Shifti - User contributions [en]

User:MintzBuck

2007-12-08T22:03:24Z

MintzBuck:

Primarily I was an artist since I came into the fold or Furry and TF in late 1999. I've kicked around the idea of writing many times, but never did much with it because I didn't want to just write TF fluff pieces. I still don't think anything I've written has much plot. I tend to write in a stream of contentiousness style.

I still have my web site, [http://mintz.furvect.com Mintz's World], but it has not been updated in quite sometime. Any new art is posted to my [http://www.furaffinity.net/user/mintzbuck/ Fur Affinity] account. I have also uploaded my stories there.

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*[[The Catalyst]] - Work In Progress, but effectively dead
I started writing this when I was a sophomore in college, it is based off a dream I had. I never finished it because I got distracted and I was never able to pick it back up. It was mostly going to be a long drawn out transformation. The main character is going to end up looking something like [http://www.darknatasha.com/gallery/anthro/2hummingbird.jpg this] (though the real idea was inspired by an older picture that no longer on Dark Natasha's site), but in more of a human size.

*[[Strange Day]] - Work in Progress - Previously posted to the TSA List
This is another story inspired by a dream. I had recently started playing around with the idea of being a husky more and I had a dream, if I recall correctly, where I was an anthropomorphic husky on an airplane. (My job has required to me to take plane trips quite frequently in the last two years.) It originally did not go any where and I was done with it until I reread it and found a bunch of errors and things I wanted to fix. I also came up with an idea for continuing it and adding more background to it.

*[[Flight to Nowhere]] - Blind Pig - Previously posted to the TSA List
I originally started writing this when I was stuck in the St Louis airport for nine hours and was bored out of my mind. It was going to be a SCAB recalling when he changed, while he was delayed from flying (when he changed would have been in a different situation). I talked about it with some people and I ended up with a much different preference, but it still involves air travel. I do want to write a sequel.

*[[Gloves]] - Semi-Adult
This is really a sort of gratuitous TF for a kink of mine (rubber/vinyl critters and TF). I'm not sure if anything else will be done with it. I just think there are probably some people out there who will enjoy it.

[[Category:Author]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:MintzBuck}}

Talk:The Catalyst

2007-12-08T22:01:19Z

MintzBuck: New page: The Catalyst – Rules First read the prologue story for the basis of what is going on. It all begins on March 8, 2002. That is when the first real victims are changed, other than the or...

The Catalyst – Rules

First read the prologue story for the basis of what is going on.

It all begins on March 8, 2002. That is when the first real victims are changed, other than the original 14 Catalysts. Over the first 12 hours, no one outside of a range of about 100 miles around Ann Arbor is changed. By a week later, reports of Catalysts are all over North America, and some in the rest of the world. Within the first month or so, there is no part of the world that hasn’t been touched in some way. 1 in 10 to 1 in 50 of the Catalysts victims become Catalysts themselves. Most are either avian or mammalian in form, though there are occasionally fish-like Catalysts. They change people either by a scratch or bite via a virus that changes the appearance of the victim over 3-7 days on average, depending on how sever a change they go though. (Most mammalian changes take 3, avian and aquatic take 7.) People can wind up as just about anything other than mythological creatures. All victims end up in about a 50 Human- 50 animal ratio. A Catalyst of any form can cause any sort of change, regardless of form. It is rare for people to die from this.

I stress the term Victim, which is how most are treated. Unfortunate victims, especially the catalysts themselves, who outwardly loose their minds, though they still are there. The Catalysts are strongly driven to attack people. This urge to attack overwhelms them. Eventually, a massive effort to capture all the Catalysts is under taken, but never really succeeds, especially with the professor out and about. No one really knows his involvement; he’s simply listed as another victim. Medical studies are conducted on all types of Victims, all are still capable of processing the same foods as humans and lack many instincts of the animals they resemble, though there are cases of severely affected people. Most of the bird victims can fly, usually ending up in the 6-limb bird configuration (wings out the back).

Talk:Strange Day

2007-12-08T22:00:26Z

MintzBuck: New page: Background for why the changed happened. I’m taking the parallel universe approach to this one. I know, really original. As the story goes, in another universe (Universe A), solid state...

Background for why the changed happened.

I’m taking the parallel universe approach to this one. I know, really original. As the story goes, in another universe (Universe A), solid state electronics are invented and commercialized around the turn of the twentieth century, which is much earlier than in our own universe. This lead to a huge advance in technology around that time and by the 1940s, they’re at about the same level as 2000 (in Universe 1). Before then, the histories of the two universes are exactly the same.

There is no World War 1, but there is the Great War in 1941. Chemical and biological weapons, along with nuclear are used which leads to the death of over two-thirds of the world’s population, as well as a reduced temperature, due to a large amount of debris in the air from the nuclear explosions and large scale, unmanaged fires. The remaining population bands together and decides that it’s best to try and spread people out over the entire planet in order to best utilize the remaining resources. But transportation was difficult and took long periods of time, so the quest for teleportation technology began.

The development of teleportation technology was vastly accelerated and funded much like the space program of Manhattan project. By 1956 the first working teleporters were operational in major cities, but were only really used for personal transit. The system expanded to more locations and in the scale of objects that could be transported by 1960. It was at this time that there was an accident in the teleportation system. The result was that nearly every person on Earth was combined with an animal. (No people were fused together due to the ability of the teleporters to discriminate humans from other animals and objects.) It’s well documented that many family pets and farm animals vanished during the malfunction. It affected nearly everyone because the transmission lines and teleporters were so ubiquitous. Only people far enough away or isolated in some other way were not affected.

A lot of effort was then put into a way to reverse this disaster. It proved to be much more difficult than anyone had anticipated. Though there were massive investigations, the exact cause of the malfunction and what resulted was never found. Nor was it ever really understood exactly how people ended up as functional anthropomorphic animals.

Though many possible “cures” were attempted, none of them worked, until March 12, 2007 when an experiment was conducted on an isolated and heavily modified transporter grid. The result was the majority of the participants turned into humans. The experiment was expanded, though; it did not work on every single person.

One of the main researchers had an idea as to the reason for this, but he did not share his opinion and instead turned to work on his own experiments on a totally isolated pair of teleporters. Early in the morning of September 1 he conducted another in a long line of experiments and discovered he was right. He turned back into his former self. Instead of turning the people back into humans, the cure had simply switched the bodies of the participants with those of themselves from a parallel universe. Only people who had a doppelganger could be cured or changed. He found this to be horridly unethical and would eventually bring his doppelganger to his own universe to explain this.

With all the evidence mounted and communication between the two universes established, it was determined that everyone who wanted to be returned to their human selves, in Universe 1, would be given that opportunity. The surprise factor was that some people in Universe 1 wanted to be like the people of Universe A. Development then began on a way to exchange bodies for people who did not have a doppelganger.

Gloves

2007-12-08T21:58:27Z

MintzBuck:

He drove past his house, hoping to see a box sitting on his front porch. He had been expecting a package any day now and today, it had arrived. Once again, UPS had just left the box, unattended, on his door mat. Thankfully, it was a clear day, but even if it wasn’t, the contents would not have been hurt by a little rain.

He pulled into his drive way, around the side of the house and excitedly dashed around to the front to retrieve his prize, leaving behind some things in his car, which he’d normally forget anyway. He snatched up the box and brought it inside, forgetting all about any mail in the box next to the front door of his house.

He rushed back to his bedroom, leaving the front door unlocked. A quick swipe with a key cut through the tape holding the flaps closed. Pulling back the flaps revealed a folded piece of paper that was ignored, probably just an invoice. He carefully folded the layers of tissue paper back, revealing his prize, a finely crafted pair of vinyl gloves. He gently lifted them out; they were perfect, cartoon-ish looking three fingered deer hands complete with black hoof tips. He marveled at them, feeling the smooth, brown vinyl surface. They were really more like gauntlets, made to cover the wearer’s arm almost up to the elbow. They even had valves for filling their double walls with air to further enhance their cartoonish looks.

He eased his left hand into the corresponding glove, feeling the cool vinyl against his skin. The gloves easily accommodated his hands, splitting his fingers into groups of two, to fill the two fingers. He chuckled to himself as he flexed his fingers. He pulled the valve on it open, blowing in a few times to inflate it. It was so perfect; it looked just like it was supposed to, squeaking and popping a bit as he flexed his fingers. It was difficult, but he eventually got the second glove on, blowing it up to match the first, leaving him with a set of puffy, vinyl deer hands.

He rubbed his vinyl hands together; pondering his next move, changing into something more appropriate seemed like a good idea. But that meant the gloves would have to come off, there was no way he would be able to get undressed with them on. He fumbled, trying to open the valves with his thick inflated fingers, but they wouldn’t budge, forcing him to try with his teeth, but they just wouldn’t budge, he gave up for fear of damaging them. Maybe he could just pull them off.

He grabbed at the fingers of his left hand with the right, but he noticed something strange, it looked like the glove was bigger. He held his arms together; the left was noticeably longer than the right. “What the hell?” he thought out loud. He watched, the vinyl looked like it was melting, flowing up over his arm. His eyes widened in surprise, there was no way this could be happening. He rubbed his forehead, perplexed. The glove was cool against his face, but it felt like the cold was spreading. He checked, finding the vinyl had already vanished up under his shirt sleeves.

“This can’t be happening,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. Something felt strange as he shook his head. Like there was something sticking out of his head. He reached up with a mitt, feeling for where he felt something. He jumped in sock as he felt it, sticking from his head, a hollow tub of some sort. Experimentally, he squeezed at it, he could feel it, and it was coming out of his head. In a panic, he ran to the bathroom.

His jaw hit the floor when he looked in the mirror. The entire right side of his face had changed into vinyl. The tub sticking from his head was really a sort of puffy antler, the hair was gone. His right eye was replaced with a big, painted cartoon eye. But he could still see though it. He watched in horror as the vinyl spread across his face, his ear pushing out from the side of his head, held up by an air filled pocket a long the top, the rest was just a loose piece of vinyl, white on the inside, brown on the outside. His gaze was fixed on the mirror as he watched it spread over his nose, his face swelling out as it spread. The puffy skin turned back around the end of his nose, it pushed out, straining to try and go further. He felt it flow across his lips and into his mouth, his teeth pulling into his soft, vinyl pallet. As it crossed his face, there was a sudden snap, like someone squeezing on a balloon and letting it go as his face poofed out into a rounded over muzzle.

The vinyl was spreading further, unknowingly, over his body, under his shirt. The strange change to his head was too distracting for him to even check. It wasn’t until he could feel his expanding body strain against his clothing that he noticed. His body had filled out, straining against the buttons of his shirt, a very rounded looking shape underneath it. He could see white under where his shirt had pulled back, there was even a large valve poking out where his belly button should have been. He tried to unbutton them, but his thick fingers were no use as they started popping off, along with his pants. He froze, watching his body fill in, his arms sprung into place, elbows at his sides, arms out, as if to hug someone.

