowly, Trevor slid up, and nodded his head. "Oh-kay. I believe that you want to help me. I'll trust you. But I need to know your name, at least. Can you tell me that?"
"Lyle Reefs. Sergeant Tech-Com DN38416. Of the 132nd Division under Perry, 21 to 27." Reefs rattled his name, number, and rank like a soldier would. It came as naturally as using a stolen crowbar to jimmy open the bungalow door, revealing the tasteful tropical suite inside. He ushered the okapi inside, hurriedly. "I'll be back." Trevor's muzzle was partway open in a question, which died when the door closed quietly. Left to his own devices, the youngster started to search the darkened cabin.
The electricity was out, but the water from the tap came in both hot and cold. A small kitchenette was stocked with non-perishables, the bathroom and dressers were similarly equipped. Towels, robes, swim trunks and tropical clothes in what seemed like nice pastels. Everything was stamped with the old resort's logo and chintzy taglines. Trevor curled up his muzzle in disgust at the cheap manufacture and low quality of it all. "I could buy and sell this kind of junk ten times over with my weekly allowance!" He spoke to the distastefully tacky tiki masks hanging on the walls, if only to have something to look at.
The okapi nearly jumped clear out of his striped skin when the door swung open again - but it was only Lyle. His arms were full of jerry cans that sloshed softly, and the smell of automotive fluids entered with him. "What in the hell is all that for? What are we cooking?" Trevor hopped nimbly, closing the door behind the antelope as the jerrycans were deposited onto the kitchenette's floor.
"Molotov cocktails. Why don't you come give me a hand. I'll tell you more about the binturong." Reefs gestures with a hand, drawing the youth to come and sit with him at the table. With an almost paternal gentelity, Reefs instructed him in the manner of making a good cocktail. Equal parts gasoline and motor oil added together produces firey justice. As they worked, he began the narrative.
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The burned out cities of the future lay decimated under a layer of dust and ash. The sky was gray and fitful with light from the low clouds of the continual churning disposal factories that ran night and day to cremate the remains of the once over-populated world. In the wake of the Breeding Bomb, the intelligence known as GroundLink had reevaluated its defense priorities. Straining under birth rates that threatened national security, its new self-awareness decided on a final course of action one crystal clear morning in April.
The Day of Judgement. Entire arsenals were emptied, of chemical and other weapons designed to render males and females alike sterile. Automated factories pumped out Hunter-Castrators by the score to patrol the skies, and skeletal robots combed the debris of a shattered world. Survivors, those that escapes the mushroom clouds and chemicals of the first attack, rallied back.
As HC's buzz above, rag-tag soldiers open fire with their cobbled together weapons. From hidden spider holes, resistance fighters slung grenades into the tracked wheels of slow moving auto-tanks. Lyle's unit is mobile, using modified pickup trucks and the occasional Humvee to bring heavier weapons to bear. They hold their own, but only for a space of moments. A lance of red light from a hovering HK strikes the ram to Lyle's left, and the male is made a casualty of war.
The light seemed to envelop the hapless ram, and he falls screaming into the truck bed. As if tracing arteries and veins, the light rushes downward to the fat, virile nuts well hidden in the ram's pants. For a brief second every detail of those massive, swinging nuts are made clear. Every curl of the blood vessels, the sponge-like texture of the inner layers, everything is lit by the dull red glow. With a hissing, wet, pop like boiling grease it is all over. Those nuts are left black and smouldering, flash fried. One more gelded male, useless.
The battle rages on without the ram, just another casualty. Sadly, this is the fate of most fighters. The tide is turning, but every so slowly as flesh is thrown against an almost unyielding wall of metal malevolence bent on castration. Alive, in some cases, but never able to father a cub. Their threat to Groundlink, and the world, over. They retreat, like Lyle does, to the underground hive of a sanctuary. An armored door, and down steps to a vestibule for giving a password through a slot. Assuming all goes well, and the watchful shotguns do not bark, then through the second doorway. The barren hives are full of trash, desperately clad furs of ages and sexes.
These are the fursons Lyle fights for, the mother and child warming themselves in the fire kindled in a blown out TV set, the child pressing a paw-made good luck charm of wire and glass into his fingers, his fellow soldiers. A smile creeps over his muzzle - despite the destruction and danger, they are alive and virile! Behind him, the armored door begins to cycle. Another furson is entering the sanctuary.
