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"Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god." - Francis Bacon

My name is Francis Bacon. I love drilling tailhole and I watched a man die tonight. The tale that follows takes place between 12 a.m. and now.

Staring at the back of Mike the fox's mangy head, his headfur tucked piggly-wiggly under an old Security snapback ballcap, seeing his ears twitch independently of each other in spastic intervals, I had more n' half a mind to donkey-punch him the back of the neck and take his keys, freeing us from our six-hour detention instead of waiting until morning for him to call the cops on us for public nudity, vandalizing the arcade machines (I and my chubby tiger paramour Simon had gotten seminal expulsions on them), and trespassing on private property. Had I the hindsight I have now, I would have clapped his head against the wall, taken his keys, and ran.

Simon, Mike, and I walked over grody checkerboard tiling, first past an open door reading "backstage," where behind it was a wealth of character masks, suits, and a naked robot skeleton slumped over on the table. Just as I'd suspected, this endoskeleton had a set of jaws independent from any of the character masks and had those ancient lightbulb eyes that gave the characters themselves that empty, disturbing stare. The fur on my muscular arms rippled, my hackles standing up on the back of my neck.

We then passed the "Out of Order" Pirate's Cove attraction where they were still keeping the decommissioned Foxy the Pirate Fox attraction, hidden behind a rippled purple curtain, and went into a sticky tile hallway lined with taped-up coloring book pages and children's drawings rendered so crudely by their artists, I questioned their creators' mental sanctity. Most seemed determined to ramrod blood and gore over the black-and-white templates that were supposed to depict happy cartoon scenes.

My cousin, Twilight Rarity Henderson, was ten, and even when she drew blood and gore there was a hint of impish hilarity about her work. It was a kid's irony, that abstraction from reality: it wasn't haha this person is suffering but haha he's farting his guts out of his butt._Which was still disturbing; I shouldn't have let her watch _Ren and Stimpy. These drawings, however, were something that grew from the back of a diseased mind. The artists' strokes were violent, the paper showing gashes where the crayons had broken or broken through. Most lines had been gone over several times to the point of saturation ... out of mad frustration. The environments themselves were idyllic treescapes, houses, and all pertaining to Freddy Fazbear's pizza, but Freddy Fazbear and his friends, however, were drawn with blacked-out eyes, swollen muzzles, and paws that at the fingertips, ended in points. Bloody claws. This was all posted along the walls to the security office away from the public; it was employee access only_._

From the ceiling hung tinsel streamers and stars, moving when we brushed past them. This hallway was only connected to two rooms: the security office and a supply closet containing mops, brooms, and other such items.

As decorated as this hallway was, this was employees only. There were no bathrooms, no hidden arcade cabinets; the hallway ended with a utility room and the security office and yet it was coated in children's drawings, confetti, cute posters of the posed characters reading "Let's Eat!" "Let's Party!" "Let's Celebrate!" ... it offered no final reward; only attractions to get the kids back here. I watched Mike as he slapped a button on the wall, starting some gas motor which I assumed to be for a generator, then opened a large breaker box and slammed the main switch down.

Freddy Fazbear's went dark, and then it flickered back to a vegetative state of life, lights in the hallway and the dining room blinking and stuttering, ventilation fans stopping with a corroded groan, and finally the security office lit up like the hood bulb on a 1995 Buick: it was an insufficient lantern casting light upon some rusted relic of the past. The droning buzz from earlier returned, and I entered the security office with a mixture of annoyance, dread, boredom, and an erection that wouldn't quit.

My nine and a half-inch wolf cock ripped through my old jeans and smacked the scraggy fox right in the ass, making him scream and throw himself against the back wall, dropping a "Let's Party!" Freddy poster from its staples and shaking the tinsel decorations around him. His shriek was that of an animal's, a yelp from the bowels of instinctual survival. Simon yelped as well, throwing his mass against me and causing me to stumble and grab onto the wall for support. The old, sticky wallpaper tore in lumps beneath my claws.

So there I was, pushing myself upright with my massive meaty member swinging out from a gaping gash in my jeans in front of a strung-out security guard pinned against the back wall and staring down at it with horrified bloodshot eyes, and my chubby paramour Simon, who was still carrying an ass-load of my cum, looking up at me with a mixture of confusion, arousal, and fear.

It was only twelve a.m. and I would be indecently exposed in front of my captor and my new paramour for the next six hours.

"What do you feed that thing?" the fox asked, peeling himself from the wall and approaching it as if it were a wild animal staring back at him. His paw came up and cradled the underside like it was a kitten's jaw, so I slapped it away.

"Booty," I answered, scowling at him. "I feed it booty."