The seams of his pants ripped and tore as his hips filled in. Something made him bend over suddenly. It was something about the shape of his body; he could feel his vinyl skin push back as he stood up. It was like he was made to be in a pose, then he noticed the position of his arms. He found he could still move them, but instead of hanging at his sides, they always sprang back into the same pose. In back, he could feel something inflate behind him, pushing out through the tore seams. He could only speculate, but he was sure it was a tail. He wiggled out of what was left of his shirt; his pants fell down, revealing the last of his human flesh being quickly over taken by more brown vinyl.

He had completely forgotten about his shoes until he felt his feet puffing up, straining against the leather and laces. Desperately, he tried to kick them off, but he wasn’t strong enough. Soon enough, the sound of ripping leather filled the bathroom.

He stepped free from his clothes, examining his body. He had seems running over his skin exactly were they’re be expected, as if he was pieced together like the gloves that did this to him. He even still had the valves on his fore arms from the gloves. Further examination led to him finding a warning, in several languages, about how he was not a flotation device, and a rather large tag hanging from his left ear. It read: “MintzBuck/Inflatable Deer Pool Toy/Hand Wash/Store Deflated When Not In Use.” “Deflated? Is that for real?” He eyed the large valve on his belly, not wanting to think about it.

[[Category:Story]][[Category:MintzBuck]]

Gloves

2007-12-08T21:57:36Z

MintzBuck: New page: He drove past his house, hoping to see a box sitting on his front porch. He had been expecting a package any day now and today, it had arrived. Once again, UPS had just left the box, unatt...

Flight to Nowhere

2007-12-08T21:56:31Z

MintzBuck:

How am I going to do this? How am I supposed to explain this? I mean, I don’t look a thing like my passport photo. The only time I’ve even been through customs at an airport was a scant six days ago when I was entering Japan. Oh, and I actually looked like myself; my old self anyway.

Everyone ahead of me seems to be getting through pretty easily; of course they’re all US citizens, like me. I’m far back in the line thanks to being in the back of the plane. They are definitely looking at the photos; this certainly doesn’t bode well for me. Maybe they’ll be so bored by they time I get up there they won’t care. They must have some kind of procedure for dealing with this sort of thing, this can’t be the first time it happened. Can it?

I’m so nervous, I can’t help myself. I feel like running away; that’s what the voice in the back of my head is telling me. I know I can’t though; it would only get me into more trouble. I can only figure this is part of being a SCAB though. My ears are flicking around like mad, the new tail on my back is lifting up a bit, and I'm trying to fight it. I keep trying to bite my nails, but you can’t really do that when you have hooves tipping your fingers. I try to breathe deeply to calm my nerves: in through your nose, out through your mouth. Damn it, this isn’t helping. All it’s doing is forcing more scents into my nose and my brain can’t handle it. The unconscious nose licks don’t help either, it just brings more out. I’m trying to identify all the scents, there are so many I don’t know or are familiar but I just can’t place.

I have no idea how long I’ve been waiting here, suddenly my ears flick forward to the sound of a loud buzzer. My head flicks over toward it. It’s just the baggage carrousel starting up, but the noise sends my heart racing and tail rising. God, how am I supposed to calm myself down? I guess I’ll learn, but not in the short time I have before I have to deal with immigration. Time is quickly slipping away for me as I'm next, taking my place on the red stripe of carpet showing where to stop. I look around nervously, still trying to bite my nails; I’m the last one in line. Even some of the immigration agents have left. My heart pounds in my chest, legs tense. I want to run, it would relieve the tension in my legs, I know it, but there’s an air of unfamiliarly too. I don’t know this place, where would I even go?

The immigration official looks up after letting the person ahead of me go. I gulp, trying to swallow my heart and return it to where it’s supposed to be, which is still pretty close to where it was just a few hours ago. He gives me a bit of a sneer and waves me up. “Next.”

I step up, handing my passport over, my strangely shaped hand shaking. He takes it from me swiftly, pulling it away and flipping the tiny book open and scanning it into the computer. I look at the floor, not knowing what to do. I want to get out of here, get this over with and get home. I can see the people grabbing their luggage to my left, waiting around for it to come down, my ears flick at the occasional announcement that comes over the PA. It feels like forever.

“Mr. Minter, if that is your name,” his tone of voice reveals the sneer on his face before I look up and see it for myself. I’m shaking hard. “This picture doesn’t match your appearance, care to explain that.”

I swallow hard, trying to get my heart back down as I try to figure out what to say. “Well, when I was in Japan I got sick. I changed on the plane.”

“Why is it that I don’t believe you? Care to explain to me exactly how you got this passport?”

“Well, I was carrying it with me when I went to Japan and I…well, I couldn’t really get a new one on the plane.” I feel different now, there’s some other hormones flooding my system. I rest my hands on the counter, this is a different feeling. I’m not afraid anymore, I’m mad.

He leans forward, looking right into my eyes. “You can certainly do a fine American accent, especially for a SCAB, but there is no way I’m letting you into this country. You’ve obviously stolen this passport or bought it from someone. If you try to explain your way out of this, go ahead, but I’m going to give you the chance to admit to it and go peacefully.”

I tense up, not wanting to run. I snort, pawing at the floor with a hoof. I have antlers and this guy seems to want a face full of them. “Listen man, I changed on the plane, why else would I be wearing clothes that don’t fit me and have a suit case full of more clothes that don’t fit me? Why would I go through a boarder crossing in an airport with a passport that doesn’t match my face unless I had no other choice? This day has been long and hard enough already, please, just let me get home and get things sorted out, okay?”

He stands up, getting in my face. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down, or I will call security over.” He leans in closer, as if I can’t hear him, “All you SCABs are the same, scum, and you’re just trying to get into the US from whatever hell hole you crawled out of so they won’t kill you there. Trust me buddy, it’s only a matter of time before your kind gets locked up here too. Hell, I’d be proud to have that freaky head of yours hanging on my wall as a trophy.”

I can feel my neck throbbing. I know I can take him, he’s smaller than me and he has no antlers to speak of. At the same time, I’m doing my best to keep myself from lunging forward at him. This is crazy: I need to control myself, I’m not an animal, or am I?

“Is there a problem here?” An unfamiliar voice breaks the tension before I can do anything stupid. I have no idea how I didn’t manage to see someone coming. The guy who has been hassling me seems to sigh or shudder, he must know this person. We both look over and see another SCAB. He’s a very human looking feline of some description. Then it strikes me that he’s wearing the same uniform as my tormentor.

“What is it…sir?” He’s definitely not pleased by this turn of events.

“I’d suggest you let this young man through before you create more problems than you can fix.”

“Don’t worry, I have it under control.”

“It doesn’t look or sound like you do.”

“This fre--traveler here is trying to get into the US with a stolen passport.”

“How do you know it’s stolen?”

“Well, for starters, the picture is different than how he looks. He tried to give me some BS about getting sick and changing to that on the plane.”

I manage to nod as the irate immigration officer glares at me. My brain is slowly returning to my control as the flood of hormones subsides. I can’t help but think that this guy was only treating me badly because I’m a SCAB. I quickly realize just how obvious that was.

“How do you know he’s lying?”

“Why should I believe him?”

“Well, if you would ask someone else instead of assume that he was lying, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we? You also might want to think twice about making someone angry who’s been an animal, with antlers and -- at this time of year -- raging hormones, for all of four hours. I only stepped in because he looked like he was about ready to kill you.” The SCAB supervisor is obviously onto this guy. He must have been working one of the other lines.

My tormentor looks at me again after hearing this. I’m a bit taken aback by it too. I can only imagine what it looked liked, from the outside. I really was close to losing control. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if I had.

“So you’re saying you know something that I don’t know?”

“I probably know a lot of things you don’t know. And I already heard from some of the passengers and flight crew what happened to him. I guess it’s a good idea I was keeping an eye on him.”

The highly frustrated boarder agent mumbles something incomprehensible as he gives in, going through the standard lines of questioning, and finally handing my passport back over to me. His desire to hold himself above us must have given into his sense of self preservation, especially as far as his job was concerned. For some reason, I have a feeling this incident will be used to further fan the flames of hatred toward SCABs, after being distorted and corrupted for maximum effect. I awkwardly take the small booklet back and walk away.

My rescuer helps me with my carry-ons, putting them on a luggage cart for me as he leads me over to the carousels.

“See your bags?”

I watch the bags go around on the slanted conveyors. “Here it is.” I reach and clumsily grab the handle on my large bag. Once I get a grip on it, I easily lift it up and onto the cart. As I let go of the handle and look down at my hand, something strikes me, it hadn’t really sunken in yet. I’m overwhelmed again, but this time in my own thought and emotion, the animal subsided enough to finally let it back through. My knees weaken and I slump against the side of the carousel. Immediately my elbows go on my knees and my muzzle in my hands. I hadn’t had time to think before, just react. On the plane, at immigration, they all seemed like automatic responses, a blur of actions, now I’m forced to think, but I don’t want to.

I can’t help but cry in the nearly deserted baggage claim area. Everyone else has moved on through customs and on to other flights or their car. I’m here, left to ponder what has just happened, and what will happen. How am I supposed to deal with this?

My savior crouches next to me, patting my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, you’ll be okay. Trust me, I know.”

I sniffle, loudly, and look up at him through my bleary eyes. “I hope so. I just…don’t know what to do or what to think. I don’t even know if I was thinking.”

“There are a lot of things you’re going to have to deal with, mostly internal, but you will be fine. And keep in mind, it could be worse.”

I wipe my eyes; their new locations are quickly becoming familiar to me. “You’re right; I just want to get out of here.” He nods and takes my hand, helping me back up to my feet or hooves or whatever they are now.

“I need to get back to work,” he tells me as he takes out a business card and writes something on it. “I’m Dave, by the way.” We shake hands as he hands me the card, which I immediately look over. It’s for a bar in the metro area, The Wolf Head Saloon. I’m not sure how I feel about wolf being in the name of the place.

“I’m Adam.”

“Nice to meet you, Adam. If you need anything, don’t be afraid to call. That place, it’s a good hang out for SCABs, feel free to stop by sometime. And don’t worry about the wolves, most of them don’t bite. Besides, you could probably use a drink or three after what’s happened to you.” He grins, showing off his rather long canines. I just kind of stare blankly back as he pats my shoulder and heads back to immigration office.

I just stand there a second, reflecting on what just happened. I really do want to go home, that means a trip through customs and back to my car. Customs isn’t nearly as eventful. They simply ask about declarations and what not, I’ve crossed borders enough to know how to get through, at least for things that don’t require ID.

As I walk out through the doors and into the international arrivals area, one more benefit of being the last one through becomes apparent to me, there’s hardly anyone in the waiting area. A quick look at my watch tells me it’s taken me nearly two and a half hours to get this far; thank god I don’t live that far away. I still need to ride back to the parking lot. It’s not as if the airport doesn’t have enough parking, my company would just rather we not spend a small fortune on keeping a car at the airport, which means off site lots.