Something is wrong. The alarms are beginning to ring. The soldiers are rising from their seats, to confront the cloaked stranger. They are too late. The hooded poncho is thrown back, revealing a dark-furred face with white eyespots. Muzzle curled up in rage, it howls an unholy battlecry as its arms raise. The deadly Castrifle in the left paw sings its tune, and the three fighters to the left go down to the sandy floor in agony. Their exploding nutsacks sounded in a chorus of anguished pops as each former stud was made a gelding.
The horse to the infiltrator's right is not so lucky. Lyle can see, as if he is standing right there, the cyborg's paw slam into the equine's crotch. The exquisite pain writ large on the long, somber stallion's face as alloy claws shredded through the kevlar. Those massive coltmakers were dappled, dusted with a creamy splatter of white fuzz that looked almost cheerful. At least until the mechanical paw began to squeeze, drawing the skin taut and forcing each massive orb into a tight pocket of skin. The pattern of dapples distorted as additional pressure was added, so smoothly ramped up into the range of extreme pain. The stallion's eyes rolled back, deep into his head, exposing fully the whites of his terrified orbs as pain wracked him. The volume of his tortured scream almost drowned out the sickening slick slithering sound of squished swingers seeping slowly to the sand. Almost.
The firefight was intense, and the fire claimed Lyle's only keepsake. An old, battered photograph....of Trevor.
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"It was terrible. Some of us were kept alive pre-gelding... to work... loading bodies. The disposal units ran night and day. We were that close to going out forever." Lyle held two fingers up, barely an inch apart. "But there was one fur who taught us to fight, to storm the wire of the camps, to smash those metal motherfuckers into junk. He turned it around. He brought us back from the brink. His name is Raymond. Rick Raymond. Your son, Trevor... your unborn son." Lyle sunk back into his chair, seemingly utterly exhausted from the retelling. Emotion racked through his sinewy frame, and Trevor was touched by it. He scooted his chair closer, and somehow his hand found its way into Lyle's. Fingers squeezed, tightly.
Under the layers of delusion, Trevor could feel the devotion, the love and protective aura that radiated from the antelope. The fur that resembled an absent, cold and uncaring okapi that had failed to bond with his son. Trevor blinked - was he really seeing his father in Lyle? A caring, protective father though, a fur that could be counted on, a fur that loved him? The young okapi drew slightly closer, nose trembling. The hole in his heart that he had filled with bratty pursuits of materialism and attention - could this crazy antelope fill it?
"Rick Raymond gave me a picture of you once. I didn't know why at the time. It was very old - torn, faded. You were young like you are now. You seemed just a little sad. I used to always wonder what you were thinking at that moment. I memorized every line, every curve. I came across time for you Trevor. I love you; I always have." Lyle didn't need to say anything more. It became unnecessary. The young okapi, always in search of a father's love, found the male to fill his heart. Chest thumping, the striped rump boy lifted his muzzle and met with the stubbly muzzle of the elder.
The first kiss was subtle, but needful. Trevor's smallish hands curled in the thick tufts of fur around Lyle's neck, and he expressed his need for love with a shy exploration of his tongue. Lyle responded back, softly at first, but then bolder once he found the youth in full cooperation. Their lips met again, and the chair clattered to the floor as the force of Lyle's embrace drove Trevor back against the refrigerator. The strong hands of a soldier, of a protector, roamed down the okapi's body.
Both males fell to the bed, and through the slitted blinds moonlight fell over them in bars and stripes. Trevor's bared buttocks and thighs blended into the ghostly light when laid bare, spread and exposed like a buffet long anticipated. Lyle's ministrations were never cruel, but they were strong and comforting in their power. Trevor found the love of a man, but more importantly, the love of a father.
When it was time to leave the cabin, moods were running high. In the shower and the packing of the cocktails, roaming hands and tongues had tickled grizzled soldier and adopted son alike. In fact, having just managed to button up a shirt without molestation, Lyle opened his muzzle to speak when they both heard it. The muted growl of an engine. Just like that, terror and despair arced like lightning into the pastoral and paternal cabin.
