FSE

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One particular weekend, Biscuit was quite exhausted by the time his shift at work had ended. A trio of older teenagers - the motley crew of a fox, squirrel, and bunny - had decided to make his day miserable, hanging around the restaurant for most of his shift while buying enough food and drink to count as customers. They had insisted he wait on them the entire time, and had found multiple ways to publicly humiliate the Srothar during the process... Asking for his opinion on the meals available before suggesting his opinion didn't matter because he 'ate cat food', calling for his service every time by proclaiming 'Here kitty-kitty!', and many other deplorable actions.

But what hurt the most was when the three were preparing to leave. The teens seemed to be finished with their insulting, not even calling him over in a rude manner when they desired to pay, and handing him a credit card without incident. But there was still one matter...the three still had food on their plates; half-eaten burgers, excess fries, tidbits of mashed potatoes. Company policy was to offer to-go boxes in such a case...and Biscuit did so. The teens shook their heads and said that it wasn't necessary. Fair enough; the Srothar took their card to the pay machine on the other side of the restaurant, taking a deep breath and relaxing as he scanned it without a problem; he was glad the three idiots had decided to lay off at last.

...Except they had not. Biscuit returned to the teens' table to see they had pulled out a large...pet bowl...from a backpack they had on hand, and had scooped all of their leftovers into it in a mash, the plates even clean of meaty juices and the like as that had been dripped in as well. The filled bowl laid on the floor next to the table...

"We didn't need any to-go boxes because, we figured, you'd like it all a lot more, kitty." the one male of the trio, the fox, smirked, holding back a laugh. With his confidence, he seemed the 'ringleader' of the group.

"More than a tip even, which is why we didn't give you one." added the bunny girl, mocking tones in her voice.

"Right, right... So why don't you enjoy, huh Biscuit? Go on...hop on all fours and enjoy it, right here! You deserve...pfft!...it!" the fox finished, thinking his 'prank' as sheer gold as couldn't help but laugh and laugh.

Ears flattened to his head, and a hard blush on his face, Biscuit slammed the credit card to the group's table as they all laughed together. "You've paid. Thanks. You can leave." he said as expressionlessly as he could muster, before turning tail and retreating from the situation into a back room to cool down.

The group left at that - right before they could be forcibly escorted out by Biscuit's manager, who had seen the whole thing. His boss, being an understanding fellow, gave the Srothar the remainder of his day off...which he desperately needed at that point. He had never been so offended, so humiliated...!

Biscuit debated going straight home, but...no. He needed a good meal and a good drink after that, away from his workplace...and he knew just the place to go relax at. Rayner's Tavern was on the walk between work and home for the Srothar, which is how he discovered it by chance one night. It wasn't much to look at - heck, the main entrance was just inside an alley - but the tavern's environment was always quite chill, the food was greasy and good, and the occasional smooth beer could really take the edge off.

It was fairly dead in the dark but clean bar when the Srothar wandered in. Rayner - the tavern's namesake and owner, a weasel - was sitting at the bar with a hard drink and idly watching the news on a television. Rayner was always very casual like that...he treated his customers like friends, and only showed a hard edge towards any troublemakers...which didn't show up as often as the seedy premises might imply. Biscuit definitely connected with the guy, especially in the 'looks can be deceiving' department. Weasels were considered dishonest and unsavory fellows by some small-minded assholes, but Rayner was hardly that. Even if his 'natural environment' and sleazy taste in dress said otherwise.

"Nice suit." said the Srothar with a chuckle, sitting down next to the bar owner. "Found it in a trashcan out back I'm guessing?"

Breaking his focus from the news, Rayner raised an eyebrow to the Srothar and took a chug from his beverage before patting his clearly-loud suit vest. "Hey. I'll have y' know this was on clearance, couldn't not get it, yeah?"

"Oh, sorry. Didn't know trash cans sold suits these days." shrugged Biscuit, reaching over to scoop a handful of peanuts resting in a bowl on the bar.

"Ha ha. Maybe yous should think about yer own 'attire upgrade'. Yer shirt an' belly are having a battle there, Biscuit, and looks like the pounds are gonna win."

Biscuit laughed at that with a nod, noting that the weasel was probably correct; his shirts - typically the only article of clothing he wore - -were- getting a bit tight; he must have gained some pounds recently. But that's what he liked about Rayner; the weasel was far more bluntly-honest than you'd think. He was one of the only people the Srothar felt comfortable with calling him things like...fatty, kitty, Biscuit...because he knew the mustelid was never meaning a lick of offense. ...Well, not -unfriendly- offense, at least. Rayner was still an asshole, just a...nice asshole.

"My weight hasn't secured victory yet; it needs one more completely-unhealthy meal before that happens. And speaking of which..." the Srothar wriggled his tail as he thought about the wholly greasy and delicious burgers Rayner could grill up. "Three orders of the usual today?"

The weasel got off his stool with a lazy stretch, his own portly belly showing under the mobsteresque-vest he wore; he was a good cook, and he clearly loved his cooking as much as his customers did. "Three? Lotta food, that. Guess ya had a rough day." mused the mustelid, slipping behind the bar and whipping up a quick mug of caramel malt beer for the Srothar.