But first, I really need to find a restroom. The finding part is easy because I definitely recognize those smells; it’s the using that proves to be the difficult aspect. It’s pretty obvious that certain parts of me are built more for an animal that’s got four legs, not two. I do manage, and feel a lot better for it. This is definitely something that’s going to take some getting used to.

*****

The small bus back to the lot is already half full of TSA officers talking amongst themselves. They seem to barely notice me, too engaged in their own conversation or simply blind to anything different. It’s a relief to think about not being stared at, I can only imagine how much that’s going to be happening to me in the near future. I’m trying my best not to think about it.

The small bus bounces as it takes us back to the lot. It’s really hot, which seems odd to me, because there isn’t much noise from the heater. Then I remember my fur. That and the combination of the nervousness that just isn’t going away seem to be boiling me in my own skin. Familiar sights pass by outside the tinted windows; I turn to concentrating on them. Everything seems the same, but different all at the same time. The world is a different place when you don’t have to view it in pan and scan.

Eventually I’m let off by my car. The driver carries my bag out for me. This is nothing new; they do it all the time. I load up my car and take stock of my current situation. My pants are really starting to get uncomfortable; they simply don’t fit over my body properly, not to mention there’s not a spot for my tail. Heh, a tail, that’s an odd concept to me as I think about it. I wonder how I managed not to crush it when sitting on the bus. I’m not exactly sure how driving is going to work. I still know how to drive; I’m just not sure if I can fit into my car.

I reach around the handle on the driver’s door and give it a tug. Thankfully, the smart lock system is still doing its job, unaffected by my new body. Upon opening the door, I realize just how close the jerk parked next to me; I can barely open the door enough to get through. In earnest I snake my way in, but something holds me back as I’m almost through. Shit, antlers…I forgot about those. I try to turn my head, being careful not to scratch my car, but they’re too big to fit through the opening. It’s worse getting back out, with my lack of understanding of how my legs bend now.

After a quick inspection of the scene I decide the passenger side of the car will give me enough room, or so I hope. The door can swing open far more, but I gauge the opening with my antlers before I make another attempt at this. Good, plenty of room. Going in head first seems like a better a solution to this, less having to think about getting my rack in the door. Unfortunately, getting my butt in the seat isn’t exactly easy either, as I take up a good amount more space vertically now. Eventually, I do fit myself in, but that leads to the next important step, getting into the driver’s seat.

I can’t help but think this is like one of those cheap little puzzles. Somehow, they managed to get two pieces of bent wire together into some impossible form, yet they can be taken apart and put back together, you just need to know the trick. I was never very good at those. The simplest solution seems to be legs first. This is where having a rear wheel drive car with a generously sized center console hurts. I lay back across the passenger seat, my antlers now sticking out of the door opening as I slide across the arm rest storage bin. I wince as my tail catches against it, dragging along the textured rubber.

Eventually, I get my butt in the seat, being careful to close the passenger door as I go. Unfortunately, I can’t really sit up straight. Mostly, I just don’t want to damage the headliner. I recline the seat some so I don’t have to lean over the console. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’ll do. I’m certainly glad I’m not a moose. The car roars to life from its week of dormancy with a press of the start button and I head on my way, paying for the parking with cash to avoid any further issues with ID and because I’m not sure I could sign my name.

Driving makes me feel normal, it helps me shut out what just happened. That and the blaring music, which isn’t really much above where I used to keep the volume. The side mirrors seem a bit strange to me, I can clearly see the reflections in them as well as the actual scene.

At least the drive has been a nonevent, familiar roads with familiar sights and familiar drivers. I’m relieved when I see my house and I pull into the driveway. I hope my cats are okay, a friend’s been watching them, but I can only imagine what they’ll think when they see me. I consider leaving my bags in the car, but that just means I’ll have to get them later, so they come along.

The upper part of the screen door wobbles as I open it up; I still need to replace the stupid thing. I reach into my pocket and fumble around with my keys. The small pieces of cut metal easily slip off my hoof-tipped digits as I sort through them in search of the correct one. I eventually find it and carefully grab it, managing to get the door unlocked and opened.

The waft of air that comes out the door carries familiar smells with it. I don’t know how, but something in my head knows it's home. Kirin and Sapporo are already waiting in their usual spots; they obviously heard me unlocking the door.

“Hey guys, miss me?” Oddly, they don’t seem too thrown off by my new look as I haul my luggage into the house and close the door. They act just like they always do when I get home from a trip, starved for attention. I crouch down, a bit unsteadily on the laminate floors, and give Sappy a good ear rubbing. He starts purring loudly, happy to have his human, or close enough to it, back. Kirin seems a bit more apprehensive, though. She’s always far more cautious, her feline brain doesn’t seem to quite be able to comprehend what’s going on. Eventually, she finds something fun to play with, the fuzzy tail hanging from my back side.

“Ack! Knock it off, Kiri!” She doesn’t seem to care too much; I just shrug and try swishing my tail a bit for her. Oddly, it seems to work pretty well, it’s good to know I have some control over it, and she definitely appreciates it. Looks like daddy brought home a new toy. Fortunately, Sappy is too distracted to join in the fun.

After a good session of giving the cats attention, I figure it’s time to get out of these clothes. Before heading to my bedroom, I grab a beer out of the refrigerator, which smells incredibly strange to me, the mix of all the smells is a bit over powering and it definitely needs to be cleaned out. I have to grab the bottle a bit tightly so it doesn’t slide out of my hand, hooves and fur don’t make for a lot of grip. Though the cap is twist off, I grab the magnetic bottle opener off the refrigerator door and pop the top off, resulting in a satisfying hiss as the carbon dioxide escapes. The smell is far more intense than I realized it would be, further enhanced by a lick of my nose. It’s a strange feeling as my brain works to unscramble the complex mix of scents. I guess I would make a really good wine tester now.

I take a sip, puckering my thick lips around the top of the bottle and head back to my bedroom. I glance back into the bathroom as I pass, catching my reflection in the mirror. At first, something yells out “rival” in my brain before the more human side squashes that idea down.

I pull off my pants and underwear first; ignoring the mirror attached to my dresser. Those have been bothering me the most and I don’t look forward to unbuttoning my shirt. My shoes and socks are long gone, torn to shreds as I changed on the plane. I get the first real look at my fur covered, ungulate legs. It’s a bit disconcerting, they’re attached to me, but they don’t really seem like they’re my legs. After all, my legs are supposed to be pale and hairy, not furry and brown. It feels nice to sit on something without a back as I rest on my bed, tail lying out behind me.

My attention then turns toward my shirt, six buttons, plus two on the cuffs. I’m really dreading this. Clumsily, I try for the bottom button. I have to cock my head so I can get a better look at it; my new muzzle blocks most of my forward vision. My hands already, sort of, know what to do, but it’s not working exactly like it used to, especially since they’re missing a digit. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem to be nearly as difficult as I imagined it would be. Maybe buttoning up a shirt will go the same way, but I doubt it as I make quick work of getting the shirt off. I look down over the thick white fur covering my chest and belly. I can’t help but touch it, I can’t really feel the thick fur through my fingers. What I can feel is the oddly good sensation of having the fur on my body rubbed.

Suddenly, I hear something loud; my ears flick over, followed by my head and I find myself looking at my pants. It takes me a second to beat back the part of me that wants to run, it’s almost like I’m telling myself it’s nothing. Though, I already know what it is. My mom must be calling me, since I haven’t called her yet. There’s that wanting to run feeling coming back and actually seems like a good idea.

Clumsily, I reach for the phone vibrating away in my pants. The screen on the outside confirms my suspicions as I open it up.

“Hello.” My hand’s already shaking.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“I saw that.” I say that every time I answer the phone but that’s never sunken in.

“I was just wondering why you hadn’t called yet.”

“Umm…well, something kind of came up and I was a bit distracted.” I glance around the room, but my ears are fixed on the phone. There’s a sense of danger in me and it knows where it’s coming from. However, another lick of my nose reveals nothing more about the threat.

“How was the flight back?”

I pause for a second, trying to come up with a good way to formulate this. “Well, it was okay until the last couple of hours. I got sick while I was over there.”

“I was going to say, your voice sounds kind of off. Did you throw up on the plane or something?”

“Umm…no.” My heart’s racing and my hands shake as I know I can’t avoid saying something, but I have no clue how to say it. My tail is half raised as a sign of caution, moving beyond my control. I pause, chewing on my finger, more afraid of how my parents are going to take this than anything.

“Well, then what is it?” She’s a bit annoyed as I dodge her questions.

I just close my eyes and blurt it out: “I’m a deer.”

“What?”

I spend the next half an hour or so describing the events of the last few hours and exactly what it is I am now. It’s not very pleasant for me and something tells me that I’m going to have to relive it many more times. She doesn’t seem to be taking the news too badly; I can only guess how my father will react. His view on SCABs has never been as obvious to me as my mom’s seemingly live and let live attitude. At least the cats come to join me and lend me a bit of support.

“Well, what about work?”

“What about it?”

“Aren’t you worried they’ll fire you or something?”

“Not really. It’s not like they can’t fire me for becoming a SCAB. I’m going to try and get Monday off so I can get a new driver’s license and stuff.”

“Well, alright. Do you want us to come up there tomorrow?”

“I don’t know; I kind of want to sort some things out first.” Rubbing Sappy’s belly is a nice distraction from having to think much about this.

“Alright, I think your father has to work tomorrow anyway.”

“Okay.” I hope this doesn’t go on much longer.

“Well, is there anything else?”

“Not really, I’m pretty tired though.”

“Fine, then I guess I’ll let you go.”

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

I snap the phone shut as she’s finishing and toss it to my side on the bed as I lay back, staring at the ceiling. My eyes drift shut from exhaustion, it’s night time in Japan now anyway, and I have no clue how long I’ve been awake. Soon enough I’m asleep.

----

I can feel something warm and heavy on my chest, another warm spot against my leg as I slowly return to consciousness. I hold my eyes closed for a bit, thinking to myself that it all was just a dream, but a numb sensation on my rear tells me otherwise. It can only be one thing, the tail I fell asleep on several hours ago.

As I lift my head, the cats begin their overdrawn process of waking up, stretching and pawing at me and my bed. I can see them well, despite the fact that the lights are off in the room and it seems to be nighttime. Once I’m allowed to sit up, I pull my limp tail from under me; it’s already starting to get the pins and needles sensation as it’s freed. My head is another issue; I must have sat up too quickly because I feel kind of dizzy.

I slide off the bed, hooves clicking against the flooring. The lack of friction causes me to slip a little, but I catch myself. It’s hard to think about compensating for that, especially since I’m still groggy from my nap.

I make my way to my study, picking up my discarded clothing as I go, pulling out my wallet and keys, along with a business card I had almost forgotten about. I boot up my computer and plop down in the chair, flicking my tail out of the way so I don’t crush it, again. The Wolf Head Saloon, the address is actually not far from my house. I sure could use a drink, or ten, but then again, I hate going out to bars and paying so much for alcohol.