"Go, out the back. Fast." Lyle's strong hands opens the sash to the window, and helped Trevor out. The antelope followed, both males pounding for the jeep. Their feet kicked up the dust that glimmered in the pre-dawn twilight. They fled just in time. The door to the chintzy cabin all but exploded inwards under a single blow from the binturong. His paw swept the room, the adapted nailgun stuttering as it stitched a row of barbed penetration across the walls and bed. The tiki mask fell with a clatter, the crumpled and sticky sheets puffed up like clouds. With swift, precise movents the bearcat prowled through the small cabin, searching. His ears perked, and with a gurgling growl he bolted outside as the jeep screamed away.
Trevor peered back over the seats at the cabin as it shrank into the distance. They rounded a corner, and the okapi held his breath. His heart was practically in his throat for several minutes. Slowly, inch by inch it began to slink back down, and the youth took a breath. "I think we lost him. You can slow down, Lyle. You're gonna smash us right into a..." The word died his his throat, as his ears were suddenly filled with the roar of a motorcycle. His eyes opened wider, as the foliage parted, allowing a black motorcycle to fly across the roadway, as if launched by a ramp.
A splatter of nails rained down from above, popping into the hood of the jeep. Several punched neat holes in the windshield before burying themselves in the dash. "Holy shit!" Trevor screamed, throwing himself back against the seats. Lyle responded with grim determination, turning the wheel sharply and dodging the heavy road hog when it slammed into the pavement. The chase was on.
"DRIVE!" The antelope howled, pushing the okapi into the driver's seat. The transition was awkward, but Lyle was freed to take the pack of molotov cocktails. A flick of the butane lighter, and the first one was lit and thrown. The beautiful bottle arced in slow motion, slamming into the pavement before blossoming into a guttering ball of flame. The binturong rode through it without hesitation, his nailgun chattering away.
How long did this duel last, with bottles smashing open like a thousand tinkling bells, and the compressed air gun stuttering incessantly. Trevor's hands gripped the wheel so tightly, he could not, would not pry himself away from the black ribbon of road that stretched in front of him. He felt like running, the fully pressed pedal mocking him like a stitch in the ribs. The roar of the motorcycle behind him sounded like a grinder, a growling hungry sound. A howl that screamed, GIVE ME YOUR NUTS!
Right about then was when Lyle got tagged. Trevor saw it from the corner of his eye, the long, black nail that buried itself in the antelope's side. The spurt of blood that sprayed into the night, followed by the lit molotov that rolled and clattered into the wet ditch beside the road. Trevor screamed, his paws slipping from the wheel. The jeep began a sick and lazy fishtailing turn as all the okapi's attention began to shift to the antelope beside him. The vehicle flipping was a natural consequence of his inattention. The motorcycle striking the tumbling jeep and flying in a high, whistling arc was simply a matter of physics.
Trevor came down in a watery ditch, his cry of pain shared for himself, and for his father lover who landed beside him. The impact drove the nail ever deeper into the antelope's side, and Lyle scrabbled blindly, muzzle letting forth incoherent sounds of pain and anguish. The only thing that salved Trevor's heart was that he looked up and too the road in time to see the motorcycle vanish into a stacked group of blue drums, complete with the binturong rider. Drums marked with an unmistakable red symbol for fire hazard. Trevor though he might die of anticipation in the three long heartbeats before the pile of barrels burst into a massive explosion of flame.
"Its over! Lyle! Come on...get up man. Please." The okapi scrambled out of the ditch, about to be giddy again with relief. His hands pulled and tugged at the the antelope's limp hand, coaxing the wounded adult to slink onto the road surface. Recovery for the pronghorn antelope seemed possible - he had stopped gibbering for one. And with the evil binturong dead, they could escape to....well Trevor didn't think that far ahead.
The crackling flames roared ever higher into a column of purifying reds and yellows. The colors of the setting sun, coming down on this terror's end. In the pyre of motor fuel, the monster that sought his nuts had died.
His sigh of relief caught in his throat, strangled like a babe in the crib. From the heart of the inferno, where no mortal thing could live, came movement.
Deliberate.
