Week 2 of the Stacktember challenge from .
1501 words exactly, designed to be - quote - ‘fucked up’, per spec.
Prompt: The Offering - A gift or sacrifice that changes everything.
Gabriel’s heard that FURstNation is a very particular type of community. Super-exclusive, confidential, with a rock-solid encrypted app shared only by members of the group and a reputation for the wildest and most taboo content to be found on it. Their semisecret members-only parties are legendary, spoken of in hushed tones within the wider furry world, though solid details are hard to come by. He considers FURstNation el no va más, so he's excited to get an invite to initiation night.
Some furries report their interest in furdom as sexualized; others say sex has nothing to do with it, and their motivation is being with like-minded people who share an interest in harmless role-playing.
FURstNation is certainly into role playing, but their roles reflect the hardest-core of Furdom. Fur-fics that indulge the heaviest tropes around: swollen wolf-cocks, aggressive tigerleaps into receptive orifices surrounded by the moistest plushest hair, pointed teeth gently - and maybe not so gently - nibbling at an bloodfilled engorged organ.
Gabriel's fairly sure he knows who tapped him in: either Marla the Vixen from the auto-shop, who everyone thinks is a gang den mother, but in fact keeps 'a litter of whelps', sweet little Anglo femmes from the 'burbs who go wild for her dominant she-musk; or else Joe-Bob the Aryan Aardvark, a pointy-nosed neo-Nazi whose particular kink runs to both racial miscegenation and cross-species relations.
Normally a psycho like Joe-Bob would be excluded from something as exclusive as FURst Nation, but the grotesquely-muscled skinhead (who skitters along the ground in his dirtscuffed fursuit lapping up real ants with an artificially-extended tongue) is invaluable to the group for his connections to amyl poppers and wholesale meth, as well as his priapic commitment to the lifestyle. Cocksman and unofficial security both, his freakish presence is tolerated, the unspoken politics notwithstanding.
Joe-Bob and Gabriel both go way back. From the same barrio, a cholo and a crackerjack skinhead who eyed each other across the schoolyard from their gang huddles. Then they were both in the Corps, and both tried out for Marine Recon. They met up later in County Jail, bonding through a shared passion for raw-edge bathtub crank, rough and highly unselective sex, and plush animal-themed costumes. After all, when you're in a fur suit, there are many species but really only one race.
So Gabriel figures it was Joe-Bob rather than Marla la Zorra who tagged him for initiation in FURstNation. He draws up to the venue in his shitty used VW Beetle, hauls his kitbag out of the trunk (still has to remember it's at the front rather than in back) and walks towards the location passed to him on a scrawled napkin at Chippie's Chunky Chipmunk Bar, a notorious furry hangout.
The locations for FURstNation get-togethers change regularly: vacant industrial unit to empty storefront to abandoned garage. This time it's at an old gym with the weight machines still inside gathering dust. A ferret he knows only as Dom admits him to the gym and shows him to a changing room where he can put on his fursuit. The place smells of rust, the ancient long-dried sweat of steroid-exuding workouts, and - excitingly - of the static ozone charge of synthetic plush outfits rubbed together.
Gabriel's fursona is el Chupacabra. Nobody ever said a furry can't be a cryptid, so Gabriel decided to combine his own particular sexual inclination with legendary lore. He started out as a wolverine, but everyone accused him of being wannabe Logan from X-Men, so he dropped it in favor of the goatsucking monster he’d heard so much about during his childhood. Back then the mysterious beast’s urge for inexplicable mayhem was alluring. Still is.
One good thing about being a chupacabra is that there's no preconceived idea of what one looks like, so Gabriel can make the fursuit as wild as he likes. Another good thing is that it's badass. Even Joe-Bob the Nazi Aardvark is impressed by the get-up, and if you've impressed a 300-pound inked-up skinhead with a tongue that lolls on his chin, you know you've become quite impressive,
Once he's inside the chupacabra skin, that hollowed-out skull, those curved oryx horns, its long gray-mauve hair matted all over with bloodclots, Gabriel feels secure. All the things he's done overseas, the stuff he was hired to do in County, those jobs he did on the streets, it's all dissipated by the eerie aura of the beast he's now become.
At last he looks as perilous and abject as he feels himself to be. He feels it's right to be this particular monster, badass and unclean, charged with outcast energy. Beneath the suit his cock throbs with impatience. At the right moment a velcro flap will be torn away and the secondary monster will be let loose.