I jump out of my chair and practically fall on my face as the start up sound blares over the computer’s speaks. Too often I forget to turn them down after I’m done listening to music. There goes my heart racing again. “Damn it, this is really starting to get annoying." I regain my composure and sit back in the chair, a bit embarrassed for myself.

I check my email and some other things. Fortunately, I’d been keeping up with things while I was in Japan, so there’s not much to look through. I hesitate, thinking about logging into any instant messaging services, but I don’t. This needs to settle in more before I want to talk to any of my friends about it. That and I’m not too confident in typing with hooves. The cats take their turns fighting over my lap and playing bat at the tail as I scan through web pages. I do keep finding myself turning my head to be able to see the whole screen, with my muzzle always in the way.

It’s nine o’clock; I don’t know where the time went. I look up the bar’s address, it’s right where I thought it was. It’s funny how you can go past some place and never realize just what it is. It always just looked like any other bar to me.

I get up and head back to my bedroom, if I’m going, I certainly can’t go nude. Well, I could, sort of, I just don’t want to. It just doesn’t seem right to. Instead, I head to the basement to grab the only pair of sharp scissors I have. My shorts are going to need a bit of modifying before I can wear them comfortably.

My hooves easily grip on the carpeted stairs, letting me feel very sure footed. Near the bottom, I hear a cracking sound and find my head won’t go any further forward and I’m soon greeted by a plume of white powder in my face. Right, antlers, forgot about those. I duck my head and move on, making sure to be extra careful, I hope the damage to the drywall isn’t too bad.

----

Back in my bedroom I assess the situation, trying to figure out just where that tail comes out and where the hole needs to go in the jean shorts. I think both back pockets are going to be sacrificed, not that I ever used them anyway. At least the shorts fit okay over my hips and rump and I don’t have to worry about the special needs of ungulate legs when it comes to pants. I slip my fingers into the scissors and cut the back open, being careful not to injure myself. It’s quite difficult to control them with my thicker fingers not quite fitting into the scissors right. After several times coming on and off I manage to get the fit right. They aren’t pretty, but they work.

A shirt is another matter. No t-shirts or polo shirts for me anymore, except maybe after I drop my antlers. Good thing I have a lot of camp and bowling shirts. I grab one of my favorites from the closet and proceed to unbutton it, all the way. Normally, I would have just pulled it on, over my head. Add this one to the list of little inconveniences. It fits over my body alright, even when I pull it closed. I make a mental note: “need new pants, shirts are okay.”

My gaze passes down the front of the shirt; I angle my head to get a better view of the daunting task ahead of me. Buttons, six of them mocking my new found lack of dexterity. Like before, I start at the bottom and work my way up. But unlike before, things aren’t going so well. It takes me a few minutes and a bit of cursing to get the first one done. This is certainly not going to be easy, but maybe I’ll get better at it. As I work my way up, I wonder how hard it would be to replace the buttons with Velcro. The top button is almost as hard as the first, mostly because I can’t get a good view of what I’m doing. A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s been almost an hour since I started working on my shorts. I really don’t want to think what percentage of that time was spent on buttoning my shirt.

I load up my pockets and head for the door. I stop a second by the bathroom. I should probably brush my teeth. It’s one of those things that’s just ingrained in you as one of conventions of society and the usual daily routine. That and a healthy dose of anal retentiveness lead me in.

The usual start up procedure goes on, basically, as it always has. I’m trying to ignore my own reflection, like I did in the bedroom. There’s part of me that just doesn’t want to confront what happened, but I think there’s also something in there that doesn’t want to confront the other buck. I pause, toothbrush at the ready, glass of water filled, standing by to perform their intended tasks. But instead, I stare right at my reflection.

That is me, isn’t it? I lean in closer, studying all the details: the wet black nose, the large horizontal stilted eyes which look pretty strange in blue, the large fuzzy ears, and the bumpy antler bases. It’s surreal and fascinating, all the things that seemed so familiar, that had been virtually the same for over a quarter of a century, now completely and permanently changed. But there’s also something even stranger, in a sense, I still look like me. I don’t know how, maybe it’s the expression, maybe it’s in my eyes, or the general shape of things, but I still see the old me in there. I swear I can even see signs of where I had scars, like the one above my right eye. I can only speculate if anyone else will see the same things as I do.

I take a moment to look inside my mouth; it seems like a good idea, because I don’t really have a good sense of it. The near total lack of upper incisors is a bit disturbing along with the total lack of canines. At least I still have something in my wide, flat pallet, as opposed to actual deer, who have nothing. My mouth definitely houses the teeth of a plant eater, and a large tongue. I can only speculate on what things that might be useful for, besides licking my nose.

With a better understanding of my oral equipment, I turn back to tools made to clean it. Well, made to clean a human mouth and fit in the hand of a human. The toothbrush’s handle is tragically thin, making it difficult for me to get a good grip on it. This further complicates things when trying to get all the way into the back of my mouth, which is significantly deeper than it once was. It’s not a horrible experience, until I rinse out my mouth and end up spilling half the glass on myself. Apparently, I don’t have a sense of how far back my mouth opens now either. I towel myself off and determine that I will be getting a blow drier sometime in the near future.

----

And thus, I am finally on my way. I tell the cats to behave themselves, even though I know they won’t. I grab my jacket and put it on, not really thinking about it. I guess I don’t need it, but I’m sure I still look cool in black leather, too bad I can’t wear my sunglasses to go along with it. I can’t help but think I forgot something. A hat, I always wear baseball hats, but antlers and a decided lack of a forehead rule that out as an option. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it, figuring I can get something at the bar. I head out the door and back to my car, which is easier to get into, but still not particularly comfortable to drive. I back out, a bit apprehensive of what lies ahead, but I’d rather go out than sit around all night.

----

The outside of the bar is rather unassuming. It looks like just about any other bar and grill-type place you find in the suburbs of an industrial city. The only indication of anything different about the patrons is the name, but even then it’s no definite indicator of that fact that this is a SCAB bar. To my nose though, there is a clear indication that this isn’t any old bar. There’s a definite mix of animal smells permeating into the parking lot, along with the smell of alcohol. I can’t help myself as I lick my nose which just makes all the smells that much more intense.

I find myself approaching the door cautiously; taking deliberate steps, tail raised half way. The smell of food is definitely coming from this place too, and it makes my stomach rumble again. I press on, biting my lower lip nervously as I open the door, which seems a bit higher than a normal door, and head inside.

No one seems to really notice me as I go inside, they’re all busy in conversation, eating, or playing games. All the smells almost send me running back out, but I fight it. I try to bite at my nails, again, as I scan the room. No two people seem to be the same, there’s certainly a wide variety of species and levels of change. I had no idea it was like that with SCABs.

“Adam!” I nearly dash away as a somewhat familiar face greets me. “Glad to see you made it. Here, come have a seat.” He pats my shoulder leading me up to the bar. “I didn’t scare ya, did I?”

“A little bit.” I can feel my ears getting hot, blushing under the thick winter fur.

Dave sits me next to a wolf and takes the seat on the other side of me. Great, stuck between two predators. I lick my nose, heart pounding as the wolf turns to me. “You must be Adam, nice to meet you. You can call me Jim.” He holds out his paw, I only manage to stare back. Then the realization hits me that he’s not a wolf, but a husky.

“Oh, ah…nice to meet you too.” Shaking his paw, I could smell him as a preditor, but there was an even more powerful sense of friendliness and an excited dog meeting a new person; after all, huskies are known to be friendly.

I turn to see a wolfish bartender set a drink down in front of me. I can tell I’m getting use to this whole experience, because I’m not as scared as I expected myself to be.

“Go ahead; everyone does it there first time”

I stare at the small glass filled with red liquid, flicking it with a finger.

“Go on man, it’s not going to kill you.”

Reluctantly, I pick it up, trying not to smell it. Back goes my head and down goes the shot. I feel the thick liquid burn down my long mouth as I try to get it down in one gulp. The smell of alcohol fills my nose from the back forward as I take a breath.

Before I even have time to put the shot glass down I feel a hand slap my back: “Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life Adam.”

[[Category:Story]][[Category:MintzBuck]][[Category:Tales from the Blind Pig]]

Flight to Nowhere

2007-12-08T21:53:35Z

MintzBuck: New page: How am I going to do this? How am I supposed to explain this? I mean, I don’t look a thing like my passport photo. The only time I’ve even been through customs at an airport was a scan...

How am I going to do this? How am I supposed to explain this? I mean, I don’t look a thing like my passport photo. The only time I’ve even been through customs at an airport was a scant six days ago when I was entering Japan. Oh, and I actually looked like myself; my old self anyway.

Everyone ahead of me seems to be getting through pretty easily; of course they’re all US citizens, like me. I’m far back in the line thanks to being in the back of the plane. They are definitely looking at the photos; this certainly doesn’t bode well for me. Maybe they’ll be so bored by they time I get up there they won’t care. They must have some kind of procedure for dealing with this sort of thing, this can’t be the first time it happened. Can it?

I’m so nervous, I can’t help myself. I feel like running away; that’s what the voice in the back of my head is telling me. I know I can’t though; it would only get me into more trouble. I can only figure this is part of being a SCAB though. My ears are flicking around like mad, the new tail on my back is lifting up a bit, and I'm trying to fight it. I keep trying to bite my nails, but you can’t really do that when you have hooves tipping your fingers. I try to breathe deeply to calm my nerves: in through your nose, out through your mouth. Damn it, this isn’t helping. All it’s doing is forcing more scents into my nose and my brain can’t handle it. The unconscious nose licks don’t help either, it just brings more out. I’m trying to identify all the scents, there are so many I don’t know or are familiar but I just can’t place.

I have no idea how long I’ve been waiting here, suddenly my ears flick forward to the sound of a loud buzzer. My head flicks over toward it. It’s just the baggage carrousel starting up, but the noise sends my heart racing and tail rising. God, how am I supposed to calm myself down? I guess I’ll learn, but not in the short time I have before I have to deal with immigration. Time is quickly slipping away for me as I'm next, taking my place on the red stripe of carpet showing where to stop. I look around nervously, still trying to bite my nails; I’m the last one in line. Even some of the immigration agents have left. My heart pounds in my chest, legs tense. I want to run, it would relieve the tension in my legs, I know it, but there’s an air of unfamiliarly too. I don’t know this place, where would I even go?

The immigration official looks up after letting the person ahead of me go. I gulp, trying to swallow my heart and return it to where it’s supposed to be, which is still pretty close to where it was just a few hours ago. He gives me a bit of a sneer and waves me up. “Next.”

I step up, handing my passport over, my strangely shaped hand shaking. He takes it from me swiftly, pulling it away and flipping the tiny book open and scanning it into the computer. I look at the floor, not knowing what to do. I want to get out of here, get this over with and get home. I can see the people grabbing their luggage to my left, waiting around for it to come down, my ears flick at the occasional announcement that comes over the PA. It feels like forever.