A shape, metal and cold, forced itself from the pyrophilliac womb. Colored by the reflections in chrome, the stout and blunted muzzle shape moved forward. Below it, the dark outlines of a thick and beefy frame.
It was the binturong.
Trevor felt like he was the insane one now. There was no way, no way unless. Unless Lyle had been right. To forestall his own panic, Trevor began to haul at Lyle's arm. "Get up." Lyle refused to rise. By then, the binturong had one limping leg free of the flames. "Get up!" The antelope muttered, and half rose, then fell again. Trevor pulled again, and this time he yelled. "Come on Reefs! On your feet, soldier!" He yelled it as loud and as strong as he could, and that seemed to take. The antelope staggered to his feet, and together they moved off the roadside as quick as they could.
Ahead, down a concrete path, loomed a squat concrete building. A sign, stood by the door that thankfully opened with a single shove. It read:
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
CharCo Dangerous Items and Sundry Experimental Tool Factory!
Senseless Fire, Smoke, and Hazardous Machinery a Speciality!
Try our Spark Generator!
Est. 1984
Days since last fatal accident: 0
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Trevor stumbled inside, and slammed the door shut behind him. He shot the bolt, too, locking it firmly shut with a ribbon of steel. Just in time, as the smouldering hulk of the binturong, his chromed head and smouldering body, was only steps behind. The thick steel door rattled, and the frame seemed to bulge inward. "Oh god, we have to get out of here." He turned, pulling at Lyle to escape deeper into the factory. Their flight was arrested by the antelope lunging at a bank of control panels. The bleary soldier flicked switches, hit buttons, bringing the factory to life around them. Conveyer belts moved boxes labeled 'Self Sealing Pipe Banders' and mysterious presses whirred and all kinds of exciting clouds in steam and sparks flew. There might have even been a huge pointless gnashing grinder that started up.
"Cover, so he can't track us......" Lyle croaked, before the two of them fled deeper into the factory. The door behind them clanged and clanged, and more terrifying than that - it stopped. There was another thing in the factory, stalking them. The pair dodged left, they dodged right. Dead end. Doubling back, they nearly ran right back into the deadly dangerous binturong. Only their reflexes and a fortunately placed box kept their throats from grasping, smouldering paws.
"Shit shit shit shit!" Trevor wailed, as the chase began anew. Slow and agonizing, with Lyle limping along side him and the binturong walking so slowly behind them. Up a flight of stairs, and there is where Lyle picked up his second wind. 'Go!' he seemed to say with silence, as he pushed Trevor away and turned to face the horrible cyborg beast. Lyle's blood splattered hands fumbled, found a wrench to swing.
The last words ever to come out of Lyle Reef's muzzle were "Come on, you motherfucker!"
Then Lyle Reefs, Sergeant Tech-Com DN38416 of the 132nd Division under Perry, 21 to 27, closed to paw to hand combat. Trevor did not see the battle, because he ran. He ran because he had to run. He did not look back when he heard the gurgling scream of the crunching of bone. He fled, for all the good it did him.
Pinned finally in a dead end, Trevor gave a long chase. He had squirmed under machines, around tight corners, but the binturong refused to give up. Its movements were so slow, labored almost, but they never stopped. With his adrenaline hits fading, fatigue was overtaking Trevor's frame. Combined with the aching loss of Lyle, every crawling motion seemed to sap more and more strength from the young okapi. There, now a steely grip fell on his ankle. The youth cried out in alarm, he pulled himself along.
The grip did not dislodge, but moved higher. The muscle of his calf cried out in pain as it was nearly crushed, and the stinking smell of burning drew closer as the binturong dragged himself just a little higher. Trevor whimpers, and grasped on the nearest steel cabinet, trying to pull away. With a ragged sound, claws caught in the okapi's shorts. They turned to rags, and were gone.
"I'm nutted." Was the youth's only thought. Like the blackened, crispy paw on the move, a dark sea of despair approached. It threw a tidal wave of hopelessness, and Trevor was ready to drown in it. Through tear-filled eyes, he took a look at his nuts. Healthy, heavy and strong nuts. Easily each the size of a billiard ball, so nicely striped and ridged by pleasant veins. Not quite sloshing full after that long night with Lyle. Not that it mattered. The binturong would squeeze them off and then, well goodbye furkind.