Simon watched in passing with his mouth agape. Mike seemed emotionally injured as he rubbed his mangy paw. "You're a little old for me anyway. We have to get inside the office," he said, leaning to look past us at Freddy Fazbear's stage way in the distance, eyeing the animatronics. "Those things are set to free-roam at night so their servos don't lock up. We're animal-people but we're not big enough to be their animal-people, so if they get a hold of you, they'll try to stuff you into an empty character suit."

I was already moving to the office, grabbing Simon by the paw and leading him inside. Out the corner of my eye, I saw him cradling his Twilight Sparkle stuffed doll. It was a comfort item, I figured. Not that I particularly cared. Simon stepped on the back of my pantleg and ripped my jeans further, sundering them down to the knee, exposing everything worth covering.

"Oh my Gods! Sorry..." the tiger tried. I stopped short of the security door and popped the button fly of my jeans, taking my wallet and car keys out before tossing them down on the floor, stepping into the office wearing just my shoes, socks, and shirt. I told Simon to forget it and not worry about the jeans; everybody'd seen it when we were banging earlier over the arcade cabinet.

"So they'll stuff us into an empty character suit," I said, stepping behind a desk to mask my lower half. The cool air in the office was starting to relax my situation. "That sounds uncomfortable. Those suits are so old, though, I'd probably rip them like a pair of jeans."

"Not with the materials they're made of," Mike snorted, eyeballing two large buttons by the security door he'd passed under. The actual doors were suspended, hidden up in the eaves of the doorways: they were thick bulletproof slabs, easily a few inches thick with yellow caution stripes painted around the bottoms. They could cut someone's foot clean off. Chills came over me. Blood rushed to my cock.

Simon started stroking it as a coping device. I grabbed onto his fat ass for support as Mike scowled at us, then picked up a heavy, ancient computer tablet plugged into the wall by a thick extension cord and took a seat in front of us, booting the thing up. Both security doors had two buttons: they were labeled "Light" and "Door," and the width of the room permitted him to reach either set with a lunge from his chair. The "Door" buttons were obvious, and the "Light" button, Mike explained, was to illuminate the respective hallways just in case an animatronic should make it past his cameras.

"You two are going to jail, no questions asked. And jail is not_a nice place," the fox said with a sudden jerk of his head. "Like I was saying. The suits themselves are made of asbestos under a metal shell and foam padding. They're full of control wires and crossbeams that fit an endoskeleton. _Not a flesh and bone organism," he snarled.

I was speechless, dripping precum on the floor, digging my finger into Simon's jean-shielded tailhole as Mike started flipping through screens on his security tablet. "The cameras use power, the lights use power, the doors use power, and everything runs off a generator that chugs more gas than a..."

"A 1995 Buick?" I groaned, fucking Simon's paw. My libido was on full alert against this growing fear of dread, head spinning as the fear of death fought off Le Petit Mort--the orgasm.

"Sure," Mike absently said, and then shot bolt upright as he brought the tablet to his face. "Bonnie and Chica are gone. Both of them!" The fox started frantically flipping through the cameras. "Chica's in the dining room; Bonnie's ... okay. Backstage. Dead end, no problem. Here," Mike said, hefting the tablet up to give Simon and I a view.

My paw was down the back of Simon's pants, fingering his cummy tailhole, making him groan in a nauseous mixture of delight and anxiety. His paw had paused in stroking my cock. Mike's tablet screen was enough to give my heart a jolt: the backstage, with all its character masks and the robot skeleton, was barely lit, and yet through all the noise I could see an eerie silhouette of that robotic rabbit staring at the camera.

"He knows," Mike whispered.

I broke out in a cold sweat, and pushed Mike's tablet away from me. "Just tell me what to do," I grunted, my entire body throbbing with my heartbeat. "Should we shut the doors?" I asked, voice rising sharply.

It was at this point that Mike tapped the light button on the right-hand side, flooding that hallway with a blinding light. Simon let out a scream as he saw Chica before us, leering into the window with her toothy beak hanging open and head cocked to one side. Mike slammed on the door button and locked her out, and then turned to us with an empty, thousand-yard stare.

"Not until you see the white of their hell-gazing eyes," he growled, and then opened the door behind him without looking. Chica was gone. "Night after night, I stand on the brink of oblivion, gazing into the abyss. The cold soothes me as the fires of damnation lap at my feet.

Can you check the left light?"

My free paw flew to the button with enough force to break it, but stopped just beforehand as to tap it. It revealed that the hallway was empty. I let out a sigh of relief, hooking a finger on my other paw up Simon's rectum. The tiger mewled in protest.

"Not sure where Bonnie is," Mike muttered, flipping through screens. "But Freddy hasn't moved. Foxy..." he trailed off, pulling the tablet to his face.

"Hold on. You mean Foxy's still active?" I asked, quivering as my voice went up. Great hormonal forces were at bay within my body. This night felt like a fever dream, but the cold sweat running down my spine let me know it was all-too real. "After the Bite of '87?"

"IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!" Mike shrieked, his head shaking as he spasmed forward, losing his greasy security cap. "Foxy didn't do anything wrong ... "

"He's still active, though?" Simon asked, lunging forward and taking my paw with him. My paw was slick with cum to the wrist. The tiger clasped the back of Mike's chair, leaning over him to see the tablet which displayed Pirate's Cove with its curtain open. Its citizen's dead lightbulb eyes were staring back at us through the camera.

The Bite of '87 ... a cub had lost her frontal lobe when Foxy's jaws clapped shut on her forehead. Some thought it was a malfunction, some say she tripped a breaker by jumping on him, and some thought it was something more intentional. More malicious.

"Close the door," he said with sudden urgency. I could see Bonnie's silhouette from here, looming in the doorway. Simon, moving uncharacteristically fast for his girth, lunged past me and closed the door in the same split-second my paw popped free of him with a slimy gush. It slammed shut with the heavy sound of electromagnets and metal, and we all breathed a sigh of relief as Simon tested the hallway light, revealing Bonnie's shadow cast against the wall. The tiger rested his forehead on the door, huffing with breath. My heart was going a mile a minute. My paws were trembling, their pads moist with sweat. My cock, bared for all the world to see, was rock hard and pulsing with the rest of me.

The stink of my old cum radiated from my paw, and as I gazed upon Simon's fat ass, the tumblers clicked into place and I was a wolf on the prowl. Fuck death, fuck janky murderbots, fuck that brony muzzlescruff tiger right in his big striped booty. Mike grabbed at my tail as I lunged past him, but all he got was fluff as I ripped out the seat of Simon's jeans, because fair's fair, and leveled my pulsing wolf dick right at the tip of the tiger's frosted donut hole, pushing into his creampie with a yearning, lusty snarl.

Pinned against a bulletproof security door protecting us from broken, murderous robots, I was in heaven as I slid into his cum-slicked rectum and felt my previous juices squirt out against my balls. I wrapped my arms around his gut and thrust into him, every inch sending sparks shattering through my body, turning my fear into fuel. I'd fuck my way out of this.

"Get the fuck off the door!" Mike shrieked as he hammered on the button. The door's indicator light turned off, but the door wouldn't budge: there was a lot of pulsing, pounding man-meat thrusting against it. Keeping it down. "Wait, stay right there!" he shouted. He wasn't physically striking me with his Moses-sized security tablet, so I'd ignored his first commandment anyway. I had a couple hundred pounds of tiger meat pinned to the door, deep-dicking Simon's slick, velvety asshole through the butt-flap I'd torn in his jeans and underwear.

The force of our lovemaking was jamming the door, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold out. I was close, leaking pre like a pump dispenser. My flesh was electric: every thrust and pull that rubbed me against Simon's slick anus, every thump that brought my hips slamming against his wide ass, every time my balls slapped against his, or swung back and hit me instead made my eyes roll hard into the back of my head.

Mike was back there checking the cameras, dragging a paw through his greasy hair as he'd lay the thing down, wait a few seconds, check the light of the open hallway, wait a few seconds, and then go back to his tablet. I, on the other paw, was losing my eyes to the top of my skull as they rolled back, my wide knot sliding in between Simon's wet, cumslicked cheeks, pounding him for dear life against a door straining to open against us, murderous robots lurking on the other side. His tail lashed against my stomach and wrapped around my waist, pulling me in tight, and I grabbed onto his fuzzy man titties with both paws and jammed my hefty shaft up into him when suddenly from the other side, there came a loud, forceful knocking.

Simon screamed and I knotted up inside him, making him scream again. Pressed up against the door, the blows coming from the other side were like those of a battering ram, shaking the entire door and our heads even worse. I came hard into Simon's bowels, feeling the thick liquid churn with the old stuff against my shaft and hearing the tiger's body gurgle with my heavy cum injection.

"Foxy..." Mike whispered, laying his tablet into his lap. "I'm so sorry..."

"Don't tell me that's your knot," Simon whispered. As our sexual sobriety settled in, so did the implications that rested on the other side of that door ... that robot wanted to stuff us unknowingly into a sausage grinder of a fursuit.

"No power loss," Mike said as he anemically checked his tablet, twitching spasmodically, "Nice save."

As my muscles relaxed and my cock throbbed inside Simon's full ass, locked tight against his booty, I looked sidelong at the wiry fox and pulled my shirt off, the bottom hem dripping with viscous ejaculate.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Almost two," Mike said, dragging his forearm across his forehead. "Four hours to go, but we have a pretty good amount of power. Think you can hold that position?" he asked, looking at us locked together, breathing heavy as we leaned against a door that was already starting to slip.

