FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"And to you, too, Jonathan." He rolled, swirling around the ruby red rocker of wine. "For all the accomplishments, all the advancements that you've provided for our fine city."

The lynx sitting across the table smiled heartily, those fat cheeks pulling high up into his double chin-pulled cheek. He then smoothly lifts his own flute into the air with two light fingers and nods his fat mug, nose turned down. Teeth glitter through his black lips as the sharp eyes of the predator meet with his flatterer. It is all he can do to keep himself from scowling.

"And you as well, my Master." The heavy lynx rumbles. "What Adonis Corporation has provided will be hailed as a blessing for generations to come. We can only hope that the . . . production isn't hindered."

Jonathan Voorhees lowers his glass as the white lion opposite him mirrors his motions. He turns his eyes to the expensive glass between his claws and licks his lips, a thin tongue taking one swift swipe over those lanky lips. He rolls the flute with an experienced wrist and watches the liquid swirl, but never once does he raise it to his lips. No, he's played the game too long to be that stupid.

The Master, on the other hands, quickly downs his highball of sweet blue liqueur, some brand new concoction from beyond the seas. Then, with an lack of reserve, he slams the empty glass down upon the tabletop, top down, of course. He snaps his fingers and immediately the waiter on the other side of the table snatches it up.

"You've no worries, my old . . . friend. I've taken care of every step, every contingency. Your supply should never dwindle, not with brand new legislation poised to tighten the punishment for petty possession." The Master says as he sits back, crossing his legs and meshing his fingers. "No, Adonis will have no problems. As long as he keeps his product flowing."

The Lynx smiles.

"As you can see, you shouldn't even worry." He says with a chuckle.

He places the flute of wine down upon the table and snaps his finger. Without losing a beat, the waiter turns and takes the wine glass and begins to stroll away. Even over the roar of the theater, the distinct sound of whirring gears can be heard. Only the Master turns and watches the waiter go; an unusually thin, strong Doberman, with a body and face too perfect to be real.

"Another of yours?"

"Of course." Voorhees replies with a tone of frankness. "My latest, actually. Whatever you're able to provide me with, I work with, of course. Everything from wolves to orca, I can perform voodoo, magic, wave a little wand and have a perfect specimen step out the other side."

The lion smiles and seats back into the expensive leather-and-mahogany chair, a toothy smile, obviously pleased with himself. His strong paws go to the upholstered arms and his claws dig in and begin to pull. A throaty rumble begins to emanate from the depths of his chest as his tail begins to lash. Voorhees can do nothing but smile in unison.

"Beyond satisfactory, Voorhees." The lion says. "And just in time, as well. I've managed to sign papers with the government of the Russian Empire. It seems they're not happy with Czarist Russian lines. Poland seems to be appetizing. They'll need every body they can get."

"And there's nothing more satisfying then sending our trash over to die in the marshes east of Danzig. Master?" Voorhees says with a chuckle.

The Master smiles and pulls his claws from the leather upholstery with an audible 'pop'. He then furrows his brow and leans forward, pulling both paws up in front of his muzzle. Lacing them together and thrusting them over his nose, the Master places his elbows upon the silk tablecloth and smiles. His green eyes are piercing as he stares at the fat capitalist opposite him.

"You've no idea." He mumbles.

A silver cart is rolled up to the end of the table with several large platters stationed upon them, each covered with increasingly intricate and ornate decorations. The two waiters that tend the cart lift them with ease and gently place the platters upon the table with care. Steam billows out from under the edges of the cover, furrowing towards the roof in twisting, turning waves.

Despite the scalding heat going straight into the waiter's faces, they don't even flinch. In fact, it is as if they don't even notice. Like the previous waiter, these two are obviously machines as well. Just two more mannequins, two more machines that populate the most expensive, and most profitable, restaurant in all of Los Angeles.