Trevor could not look at his own castration, and so he turned his eyes upward. Hope once more entered the equation, as dangling just about the binturong was a giant claw labeled 'Grinder Deposit Claw!' With a sneer on his muzzle, Trevor turned back to look at the chromed, steaming skull before him. "You're terminated, fucker." His groping hand found the button, and with a hiss the massive claw scooped up the smoulding binturong, carrying him out of sight. The cyborg had barely brushed that healthy nutsack.
Trevor sighed in relief, a choking, gut-wrenching sob as the tension began to explode through his frame. "We did it. We made it. Oh god, I can't believe it!" Tenderly, he reached down to pet his own healthy testes. He sighs, feeling the thick curves of the fat orbs, all the way up to the root of his sac and sheath where......wait. What the fuck? His eyes sprung open, to see a black and white striped band loosely sitting around the root of his nuts. 'Pipe Bander' it said, and in smaller type, 'Auto Sealing'.
The experimental pipe bander, exposed to air, began its work. An exothermic reaction triggered the elasticity first, which snapped the band snug against the shocked's okapi's sack-root. This triggered the young male's panic, and he grasped at the band with his fingers, pulling on it. The stretching, however, only served to accelerate the process. As the okapi began to wail and scream, the band drew slowly tighter and thicker. Those young swinging nuts swung lower and slower, the thickening band forcing them to the bottom of the striped sac.
Trevor wailed and flailed, he went into another tantrum. Knocking over trays of tools, his desperate paws scrabbled for a knife or screwdriver to dislodge the band. His trembling paws could not aim the blade correctly, and at the first nick he lost all conviction. He tossed the cutter aside, bawling like a colt as the thickening band cinched tighter and tighter. It grew hotter too, a heat that started slow and then simmered higher and higher. Normally it'd weld shut a pipe joint, but against the supple young stud's flesh it sizzled. The striped fuzz almost burst into flame, and to save his thighs Trevor spread his legs out wide.
On his back, knees in the air and thighs spread wide Trevor looked like a grim parody of an expectant mother. Or perhaps a willing slut awaiting a large-cocked stud to plow him. The latter less than the former, as the band squeezed his nuts further and further from his body. The band was nearly thick as a donut now, and Trevor's coltmakers stuck up at a high and stiff angle from his body. The hissing of the heated band and the okapi's screaming melded and merged into one long, mournful sound.
The pain and terror was too great, and the okapi collapsed into darkness. He did not have to witness his young balls pop off from all the pressure. They way they rolled on a slick carpet of blood and fluid to the conveyer that whisked them away to be sealed in plastic joke dice. Luckily, the heat from the band cauterized the wound, and the young male did not die.
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Joshua skillfully maneuvered the gurney around the heavy machinery, his beefy bearish frame easily cocking the wheels around to avoid slamming against anything. "I found this poor bastard back by the claw." He delivered the news to his partner, a lanky polecat name of Jim. Said polecat set his bag on the side of the gurney, working as it rolled to insert IV lines and a respirator. Joshua took a peek at the screen as they rolled Trevor out of the factory, where a medical helicopter waited. "Well shit Jim. Just like the dead one. Hopped up on so many psychotropics I'm amazed he didn't eat his face. Remember that time that...." Joshua scowled at the glare Jim shot him, and just shrugged. "Fine, I'll see if Paul found anything else." Reaching for his radio, the bear spoke into it for a moment.
"This is One-L-19, I am at the grinder right now." Paul spoke with a bit of a Tennessee twang, which seemed to pick up the worst static over the radios. He hit the button again, and almost set down his medical bag, but decided against it. "Nothing here but some kind of metal helmet and one of those fireproof motorbike suits. All fucked to hell. I think I'll be coming back." He waited for the confirmation, and in that moment he saw the curled cord of the pawheld receiver swing around his shoulder. "Damn thing came undone again...."
"This is One-L-19, and I am shit out of luck." The voice sounded almost like Paul, except it came from right above him. Few things are more unsettling than hearing your almost voice, like an ominous echo. "Hey there, that is one nice medical bag." This time, the voice was almost exactly like his own. When the black-furred shape fell on Paul, he didn't even have time to scream.