“Mr. Minter, if that is your name,” his tone of voice reveals the sneer on his face before I look up and see it for myself. I’m shaking hard. “This picture doesn’t match your appearance, care to explain that.”

I swallow hard, trying to get my heart back down as I try to figure out what to say. “Well, when I was in Japan I got sick. I changed on the plane.”

“Why is it that I don’t believe you? Care to explain to me exactly how you got this passport?”

“Well, I was carrying it with me when I went to Japan and I…well, I couldn’t really get a new one on the plane.” I feel different now, there’s some other hormones flooding my system. I rest my hands on the counter, this is a different feeling. I’m not afraid anymore, I’m mad.

He leans forward, looking right into my eyes. “You can certainly do a fine American accent, especially for a SCAB, but there is no way I’m letting you into this country. You’ve obviously stolen this passport or bought it from someone. If you try to explain your way out of this, go ahead, but I’m going to give you the chance to admit to it and go peacefully.”

I tense up, not wanting to run. I snort, pawing at the floor with a hoof. I have antlers and this guy seems to want a face full of them. “Listen man, I changed on the plane, why else would I be wearing clothes that don’t fit me and have a suit case full of more clothes that don’t fit me? Why would I go through a boarder crossing in an airport with a passport that doesn’t match my face unless I had no other choice? This day has been long and hard enough already, please, just let me get home and get things sorted out, okay?”

He stands up, getting in my face. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down, or I will call security over.” He leans in closer, as if I can’t hear him, “All you SCABs are the same, scum, and you’re just trying to get into the US from whatever hell hole you crawled out of so they won’t kill you there. Trust me buddy, it’s only a matter of time before your kind gets locked up here too. Hell, I’d be proud to have that freaky head of yours hanging on my wall as a trophy.”

I can feel my neck throbbing. I know I can take him, he’s smaller than me and he has no antlers to speak of. At the same time, I’m doing my best to keep myself from lunging forward at him. This is crazy: I need to control myself, I’m not an animal, or am I?

“Is there a problem here?” An unfamiliar voice breaks the tension before I can do anything stupid. I have no idea how I didn’t manage to see someone coming. The guy who has been hassling me seems to sigh or shudder, he must know this person. We both look over and see another SCAB. He’s a very human looking feline of some description. Then it strikes me that he’s wearing the same uniform as my tormentor.

“What is it…sir?” He’s definitely not pleased by this turn of events.

“I’d suggest you let this young man through before you create more problems than you can fix.”

“Don’t worry, I have it under control.”

“It doesn’t look or sound like you do.”

“This fre--traveler here is trying to get into the US with a stolen passport.”

“How do you know it’s stolen?”

“Well, for starters, the picture is different than how he looks. He tried to give me some BS about getting sick and changing to that on the plane.”

I manage to nod as the irate immigration officer glares at me. My brain is slowly returning to my control as the flood of hormones subsides. I can’t help but think that this guy was only treating me badly because I’m a SCAB. I quickly realize just how obvious that was.

“How do you know he’s lying?”

“Why should I believe him?”

“Well, if you would ask someone else instead of assume that he was lying, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we? You also might want to think twice about making someone angry who’s been an animal, with antlers and -- at this time of year -- raging hormones, for all of four hours. I only stepped in because he looked like he was about ready to kill you.” The SCAB supervisor is obviously onto this guy. He must have been working one of the other lines.

My tormentor looks at me again after hearing this. I’m a bit taken aback by it too. I can only imagine what it looked liked, from the outside. I really was close to losing control. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if I had.

“So you’re saying you know something that I don’t know?”

“I probably know a lot of things you don’t know. And I already heard from some of the passengers and flight crew what happened to him. I guess it’s a good idea I was keeping an eye on him.”

The highly frustrated boarder agent mumbles something incomprehensible as he gives in, going through the standard lines of questioning, and finally handing my passport back over to me. His desire to hold himself above us must have given into his sense of self preservation, especially as far as his job was concerned. For some reason, I have a feeling this incident will be used to further fan the flames of hatred toward SCABs, after being distorted and corrupted for maximum effect. I awkwardly take the small booklet back and walk away.

My rescuer helps me with my carry-ons, putting them on a luggage cart for me as he leads me over to the carousels.

“See your bags?”

I watch the bags go around on the slanted conveyors. “Here it is.” I reach and clumsily grab the handle on my large bag. Once I get a grip on it, I easily lift it up and onto the cart. As I let go of the handle and look down at my hand, something strikes me, it hadn’t really sunken in yet. I’m overwhelmed again, but this time in my own thought and emotion, the animal subsided enough to finally let it back through. My knees weaken and I slump against the side of the carousel. Immediately my elbows go on my knees and my muzzle in my hands. I hadn’t had time to think before, just react. On the plane, at immigration, they all seemed like automatic responses, a blur of actions, now I’m forced to think, but I don’t want to.

I can’t help but cry in the nearly deserted baggage claim area. Everyone else has moved on through customs and on to other flights or their car. I’m here, left to ponder what has just happened, and what will happen. How am I supposed to deal with this?

My savior crouches next to me, patting my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, you’ll be okay. Trust me, I know.”

I sniffle, loudly, and look up at him through my bleary eyes. “I hope so. I just…don’t know what to do or what to think. I don’t even know if I was thinking.”

“There are a lot of things you’re going to have to deal with, mostly internal, but you will be fine. And keep in mind, it could be worse.”

I wipe my eyes; their new locations are quickly becoming familiar to me. “You’re right; I just want to get out of here.” He nods and takes my hand, helping me back up to my feet or hooves or whatever they are now.

“I need to get back to work,” he tells me as he takes out a business card and writes something on it. “I’m Dave, by the way.” We shake hands as he hands me the card, which I immediately look over. It’s for a bar in the metro area, The Wolf Head Saloon. I’m not sure how I feel about wolf being in the name of the place.

“I’m Adam.”

“Nice to meet you, Adam. If you need anything, don’t be afraid to call. That place, it’s a good hang out for SCABs, feel free to stop by sometime. And don’t worry about the wolves, most of them don’t bite. Besides, you could probably use a drink or three after what’s happened to you.” He grins, showing off his rather long canines. I just kind of stare blankly back as he pats my shoulder and heads back to immigration office.

I just stand there a second, reflecting on what just happened. I really do want to go home, that means a trip through customs and back to my car. Customs isn’t nearly as eventful. They simply ask about declarations and what not, I’ve crossed borders enough to know how to get through, at least for things that don’t require ID.

As I walk out through the doors and into the international arrivals area, one more benefit of being the last one through becomes apparent to me, there’s hardly anyone in the waiting area. A quick look at my watch tells me it’s taken me nearly two and a half hours to get this far; thank god I don’t live that far away. I still need to ride back to the parking lot. It’s not as if the airport doesn’t have enough parking, my company would just rather we not spend a small fortune on keeping a car at the airport, which means off site lots.

But first, I really need to find a restroom. The finding part is easy because I definitely recognize those smells; it’s the using that proves to be the difficult aspect. It’s pretty obvious that certain parts of me are built more for an animal that’s got four legs, not two. I do manage, and feel a lot better for it. This is definitely something that’s going to take some getting used to.

*****

The small bus back to the lot is already half full of TSA officers talking amongst themselves. They seem to barely notice me, too engaged in their own conversation or simply blind to anything different. It’s a relief to think about not being stared at, I can only imagine how much that’s going to be happening to me in the near future. I’m trying my best not to think about it.

The small bus bounces as it takes us back to the lot. It’s really hot, which seems odd to me, because there isn’t much noise from the heater. Then I remember my fur. That and the combination of the nervousness that just isn’t going away seem to be boiling me in my own skin. Familiar sights pass by outside the tinted windows; I turn to concentrating on them. Everything seems the same, but different all at the same time. The world is a different place when you don’t have to view it in pan and scan.

Eventually I’m let off by my car. The driver carries my bag out for me. This is nothing new; they do it all the time. I load up my car and take stock of my current situation. My pants are really starting to get uncomfortable; they simply don’t fit over my body properly, not to mention there’s not a spot for my tail. Heh, a tail, that’s an odd concept to me as I think about it. I wonder how I managed not to crush it when sitting on the bus. I’m not exactly sure how driving is going to work. I still know how to drive; I’m just not sure if I can fit into my car.

I reach around the handle on the driver’s door and give it a tug. Thankfully, the smart lock system is still doing its job, unaffected by my new body. Upon opening the door, I realize just how close the jerk parked next to me; I can barely open the door enough to get through. In earnest I snake my way in, but something holds me back as I’m almost through. Shit, antlers…I forgot about those. I try to turn my head, being careful not to scratch my car, but they’re too big to fit through the opening. It’s worse getting back out, with my lack of understanding of how my legs bend now.

After a quick inspection of the scene I decide the passenger side of the car will give me enough room, or so I hope. The door can swing open far more, but I gauge the opening with my antlers before I make another attempt at this. Good, plenty of room. Going in head first seems like a better a solution to this, less having to think about getting my rack in the door. Unfortunately, getting my butt in the seat isn’t exactly easy either, as I take up a good amount more space vertically now. Eventually, I do fit myself in, but that leads to the next important step, getting into the driver’s seat.

I can’t help but think this is like one of those cheap little puzzles. Somehow, they managed to get two pieces of bent wire together into some impossible form, yet they can be taken apart and put back together, you just need to know the trick. I was never very good at those. The simplest solution seems to be legs first. This is where having a rear wheel drive car with a generously sized center console hurts. I lay back across the passenger seat, my antlers now sticking out of the door opening as I slide across the arm rest storage bin. I wince as my tail catches against it, dragging along the textured rubber.

Eventually, I get my butt in the seat, being careful to close the passenger door as I go. Unfortunately, I can’t really sit up straight. Mostly, I just don’t want to damage the headliner. I recline the seat some so I don’t have to lean over the console. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’ll do. I’m certainly glad I’m not a moose. The car roars to life from its week of dormancy with a press of the start button and I head on my way, paying for the parking with cash to avoid any further issues with ID and because I’m not sure I could sign my name.

Driving makes me feel normal, it helps me shut out what just happened. That and the blaring music, which isn’t really much above where I used to keep the volume. The side mirrors seem a bit strange to me, I can clearly see the reflections in them as well as the actual scene.

At least the drive has been a nonevent, familiar roads with familiar sights and familiar drivers. I’m relieved when I see my house and I pull into the driveway. I hope my cats are okay, a friend’s been watching them, but I can only imagine what they’ll think when they see me. I consider leaving my bags in the car, but that just means I’ll have to get them later, so they come along.

The upper part of the screen door wobbles as I open it up; I still need to replace the stupid thing. I reach into my pocket and fumble around with my keys. The small pieces of cut metal easily slip off my hoof-tipped digits as I sort through them in search of the correct one. I eventually find it and carefully grab it, managing to get the door unlocked and opened.