Mechanically, they pull the lids from the top and reveal a banquet fit for a monarch. Stuffed, roasted grouse decorated with a fine, thin milk-based roux and decorated with hand-cut, hand-picked spices and vegetables; which is a delicacy in itself. All of this for each individual. Outside of this building, this kind of food would be unthinkable. Not to a mass of beasts who live on bread rinds and faux chicken stock.

But each table is adorned with such foods, such exotic tastes and treats. There can be nothing better for the men who make the clock that turns the world, nothing can ever be spared. As the steam wafts into the air from every table, this being just a model for what fills a two store theater modified to sit one hundred of the richest beasts, the creatures, nay, the robots that tend them begin to recede back to the kitchen where they came from.

The Master takes up a small fork and a large carving knife and begins to work at the breast of his rousted fowl. The corner of his lips pull gently and his tail swiftly flutters to and fro. That face is recognizable, he cannot even wait to consume the riches of his work. But, the lynx, on the other hand, does not immediately eat. He is too unsettled to eat anything.

"Must he stand there the entire night, Master?" Voorhees whispers loudly, sharply.

"Of course." The Master replies abruptly, not a morsel yet reaching his lips. "I've neglected to inform you of our splendid new development. What you see beside me is probably the greatest specimen that my scientists have produced. He is your first, as you can plainly tell, and I highly doubt a mind like yours forgets even one face."

"No. Never."

"We brought him in, after the incident, and . . . produced some interesting results. He has been our greatest success. He has killed two beasts already, one with a charge meant for me. Nothing like the brute strength, quick wits and killer mind of a white wolf, is there?" The Master chuckles. "So he stays with me at all times. It's been almost a year, Voorhees, since our little project has flowered into the greatness we know. Enjoy yourself, relax. Your Master commands it."

The lynx nervously turns his eyes my way, but, slowly picks up his eating utensils and begins to carve into the meat. Even from here, his bobbing Adam's apple can be seen. His nerves are shot, though from what can be hard to discern: the fear that a charge will go through his skull, or that a bit of heavy metal poisoning has made it into that delicious, scrumptious grouse.

Slowly the lights begin to dim from above, the can lights that have been left over from when this place used to be a functioning stage theater. The Master turns his eyes towards the stage, a high, restored mahogany set-piece from a bygone era, and rests his hands into his lap. Voorhees does not do the same, slowly choking down pieces of his dinner, still too nervous. Most likely he'll throw it up later out of fear.

Spot lights rung in the second floor balconies, where many high rollers sit, eat and drink, begin to sway across the stage. Small shell lights on the edges of the stage are lit, revealing the blood-red curtain hanging from the third floor of the building, elegantly ornate with gold and deep purple thread. Slowly it is pulled back. Out begins to step, in a low, uniform clatter, a row of dancers.

In the pit below the stage the band, or, a simulation of one, begins to play. Old-style big band music grows from a dull roar to a hearty thunder. The dancers, dressed in female suits, cut to reveal almost everything they have to hide, spread out and take their places in the darkness. The crowd by now is silent. The lights explode up and the music swings into gear.

They dance. Throwing up their legs and swirling across the stage in all their Broadway-inspired wonder, they dance. With large hair, pumped lips, glowing eyes and perfect, absolutely perfect bodies, they dance. Never one out of step with the swing music, flowing like water from a high fountain, they dance.

And never once does the thought of whether they are real or not go across the minds of the onlookers. No, who would dare put faux skin over the exterior of an android? Who would be so dumb as to break that cardinal rule of robotics? It is a known fact that they can only be traded, bought or sold if the metal bodies are revealed. We don't want any I, Robot situations arising, do we?

"Are they?"

"Yes, they are." The Master replies. "Every last one of them, ours. I gave the real dancers the night off, just for this little demonstration. Jonathan, we've entered into a new world. A world where we can contract out our machines to anything, anybody, anywhere in the world. From construction in the Bronx, to fighting in trenches on the other side of the Congo. Pure profit."

"And we'll have enough people?" Voorhees questions, turning a shining eye to his compatriot.