"We can try," I grunted, then pressed us both against the hard metal, grunting whenever Simon would try to move without me, pulling at my knot. His tailhole received the same tugging punishment. Minutes went by, feeling like hours, Mike doing his thing while we held onto a door that kept trying to shoot upwards. Chica appeared again at the door behind us and so Simon and I slammed against the door in front of us, our bodies telling us to do the opposite, and this seemed all well and good until we heard that trademark laugh that had sent ripples through my fur:

Hurr-hurr-hurrr.

"Mike?" I asked, pushing hard against Simon as the door raised up a foot. "Where's Freddy?"

The fox immediately leapt up in his seat, frantically checking the open portal to his right. It appeared empty. He uttered a curse and then criticized himself for being so stupid, and while a distant, unseen Freddy let out another laugh, Mike checked his tablet.

And then he was in the room.

"E#*@$!"

Simon and I turned together as Freddy let out an ear-sundering screech, releasing the door and then falling into the hallway as we saw, us tumbling over each other, the skinny fox screaming as he was wrenched out of his chair and carried by his arm and his leg out into the opposite hallway, flailing all the way. Mike's shrieks were borderline incoherent, consisting of split phrases such as "I'm sorry!" "Freddy, don't!" and finally, "It's Me!"

It's Me.

Rolling on the floor, Simon and I looked up to see Bonnie's leering silhouette hanging over us. Bonnie swiped at us with both paws and we dodged out of the way, spiked on adrenaline, and ran past him as one beast with two backs as he tumbled in front of the security door. Quick with our flight but stupid on its hormones, we blustered past the macabre childrens' drawings and the hung tinsel and found ourselves out in the dining hall, tightly tied to each other with floor-level seats as Freddy hefted the squalling fox onstage to a gold-colored Freddy suit laying slumped against the back wall, under the glitzy banner reading "Let's Celebrate."

I cannot honestly say what happened next. The remnant of my memory is very much like the remnants of Mike Schmidt's body: only shreds, with only a few recognizable fragments. After the gruesome deed was done, Mike's eyeballs and teeth fell from the eyes and mouth of that baleful suit. That is all I can recall. A buzzing static, not unlike a television's, blocks the rest.

I saw Chica leaning out from the far doorway, staring straight at us. Bonnie's servos were whining behind us, drawing closer with every step of its padded feet. Freddy, spattered with fresh viscera, turned his head around like an owl's to look at us. Foxy let out a distorted "Yarr!" as his hook-hand parted the curtain to our left.

We were surrounded. My knot remained firm; I was locked to Simon. We were five hundred pounds of dead meat. I hugged Simon around the middle and let out a sob as they leered in on us, me screaming "Please don't! It's me!" as Chica lay her paw on my shoulder.

Freddy stood free of the bloodied golden suit and turned to us, his glassy eyes glowing like two beads in the darkness of the dining room, which was a dissonantly happy wreckage strewn with party hats, plates, soda pitchers, and the gaudy display of free, old pizza that had enticed us back into the restaurant those several hours ago. Freddy brought his microphone to his mouth, his old motors lagging far behind his speech.

"What do you mean, 'it's you?'" he guffawed through his crackling speaker, his voice box burping. "Me and my buddies haven't seen you around before! I've never seen a friend with two heads. Have you, Chica?"

"I bet he can eat twice as much pizza!" said Chica, walking towards Freddy and pushing a table with her girth.

"That's all you ever think about!" said Bonnie, one of his ears jerking as he limped around us. "He's gotta be great at singing; just imagine the harmonies!" Bonnie strummed a guitar he wasn't currently holding, a guitar noise coming from his voice box.

"Yaaaarr!" bellowed Foxy as he stumbled from behind the curtain, catching it on his hook and tearing it down. My trousers were wrapped around one of his metal feet. "He be counting the booty twice as fast! Ain't that right, boy?!" he asked, foisting his fist toward us. "Arrrrn't ye all about the booty?!"

"I ..." I started, beyond shellshocked. I grabbed Simon's belly for support. "Why ... yes I be. I be all about that booty," I said, bumping my fist against his cold, rotting glove.

They'd mistaken our mass for a mascot. All we'd have to do, for the next four hours, would be to remain ass-to-hips until the day shift arrived. That's all we had to do while four demented robots clanked and stumbled around this squalid restaurant, while the sundered remains of Mike's body slowly drained into the asbestos-lined shell of a golden Freddy suit up on stage, while the haunting questions of just who was Mike and what happened in '87 stared us in the face like the ancient, incandescent eyes of these animatronics.

Like the original Francis Bacon said, "A prudent question is one-half of wisdom," and that wisdom, as far as Freddy Fazbear's Pizza is concerned, is stay away. My prudent question to you, now, is this: Are you all about the booty?

Let me hear you "E#*@$!" with your response.