The waft of air that comes out the door carries familiar smells with it. I don’t know how, but something in my head knows it's home. Kirin and Sapporo are already waiting in their usual spots; they obviously heard me unlocking the door.

“Hey guys, miss me?” Oddly, they don’t seem too thrown off by my new look as I haul my luggage into the house and close the door. They act just like they always do when I get home from a trip, starved for attention. I crouch down, a bit unsteadily on the laminate floors, and give Sappy a good ear rubbing. He starts purring loudly, happy to have his human, or close enough to it, back. Kirin seems a bit more apprehensive, though. She’s always far more cautious, her feline brain doesn’t seem to quite be able to comprehend what’s going on. Eventually, she finds something fun to play with, the fuzzy tail hanging from my back side.

“Ack! Knock it off, Kiri!” She doesn’t seem to care too much; I just shrug and try swishing my tail a bit for her. Oddly, it seems to work pretty well, it’s good to know I have some control over it, and she definitely appreciates it. Looks like daddy brought home a new toy. Fortunately, Sappy is too distracted to join in the fun.

After a good session of giving the cats attention, I figure it’s time to get out of these clothes. Before heading to my bedroom, I grab a beer out of the refrigerator, which smells incredibly strange to me, the mix of all the smells is a bit over powering and it definitely needs to be cleaned out. I have to grab the bottle a bit tightly so it doesn’t slide out of my hand, hooves and fur don’t make for a lot of grip. Though the cap is twist off, I grab the magnetic bottle opener off the refrigerator door and pop the top off, resulting in a satisfying hiss as the carbon dioxide escapes. The smell is far more intense than I realized it would be, further enhanced by a lick of my nose. It’s a strange feeling as my brain works to unscramble the complex mix of scents. I guess I would make a really good wine tester now.

I take a sip, puckering my thick lips around the top of the bottle and head back to my bedroom. I glance back into the bathroom as I pass, catching my reflection in the mirror. At first, something yells out “rival” in my brain before the more human side squashes that idea down.

I pull off my pants and underwear first; ignoring the mirror attached to my dresser. Those have been bothering me the most and I don’t look forward to unbuttoning my shirt. My shoes and socks are long gone, torn to shreds as I changed on the plane. I get the first real look at my fur covered, ungulate legs. It’s a bit disconcerting, they’re attached to me, but they don’t really seem like they’re my legs. After all, my legs are supposed to be pale and hairy, not furry and brown. It feels nice to sit on something without a back as I rest on my bed, tail lying out behind me.

My attention then turns toward my shirt, six buttons, plus two on the cuffs. I’m really dreading this. Clumsily, I try for the bottom button. I have to cock my head so I can get a better look at it; my new muzzle blocks most of my forward vision. My hands already, sort of, know what to do, but it’s not working exactly like it used to, especially since they’re missing a digit. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem to be nearly as difficult as I imagined it would be. Maybe buttoning up a shirt will go the same way, but I doubt it as I make quick work of getting the shirt off. I look down over the thick white fur covering my chest and belly. I can’t help but touch it, I can’t really feel the thick fur through my fingers. What I can feel is the oddly good sensation of having the fur on my body rubbed.

Suddenly, I hear something loud; my ears flick over, followed by my head and I find myself looking at my pants. It takes me a second to beat back the part of me that wants to run, it’s almost like I’m telling myself it’s nothing. Though, I already know what it is. My mom must be calling me, since I haven’t called her yet. There’s that wanting to run feeling coming back and actually seems like a good idea.

Clumsily, I reach for the phone vibrating away in my pants. The screen on the outside confirms my suspicions as I open it up.

“Hello.” My hand’s already shaking.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“I saw that.” I say that every time I answer the phone but that’s never sunken in.

“I was just wondering why you hadn’t called yet.”

“Umm…well, something kind of came up and I was a bit distracted.” I glance around the room, but my ears are fixed on the phone. There’s a sense of danger in me and it knows where it’s coming from. However, another lick of my nose reveals nothing more about the threat.

“How was the flight back?”

I pause for a second, trying to come up with a good way to formulate this. “Well, it was okay until the last couple of hours. I got sick while I was over there.”

“I was going to say, your voice sounds kind of off. Did you throw up on the plane or something?”

“Umm…no.” My heart’s racing and my hands shake as I know I can’t avoid saying something, but I have no clue how to say it. My tail is half raised as a sign of caution, moving beyond my control. I pause, chewing on my finger, more afraid of how my parents are going to take this than anything.

“Well, then what is it?” She’s a bit annoyed as I dodge her questions.

I just close my eyes and blurt it out: “I’m a deer.”

“What?”

I spend the next half an hour or so describing the events of the last few hours and exactly what it is I am now. It’s not very pleasant for me and something tells me that I’m going to have to relive it many more times. She doesn’t seem to be taking the news too badly; I can only guess how my father will react. His view on SCABs has never been as obvious to me as my mom’s seemingly live and let live attitude. At least the cats come to join me and lend me a bit of support.

“Well, what about work?”

“What about it?”

“Aren’t you worried they’ll fire you or something?”

“Not really. It’s not like they can’t fire me for becoming a SCAB. I’m going to try and get Monday off so I can get a new driver’s license and stuff.”

“Well, alright. Do you want us to come up there tomorrow?”

“I don’t know; I kind of want to sort some things out first.” Rubbing Sappy’s belly is a nice distraction from having to think much about this.

“Alright, I think your father has to work tomorrow anyway.”

“Okay.” I hope this doesn’t go on much longer.

“Well, is there anything else?”

“Not really, I’m pretty tired though.”

“Fine, then I guess I’ll let you go.”

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

I snap the phone shut as she’s finishing and toss it to my side on the bed as I lay back, staring at the ceiling. My eyes drift shut from exhaustion, it’s night time in Japan now anyway, and I have no clue how long I’ve been awake. Soon enough I’m asleep.

*****

I can feel something warm and heavy on my chest, another warm spot against my leg as I slowly return to consciousness. I hold my eyes closed for a bit, thinking to myself that it all was just a dream, but a numb sensation on my rear tells me otherwise. It can only be one thing, the tail I fell asleep on several hours ago.

As I lift my head, the cats begin their overdrawn process of waking up, stretching and pawing at me and my bed. I can see them well, despite the fact that the lights are off in the room and it seems to be nighttime. Once I’m allowed to sit up, I pull my limp tail from under me; it’s already starting to get the pins and needles sensation as it’s freed. My head is another issue; I must have sat up too quickly because I feel kind of dizzy.

I slide off the bed, hooves clicking against the flooring. The lack of friction causes me to slip a little, but I catch myself. It’s hard to think about compensating for that, especially since I’m still groggy from my nap.

I make my way to my study, picking up my discarded clothing as I go, pulling out my wallet and keys, along with a business card I had almost forgotten about. I boot up my computer and plop down in the chair, flicking my tail out of the way so I don’t crush it, again. The Wolf Head Saloon, the address is actually not far from my house. I sure could use a drink, or ten, but then again, I hate going out to bars and paying so much for alcohol.

I jump out of my chair and practically fall on my face as the start up sound blares over the computer’s speaks. Too often I forget to turn them down after I’m done listening to music. There goes my heart racing again. “Damn it, this is really starting to get annoying." I regain my composure and sit back in the chair, a bit embarrassed for myself.

I check my email and some other things. Fortunately, I’d been keeping up with things while I was in Japan, so there’s not much to look through. I hesitate, thinking about logging into any instant messaging services, but I don’t. This needs to settle in more before I want to talk to any of my friends about it. That and I’m not too confident in typing with hooves. The cats take their turns fighting over my lap and playing bat at the tail as I scan through web pages. I do keep finding myself turning my head to be able to see the whole screen, with my muzzle always in the way.

It’s nine o’clock; I don’t know where the time went. I look up the bar’s address, it’s right where I thought it was. It’s funny how you can go past some place and never realize just what it is. It always just looked like any other bar to me.

I get up and head back to my bedroom, if I’m going, I certainly can’t go nude. Well, I could, sort of, I just don’t want to. It just doesn’t seem right to. Instead, I head to the basement to grab the only pair of sharp scissors I have. My shorts are going to need a bit of modifying before I can wear them comfortably.

My hooves easily grip on the carpeted stairs, letting me feel very sure footed. Near the bottom, I hear a cracking sound and find my head won’t go any further forward and I’m soon greeted by a plume of white powder in my face. Right, antlers, forgot about those. I duck my head and move on, making sure to be extra careful, I hope the damage to the drywall isn’t too bad.

*****

Back in my bedroom I assess the situation, trying to figure out just where that tail comes out and where the hole needs to go in the jean shorts. I think both back pockets are going to be sacrificed, not that I ever used them anyway. At least the shorts fit okay over my hips and rump and I don’t have to worry about the special needs of ungulate legs when it comes to pants. I slip my fingers into the scissors and cut the back open, being careful not to injure myself. It’s quite difficult to control them with my thicker fingers not quite fitting into the scissors right. After several times coming on and off I manage to get the fit right. They aren’t pretty, but they work.

A shirt is another matter. No t-shirts or polo shirts for me anymore, except maybe after I drop my antlers. Good thing I have a lot of camp and bowling shirts. I grab one of my favorites from the closet and proceed to unbutton it, all the way. Normally, I would have just pulled it on, over my head. Add this one to the list of little inconveniences. It fits over my body alright, even when I pull it closed. I make a mental note: “need new pants, shirts are okay.”

My gaze passes down the front of the shirt; I angle my head to get a better view of the daunting task ahead of me. Buttons, six of them mocking my new found lack of dexterity. Like before, I start at the bottom and work my way up. But unlike before, things aren’t going so well. It takes me a few minutes and a bit of cursing to get the first one done. This is certainly not going to be easy, but maybe I’ll get better at it. As I work my way up, I wonder how hard it would be to replace the buttons with Velcro. The top button is almost as hard as the first, mostly because I can’t get a good view of what I’m doing. A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s been almost an hour since I started working on my shorts. I really don’t want to think what percentage of that time was spent on buttoning my shirt.

I load up my pockets and head for the door. I stop a second by the bathroom. I should probably brush my teeth. It’s one of those things that’s just ingrained in you as one of conventions of society and the usual daily routine. That and a healthy dose of anal retentiveness lead me in.

The usual start up procedure goes on, basically, as it always has. I’m trying to ignore my own reflection, like I did in the bedroom. There’s part of me that just doesn’t want to confront what happened, but I think there’s also something in there that doesn’t want to confront the other buck. I pause, toothbrush at the ready, glass of water filled, standing by to perform their intended tasks. But instead, I stare right at my reflection.

That is me, isn’t it? I lean in closer, studying all the details: the wet black nose, the large horizontal stilted eyes which look pretty strange in blue, the large fuzzy ears, and the bumpy antler bases. It’s surreal and fascinating, all the things that seemed so familiar, that had been virtually the same for over a quarter of a century, now completely and permanently changed. But there’s also something even stranger, in a sense, I still look like me. I don’t know how, maybe it’s the expression, maybe it’s in my eyes, or the general shape of things, but I still see the old me in there. I swear I can even see signs of where I had scars, like the one above my right eye. I can only speculate if anyone else will see the same things as I do.