"Just the standard speciesists treating me like a pet." sighed Biscuit, sipping his beer. "Though being a...little more aggressive than normal. They don't deserve any more words."

"I gotcha bud. I'll work ta fill you right up then...a happy gut makes a happy guy, yeah?" reasoned Rayner, before slipping into the back kitchen area to make up three piping-hot orders of deliciousness.

"You got that right. Thanks, Rayner." Biscuit smiled, munching idly on some more peanuts as he sipped his smooth beverage and tried to let his mind unwind...

But a character on the other side of the bar soon eliminated that possibility. The other customer casually scooted between the seats, before sitting next to the Srothar. He appeared to be a shorthaired pig, and wore a dressy robe...a bit strange. Not that Biscuit was one to judge...but, ugh. The guy was now looking at him.

"So! Biscuit, is it?" remarked the pig in a chipper tone.

The Srothar rolled his eyes; guess he wasn't going to be able to just ignore the person. "Don't call me that. It's 'Buskott'." he said roughly; manners weren't on his mind after a day like he had.

"Yes, Biscuit! And a Srothar! Not common, not common at all around these parts... Quite understandable why you'd be picked on for it. But very unjust!"

Biscuit tensed, angry as he realized that the ungulate had eavesdropped on his earlier conversation. "Yes..." he remarked through gritted teeth, before chugging a larger gulp of his beer.

"Very wrong of them though. Your species is ever so special! Srothar abilities...I've studied them. Why, how far your jaws can stretch and consume, and the durability of your stomachs against even the most lively of prey... Such skills suited to the most aggressive and feral of creatures...and yet, paradoxically, you're all much smarter than any beast! Typically, at least."

Biscuit's tail curled low, angry. What the hell was up with this guy? "That's not who I am." the Srothar growled, hoping to make his discontent clear to even this excitable fool.

Sadly, it did not. The pig smiled wide, seeming to read that as an opportunity. "Oh, but it is! It's right in your instincts...my, you've never experimented, never explored? My, my. You know, Biscuit, I've wanted to meet one of your kind around here for quite a long time. Perhaps you would be interested in a partnership? My name is Quillan Matory, maybe you've heard of me? You see, I do shows, and we could certainly use your amazing talents to captivate many-"

SLAM! The glass mug broke against the wooden surface of the bar as Biscuit smashed it down, his drink spilling out through the cracks. The Srothar stood off his chair, looking down at the pig with balled fists and shaking with rage. "Listen. Listen the FUCK here. I live in a normal apartment, I work at a normal job, I'm a NORMAL GUY with NORMAL INTERESTS. I'm not some 'kitty'! I'm not somebody's pet! I don't have the desire to devour things like a FUCKING ANIMAL. I'm a Srothar in skin but THAT'S. FUCKING. IT. And I'm SICK of you ALL thinking otherwise. The name is BUSKOTT, and kindly FUCK. OFF."

The atmosphere of the bar, though dead before, grew even more silent for a brief, tense time, the newscaster on the television the only person daring to make any chatter. The pig cleared his throat nervously, merely staring at the Srothar who stood still as a rock and stared daggers back at him.

"What in th' hell is up with all the noise? I'm in the middle a grillin' back here." Rayner emerged from the back wielding a spatula, and took but a second to assess the situation before procuring a towel and cleaning up the mess of spilt beer and shattered mug and quickly pouring a new drink for Biscuit. "Alright piggy, 'bout time you clear outta here I think. And Bis, crap man, sit down an' enjoy a drink already. Don't need to freak out."

Biscuit faltered in his stance upon the order/advice of his friend, quickly collapsing onto his seat again and leaning on the bar, rubbing his temple and taking a deep breath. "Sorry...sorry Rayner."

"I really was only-" the pig, still standing close by and lacking any tact, began to explain.

"CAN IT, porky. You're outta here, now GO." Rayner interrupted, motioning to the tavern door with a stance that showed that the bar-owner wasn't to be trifled with.

After a pause and a shuffle of his feet, the pig turned and quietly left. "You'll come to understand, Srothar." he said, almost determinedly, under his breath as he slipped out the door.

Biscuit was finally able to unwind after that. Rayner, wise as he was, didn't even bother to ask what had happened, and simply worked to fill his order: four plates of triple-stacked burgers and fries, with a special sweet sauce the weasel created himself topped on both items. Of course, the Srothar had only ordered three plates, but the weasel simply shrugged and said he must've made a 'mistake', and that the fourth was on the house as such. Biscuit couldn't much argue with that, and neither could his belly...soon, he was stuffed enough that his shirt-buttons risked breaking right off, leaving the Srothar with only the option of unbuttoning his shirt entirely. Good thing that Rayner's Tavern was a casual environment already.

After a couple more beers on top of the one with his meal, the Srothar was feeling pretty relaxed...and tired, more than he expected to be, really. After paying the weasel for the drink and food (and having a mini-argument about how he thought he should pay for that broken glass, with Rayner ultimately insisting it wasn't a big deal and threatening to give him more free food if he kept trying to pay for it), Biscuit wished the weasel good night and walked on home. He didn't do a thing when he got to his apartment...besides simply collapsing on his bed and falling into a deep sleep.

Too deep a sleep.