In the main gymspace, where busted weight machines and treadmills have been pushed to the edges, low strobe lighting makes it difficult to see. The music is some kind of techno, something dark and low emitting a barely-perceptible subsonic undergrowl.
The suits are not exactly what Gabriel expected. Normally the furry community leans towards wide-eyed cutiepie style. His own clumpy gothic variation is rarity enough, an eldritch weirdness which stands out among the crowd. But not here. Here the fursuits are very different indeed.
It’s a menagerie the like of which was never witnessed in any furlife convention anywhere in the world. Not foxes, cheeky chipmunks or kitty-kats. Things. Misshapen things with too many limbs, with protrusions like tumors and boils, unbalanced geometries, unspeakable teeth that jag and twist...
‘Like it?’ Something sidles up to Gabriel where he gawks. Something with an excess of features – something warty, deformed. Though muffled by the costume, he barely has to raise his voice over the low subterranean rumble of the techno. ‘Bump?’ A human hand appears from within the grotesque suit and lifts a mound of cocaine towards Gabriel’s face.
‘It’s uh... different,’ says Gabriel, hitting the bump through his mask with practiced aplomb. ‘So this is FURstNation? This?’
‘Oh yes, this is it. The demonic hierarchy in the Ars Goetia are the original furries. Ipos, Dantalion, Valefar, Savnok, Orobas... classic furrybois. There's even one called FurFur, for fucksakes. You yourself in your very, uh... special fursuit, Gabe, you would be perfect as Haagenti, with the coolest and most chaotic sigil of all.’
Another thing has approached them, a female with five pendulous breasts and a twisted hogface. Her scent is obscure and foul, but at the same time powerfully sexual. That secondary monster stirs within Gabriel’s suit.
‘We're buildin' up towards th’ full 72-member roster of demonic furry entities,’ says the she-demon. ‘And we're gettin' there. But we don't wanna dilute the evil vibe by expandin' too fast, get me?’
My cock is my rock, thinks Garbriel to himself. My cock is my rock. A mantra of tranquility and strength that has always guided him through his most murderous moments. That ambush in Fallujah. The pusher he shivved in the showers in County. That teen boy whose skull he canoed with a Uzi during a rushed and uncoordinated drive-by.
‘So,’ says the first demon, ‘I’m Baël, and I’m kinda the club president. I’m now formally inviting you into the FURstNation community. You in, Gabe?’
‘You bet,’ says Gabriel. In that instant the music goes silent, the lights unstrobe, and the misshapen furries gather around. Things are moving fast now.
‘There’s a simple act that makes you one of us,’ says Baël. ‘We could have an elaborate rite of initiation, but for now we’re keeping it way simple. An experience to incorporate into your fursona, a memento to patch into your fursuit.’
He holds out a cardboard box. In it, a white labrador puppy, lapping out a curious tongue to seek for some friendly hand, tail wagging. The she-demon lifts a bowie knife, sickly sharp, gleaming in the low light. It’s completely quiet now except for the eager wheedling of the pup as he peeks over the box edge in search of some friendship.
‘I know all about skinning, so I’ll do that part,’ says Baël. ‘It’s only for you to do the act. We have a form of words and that’s it. Then you’re in.’
That secondary monster urged him one way, the trusting eyes of the puppy urged him the other.
When it was over, blood lay spilled prodigiously over the floor in gouts and runnels and splashes. His suit’s fur was clotted like never before.
He stood there panting hard through the chupacabra’s heavy skull.
And now Great Master spoke to him through the puppy’s gentle whine.
You are my true servant, Gabriel. Not these dilettantes and poseurs. You. As if a harmless animal’s soul would be an acceptable offering to me. A vile insult to my infernal prestige.Gabriel let the blunted bowie knife fall with a dull clang to the floor.
Now to work,said the puppy.
To create a furrydom which may truly work my will.>==== {{ A SECONDARY MONSTER // END }} ====<
POSTSCRIPT:
Leopards break into the temple and drink all the sacrificial vessels dry.
It keeps happening again and again.
In the end, it’s taken for granted, and becomes part of the ceremonial ritual.
Franz Kafka, Zürau Aphorism #20
You obscene cad. I downright snorted when you deemed FurFur a signpost of occult lineage.
Words will never be sufficient to praise these dark works. Deeds must follow if worthiness is to be earned.
Samael, the Severity of God, proclaims it thus.