I take a moment to look inside my mouth; it seems like a good idea, because I don’t really have a good sense of it. The near total lack of upper incisors is a bit disturbing along with the total lack of canines. At least I still have something in my wide, flat pallet, as opposed to actual deer, who have nothing. My mouth definitely houses the teeth of a plant eater, and a large tongue. I can only speculate on what things that might be useful for, besides licking my nose.

With a better understanding of my oral equipment, I turn back to tools made to clean it. Well, made to clean a human mouth and fit in the hand of a human. The toothbrush’s handle is tragically thin, making it difficult for me to get a good grip on it. This further complicates things when trying to get all the way into the back of my mouth, which is significantly deeper than it once was. It’s not a horrible experience, until I rinse out my mouth and end up spilling half the glass on myself. Apparently, I don’t have a sense of how far back my mouth opens now either. I towel myself off and determine that I will be getting a blow drier sometime in the near future.

****

And thus, I am finally on my way. I tell the cats to behave themselves, even though I know they won’t. I grab my jacket and put it on, not really thinking about it. I guess I don’t need it, but I’m sure I still look cool in black leather, too bad I can’t wear my sunglasses to go along with it. I can’t help but think I forgot something. A hat, I always wear baseball hats, but antlers and a decided lack of a forehead rule that out as an option. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it, figuring I can get something at the bar. I head out the door and back to my car, which is easier to get into, but still not particularly comfortable to drive. I back out, a bit apprehensive of what lies ahead, but I’d rather go out than sit around all night.

*****

The outside of the bar is rather unassuming. It looks like just about any other bar and grill-type place you find in the suburbs of an industrial city. The only indication of anything different about the patrons is the name, but even then it’s no definite indicator of that fact that this is a SCAB bar. To my nose though, there is a clear indication that this isn’t any old bar. There’s a definite mix of animal smells permeating into the parking lot, along with the smell of alcohol. I can’t help myself as I lick my nose which just makes all the smells that much more intense.

I find myself approaching the door cautiously; taking deliberate steps, tail raised half way. The smell of food is definitely coming from this place too, and it makes my stomach rumble again. I press on, biting my lower lip nervously as I open the door, which seems a bit higher than a normal door, and head inside.

No one seems to really notice me as I go inside, they’re all busy in conversation, eating, or playing games. All the smells almost send me running back out, but I fight it. I try to bite at my nails, again, as I scan the room. No two people seem to be the same, there’s certainly a wide variety of species and levels of change. I had no idea it was like that with SCABs.

“Adam!” I nearly dash away as a somewhat familiar face greets me. “Glad to see you made it. Here, come have a seat.” He pats my shoulder leading me up to the bar. “I didn’t scare ya, did I?”

“A little bit.” I can feel my ears getting hot, blushing under the thick winter fur.

Dave sits me next to a wolf and takes the seat on the other side of me. Great, stuck between two predators. I lick my nose, heart pounding as the wolf turns to me. “You must be Adam, nice to meet you. You can call me Jim.” He holds out his paw, I only manage to stare back. Then the realization hits me that he’s not a wolf, but a husky.

“Oh, ah…nice to meet you too.” Shaking his paw, I could smell him as a preditor, but there was an even more powerful sense of friendliness and an excited dog meeting a new person; after all, huskies are known to be friendly.

I turn to see a wolfish bartender set a drink down in front of me. I can tell I’m getting use to this whole experience, because I’m not as scared as I expected myself to be.

“Go ahead; everyone does it there first time”

I stare at the small glass filled with red liquid, flicking it with a finger.

“Go on man, it’s not going to kill you.”

Reluctantly, I pick it up, trying not to smell it. Back goes my head and down goes the shot. I feel the thick liquid burn down my long mouth as I try to get it down in one gulp. The smell of alcohol fills my nose from the back forward as I take a breath.

Before I even have time to put the shot glass down I feel a hand slap my back: “Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life Adam.”

[[Category:Story]][[Category:MintzBuck]][[Category:Tales from the Blind Pig]]

Strange Day

2007-12-08T21:51:56Z

MintzBuck:

I hate parking in the garage at the McNamara terminal. Even though it is one of the world’s largest parking structures, there never seem to be any spaces, at least not covered ones. I could park in one of the outside lots and take a bus to the terminal, but my laziness is winning out over my penny-pinching side. Besides, I'm finally taking advantage of my frequent flier miles, so paying a little more for parking isn't any big deal.

Finally I'm able to shoe horn the Dodge Charger into a suitable space next to a concrete support column, at least one side of it should be safe, and I'm not too far from bridge across the terminal. I make my way toward the elevators, roller bag in tow, the new standard for luggage. I wish I could have used my smaller one, I hate having to check bags, but there was no way I could pack everything I would need for a full weekend into my smaller bag without crushing something.

I use one of the quick check-in kiosks, conveniently located right by the entrance. I can feel the strange looks on me as the attendant puts the tag around the handle on my bag. They don’t really bother me anymore; I know I’d probably be doing the same thing if I were them. I pick up the freshly printed boarding pass that just dropped out of the machine, fold it at the perforated seam, and shove it in my pocket. All it takes is the swipe of a credit card, and you're checked in; isn't technology wonderful?

I make my way across the bridge, then up stairs. The upper level always moves faster for security. Most of the people who use the self check-in use the lower checkpoint, they’re the seasoned business travelers and there are a lot of them. The line doesn’t look that much shorter, but it definitely moves faster. I take my place in the queue along with my fellow travelers. Off comes my watch and, along with my keys, it gets shove it into my laptop backpack. Normally, I would have just put those in my shoes, but since I don’t wear them anymore, that’s not really an option. I open up the laptop compartment for easy access when it needs to be placed into one of the x-ray bins as the line shuffles forward and fills in behind me.

After a good five minutes of people watching, and people watching me, I make it up to the bored look TSA official checking IDs. I produce my wallet, held open to show my drivers license along with my boarding pass. I hate taking my license out of the wallet because I usually end up putting it in upside down. She looks at the already creased and wrinkled ticket, then my ID, then me. Not even a second look, a rare occurrence. Though, I suppose she’s probably seen stranger or maybe finally implemented some sort of supplemental training.

There aren't many of us who were affected by whatever caused the changed, one in a thousand or something like that. For the US, not a significant number of people, but it's still enough to populate a good sized city. No one's found an explanation for why people changed; it just seemed to have happened. Even now, you'll hear about current statistics, seems some more are added every day. Some people live on just fine, like me. Others aren't so lucky. They either can't deal with what happened to them, they changed in the wrong place at the wrong time, or any number of other fates. I don't like to use that word though, I don't believe in fate. What do I think causes this to happen to people? I don't know. I'm a scientifically minded person: I like having explanations. But for some reason, I don't care about this one.

I pull my laptop from the bag and put it by itself into one of the plastic tubs and sit my backpack next to it, queued up to make their passage through the x-ray machine, along with my camera bag and pillow. I don't trust the baggage handlers with my two thousand dollars worth of camera equipment. I chuckle as I watch my fellow travelers taking off their shoes. I always thought having to take your shoes off to get them x-rayed was a bit silly, not to mention a pain in the butt. The only thing that really bothers me about it now is the smell. At the last minute, I remember to add my wallet to the collection of soon to be irradiated kit and step though the metal detector, holding out my boarding pass for yet another TSA official to check. As I pass though the electromagnetic field, another handler guides my carry-ons into the x-ray machine, manned by a third trustworthy government contract employee. No beeping this time, despite the fact that I forgot to remove my collar, which I wear as a sort of joke.

My ticket is handed back over to me with a little bit of a scribble on it, I have an idea why they do this. I shove my sticker laden laptop back into its protective foam sleeve and extract my personal belongings from the front pouch of the bag and return them to their rightful places on my person. I know they'll be there, I just feel a lot better with them in place. I pick up the rest as it slides down the rollers and head to the stairs back down to the main level. As I walk down the stairs, I scan over the open area leading to Concourse A, for such an open area, they did a good job controlling echoes. I head over to the newsstand and convenience shop and scan the magazine racks, ignoring the news magazines, not that I've ever really read them, they've all had nothing but articles about the change since it happened.

This is my usually routine when flying. It's about the only time I bother to buy magazines. I pick up one on motorcycles and Scientific American, which I hardly ever read anymore, but there looks to be some interesting articles in this month's issue. The bottles of over priced pop and bags of salty snacks beckon to me as I head for the cashier, but they've lost already, despite the fact that I can’t bring my drink into the airport. There's no line, there rarely is. I hand over my quarry to cashier, she barely notices me at first, bored and lifeless as any airport staff member. When she looks up from the register to claim the money I owe and she gets a good look at me. Like most people, there's no question, just that too long, deer in headlights stare as her brain processes what she's looking at. Without saying anything her brain hops back onto its tracks and completes the procedure it's run through many times before without any further delay. The usual pleasantries are exchanged as I'm giving my change and my purchase. As I walk away, I know she's looking at me more. I don't really mind though, I am a rather strikingly handsome fellow.

I put the magazines into one of the pockets on my backpack as I head deeper into the terminal building. The entrance hall, complete with Duty Free store and entrance to the "World Perks" lounge ends, branching out into the mile long Concourse A. I pull the ticket back out again, which by this point is quite bent out of shape having been squashed under my wallet. I hope the ticket scanner will still read the bar code. This is always a concern, but it never seems to happen, no matter how messed up the limp thermal paper tickets get. It says Gate A8, which means a trip on overhead tram, because I really don't feel like walking a half mile to the end of the concourse if I don't have to. I could use the moving walk ways but I hate how they feel on my paws.

I take the short trip up an escalator, which I don’t like standing on any more than the moving walkways, puts me on at the central tram station where plenty of people are already waiting, too engrossed in their own thoughts to notice me. They're either checking the displays above the doors to make sure they're on the right side of the station, or watching as the two red LED bars move across the terminal map which divides the station. I take my place, checking which side I need to be on. I know I'm getting looks. It's not as if people have seen other changed people. But being that, at least now, we're fairly rare, few people have seen two who are similar. There's definitely a healthy mix of species. I guess I'm fortunate in the fact that I'm nothing too exotic, a familiar looking creature for nearly anyone in the world.

The train arrives and the glass doors slide open, I stay back a bit, not wanting to cause any brain fart related delays. Then we all make out way onto the emptied red fiberglass tram. There aren't any seats. But really, for a ride of a little over a minute, why would you need one? It's not like I could use one comfortably anyway. The doors close far too quickly as last minute stragglers try and run for it. Whoever programmed this thing was none to bright, but they've never changed it, for whatever reason, I guess they have a schedule to keep. As the electric motors spin to life before the train suddenly lurches forward, a recorded voice is ignored, instructing my fellow passengers and I to take a hold of the polished stainless steel hand- grips. I've always liked testing myself against my own momentum and just how much acceleration those powerful motors can impart to the floor underneath me. Of course, now I'm able to cheat a little bit, lightly digging my poorly manicured claws into the generic speckled carpet perfect for hiding coffee spills and other stains.