"Always. There is always crime. There are always wars, and prisoners of them. We will have an endless supply. As long as we exist, there will always be a supply." The Master states as a matter of fact. "And everyone here is an investor. They will know that these creatures are in fact my creations. And they will throw money at my feet in awe."

"Never."

With a quick jab, a sharp and swift jab straight from God himself, I plunge a butterfly knife deep into his back. The Master screams at the top of his lungs and rolls out of his seat with a blade below his shoulder-blade. Only Voorhees screams in horror and rolls backwards, the rest of the night continues on as planned.

The dancers continue their choreographed moves, their legs flying up into the air, showing the audience everything, the band, a mere hologram, continues with its programming, unable to stop or even knowing that it should. Even the other members of the audience continue to stare at the stage, the darkness too encompassing.

"What, what are you doing?!" The Master hollers as he begins to drag his leonine frame across the floor towards the stage.

"What I failed two do a year ago." I mutter through steel teeth, my body clinking as I step forward, naked as the day I was born. "Stopping a genocide."

The Master desperately reaches for the knife in his back but can't reach it, his grasps closing on his own paws. The knife is in that just-perfect spot. He just screams more and bloodily crawls and fumbles towards the stage. I produce another butterfly knife, swinging it around to reveal the black blade in a fraction of a second.

The Master sees it and screams. He manages to get up onto his footpads and begins to run. More like stumble, towards the stage, toward the light where the world may see and help him. The lynx does nothing but cower beneath the table, calling for help from nobody that will come. The aqua blue carpet stains quickly with the white lion's blood.

It's quite enjoyable, watching the wealthiest, most powerful beast in the world bleed out into a hundred thousand credit suit. A suit which can no longer be replicated, silk being almost impossible to obtain unrecycled. The blood ruining the pure royal purple that cannot be replaced, repaired even. All the while, the lion screams and looks to his fate with fright.

He makes it to the stage and stumbles up onto it. No longer playing, I rush forward, metal scraping against metal, and leap upon the stage as he stands straight. He stumbles back and into the light before he falls upon his royal ass. Scraping backwards into the spotlight, he reaches into his jacket and screams: "I fixed you, you can't do this!"

He produces a gun which he fires. The shot ricochets off the steel covering of my chest and drills deep into the stage. Finally the dancers stop, but the band keeps playing. The audience shrieks, coming out of their drug-induced trance. I grab the hand that holds the gun and twist it until he drops it with a scream. The gun fumbles off into the darkness below the projector for the band.

"You didn't fix a thing, Montgomery." I state blankly, all I can muster. "While your beasts tore at my body, your servants saved me. 'They' fixed me, not you. They saved what of me they could, and replaced what they couldn't. While my body is machine, I am not."

He pulls his paw from my grasp and looks at me in pain.

"Then, what are you?"

"I'm merely a man who's circumstances went beyond his control." I state.

And without much ado, I throw the knife into the lion's chest. Without final words, without a monologue, without even a final scream, the Master slumps dead. I turn my eyes up towards the audience that has just witnessed the murder of the most powerful man in the world in almost dead silence, save for the wailing sounds of the the pseudo-band below. The lights continue to flash with the preprogrammed show, almost wildly, with bright colors shifting with each moment.

"Some of you may wonder who I am, or why this has been done!" I announce. "Understand that I have just averted a catastrophe. Not one employee in this entire building is real. They are machines, run with the mind's of 'deceased' criminals housed within their bodies. I am, or was, their first victim."

Slowly I reach to my wolfish head and pull off a metal mask which covers most of my bust to reveal the damaged visage below. I can hear the collective gasps of those in the audience. Placing the metal mask below my arm, I look into the darkness, knowing they can see me, though I cannot see them.

"I consider myself lucky." I say, to another gasp by a group of unwary few. "And if the papers ask, tell them Kilroy was here."

Slowly I place the mask back upon my head and turn my back to the audience. I step across the stage, my rubber and steel paws leaving bloodied prints behind as I tromp through to the back of the stage and out of sight. And all the way to the exit, I hear nothing but silence. It is the last time I would ever truly hear a silence of that depth or magnitude.