I watch people and shops zip by below and red-tailed plane after red-tailed plane, parked outside the glass walls of the terminal building, through the smoked Plexiglas windows of the train. I pull out my compact digital camera and snap a few shots. For no good reason, I just like the scenery, even though I've seen so many times before. Sometimes the moment just catches you. I quickly frame and take a couple shots using the still cracked LCD on the back that I never bothered to get fixed. And just like that, the train slows and the ride is finished almost as quickly as it started. The disembarking and loading proceed as usual, with the occasional "what the" look in my direction. Then it's back down another escalator to the main floor before the train is even fully unloaded. I really whish people would walk up and down escalators, few people ever stand on the moving walk ways, but I guess that's because of the ubiquitous roller bag. I may be lazy, but I'm also impatient.

I step off the ribbed metal step and onto the fake stone floor, which is much more pleasant under paw. I gaze over at one of the stores, The "Stylish Paw." Not that I've never seen it before, it just always makes me chuckle. Maybe some day I'll actually peak inside, just to see what reaction I get. But today, as usually, I choose to walk through the small food court area, intoxicated by the smell of toasted Quizno's subs, Hungry Howie's pizza and Mrs. Fields cookies. My stomach growls at me angrily for this, I guess I'm going to have to indulge it with some over priced airport food. Like there was ever any doubt I wasn’t going to.

I think some pizza will do me good. For some reason, I just can't resist the wonderful greasiness of it. I get in line behind some generic looking business man. This area is always a little crowded; the tables and tightly packed counters don't help with that. I wait patiently in the line, these people always take longer than it seems like they need to. I look around, pondering my options, catching the many looks I'm getting. Occasionally I lock eyes with someone and give them a bit of a wink or smiles. Yes, I know you're looking at me, and I don't really mind. Of course they quickly look away and pretend like nothing happened as they go back to their freshly toasted sub or overpriced bottle of cheap American beer. I consider my options, I could get a salad and really mess with the clerk, but I'm in line for a pizza place and I'm going to get a nice cheesy slice.

When it's my turn I order one of their over-sized pieces of pepperoni, what can I say? I stick with the classics, and a diet Coke. I've gained weight since the change, mostly in fur, I think, but I'm still a little bit husky. The clerk doesn't bat an eye or give me a second look, though some of his coworkers seem to be. I guess serving pizza is more work than making it or maybe it's just the endless stream of irritated customers who never know what they want and can't seem to be bothered to think about it until they reach the counter. Can you tell I've been there before? I take my order and set about on the quest to find a suitable place to sit, the waiting area seats seem the most appealing, less risk of tail damage there.

I balance the pop on the small box containing my catch and head over into the waiting area. The sweet smell of cookies forces me to turn my head and gaze into the brightly lit display case, maybe later. I find a nicely deserted area, I've never really liked risking unnecessary social interactions; you could really call me a lone wolf. The cup and box find their spot on one side of where I plan to sit; the rest of my kit is hefted onto the other side. The weight is really the fault of my laptop, a desktop replacement, I don't really believe in buying a new computer that's not better than what I already have. I carefully thread my tail though the opening in the back of the chair. I don't even what to think about what a reptile or kangaroo goes through when trying to find a seat. As I settle in I move the box to my lap, feeling the warmth through my shorts. Opening the lid lets out a puff of pent up smells that swirl up and gets drawn in through my cold-wet nose, which I can't help but lick, making the smell that much more intense. All this just makes my stomach that much more impatient.

Finally, I pick up the cheesy goodness from the box, not giving a thought to sopping up the glistening, orange-ish grease. Even though I know some of it is bound to soak into the white fur of my paws, it would just detract from the experience. I wiggle my somewhat stubby fingers under the warm crust, chewed on claws scraping along it. Even after the change, I still bite my nails, or claws, as the case may be. I have to sort of cup my hand under the slice; I can't exactly hold things the same way as I used to be able to. My hands are somewhere in between paws and what I had before, thankfully I still have thumbs and can generally grip things okay. It's all just a matter of adapting.

Actually eating something, as in taking bites, is quite another experience. Moving parts made for a four legged animal onto a two legged creature makes a lot of things into an interesting affair. Having a mouth made for gripping and ripping prey doesn't really make eating normal, human food all that easy but I've been manage. I take my awkward bites, pausing now and again for a sip of pop. Announcements come on regularly about last calls for boarding and that Detroit is in the Eastern Time zone in a few languages, no one pays attention to them and I have to work to keep my ears from flicking to the speakers every time one comes on. Soon enough the pizza is gone and I lick off my hand, nibbling out bits of crust and cheese. It's a bit animal like, but licking the last of the cheese and sauce from between my fingers and grooming my fur, is an amazing experience and it works a lot better than napkins. I lean back and lick my chops, satisfied with my snack.

I check my watch, adjusting the wide cuff-like leather band that I switched to in order to prevent fur snags. A quick check of the monitor by the gate reveals that I have plenty of time. I don't like doing things at the last minute or having to rush. My eye briefly catches of one of the overhead monitors showing CNN; no doubt it's another depressing report about how the world is going to hell in a hand basket. I've never much paid attention to that stuff, especially not anymore. I'm content in my life and I don't need the weight of the world crushing me. It's at a strange angle to me and my neck is complaining at me to not bend that much any more. As I reorient my head to its standard forward position, something else catches my eye, a child. It really irritates me how parents never seem to be able to control their kids, especially in crowded places. He has the usual look of fascination and wonderment children give me. I guess I'm really nothing but a big dog to them, which is better than how their parents typically see me.

"You're a doggy!" He states the obvious.

"Last I checked." My cynicism is lost on children.

"Can I pet you?" I didn't see this one coming, I'm sarcastic too.

"I don't see why not?" I lean my head down for his smallish hand. I usually oblige such requests, it really does feel good. His frustrated looking mother is already zeroing in on the scene. But I ignore her, this feels too good, he obviously has a dog or knows someone who does. My body reacts beyond my own control, tail wagging behind me, unseen between the rows of chairs; I really hope no one's sitting behind me. Through partially slitted eyes, I can see his mother get closer.

"Ethan, leave the nice man alone." I half expect her grab his hand away.

"I really don't mind, ma'am." I struggle to keep my tongue from lolling out as I talk. My head stays fixed and the small hand rubs between my ears, which find their way to being folded back in the pure bliss of it. Humans don't know what they're missing. I know what she's thinking as she demands young Ethan to stop it, "how can he let himself be treated like an animal" or some other such thinking about keeping one's dignity. Children never judge like that, they see things for what they are on the outside. Adults always seem to be too concerned with being PC, unless they're the truly disgusted ones. The ones who think you're some kind of abomination or freak. For all I know she thinks that, and doesn't want her kid touching me because that'd spread my freakiness to him or some other such nonsense. Of course, there's no proof of how the change is caused and no proof it can be spread, but that never stops people from thinking that way.

As the mother puts her arm around her child and turns him to leave, I half expect her to confront me on what just happened, to tell me I did something wrong. I'm fully prepared to lecture her on parenting and not letting her kid get away from her. I'm quite surprised when she gives me a little rub between the ears and smiles at me, as if to say "I understand," or something like that. But she turns away and leaves before my brain can make sense of it. Never judge a book by its cover I guess, but then again, some people can't resist a cute dog.

----

The air handling systems in modern buildings are amazing. They keep the temperature perfect and completely exchange the air in a space in some extraordinarily short amount of time. This is a big benefit for those of us who have to have very sensitive noses. No objectionable odors hang around, but at the same time it makes a place feel almost dead. A human doesn't have the sense of disconnectedness this leads to. With far more keen senses you get used to seeing, hearing, and smelling people -- it makes people watching far more enjoyable, most of the time. Even with the air moving in and out at such high volumes, some smells just can't be stopped. It could just be the path that air is taking or that fact that I didn't position myself far away, but those cookies are really starting to smell really good and a single slice of pizza has never really been enough to keep me satisfied.

I slurp up the rest of my pop through the straw and gather my belongings up, hefting the laptop bag onto my back. I don't want to leave anything sitting around lest my bags are confiscated by the TSA as the recorded announcement regularly reminds us all in several languages. The inedible cardboard remnants of my meal find their final resting place in a conveniently placed trashcan as I approach the nicely lit display case of the compact Mrs. Field's. The diminutive oven behind the counter let's everyone know these cookies are relatively fresh, and in fact, the unmistakable aroma of baked goods is emanating from it as I stalk my prey.

The clerk seems distracted, either by talking to the person at the next counter or by her actual task, either way, this is my chance. I walk up to the case and crouch down to examine what they have to offer. I think she saw me, but not well. Soon I'm greeted by the standard, I'm only doing this because I have to, tone. "Can I help you?"

I rise up with a toothy grin -- which might look a bit less silly if I was really trying to look intimidating -- placing my paw-ish hands on the curved glass, claws clicking on it lightly. This elicits that primal response to anything with big sharp teeth of momentary shock as the brain grasps to come up with a plan, fight or flight. I do so love messing with people like this. She balks for a moment and then realizes what's going on, my face really looks more like an excited, friendly dog, especially when the wagging tail is taken into account. If it weren't for the clothing and decidedly more upright stance, I could be mistaken for a stray begging for a treat.

"Umm…yeah, can I get six of those little white chocolate macadamia nut ones, three M&M, and three chocolate chip?" I point to each tray with a stubby padded finger, even though I know she knows where they are. A dozen of these smallish cookies are some reduced price, but it's still more than they're probably worth. I'm a sucker for this sort of thing away. She bags them up with slick parchment paper and I watch. There are plenty of delightful looking treats, but I just can't resist white chocolate macadamia nut cookies. Thankfully, the whole "dogs and chocolate don't mix" seems to not affect me too much. That and the fact that I weigh over two hundred pounds certainly helps. The other kinds are thrown in for variety, the inevitable spur of the moment choices, and because they simply didn't have a dozen of what I was really after. Money changes hands after the standard procedures of asking if there's anything else I would like and I safely stow the bag away for later.

I check my watch, not much time before they start boarding, hopefully. Now is a good time to take care of something before I have to get onboard. Back through the food court area I go, claws lightly clicking on the easily cleaned tile floor, toward the restroom. This is where things get interesting and the four legged parts on a two legged frame really causes an issue, but you learn to adapt and not be too embarrassed by what you have to do. I duck into one of the stalls and I'll leave it at that, you can use your own imagination for this one. This avoids the inevitable awkward look from other patrons. I don't care if they're not even looking down there; I still have a hard time with people watching me. With things taken care of, I go to wash my hands. This is never particularly enjoyable, mostly because of the difficulty involved in drying furry paws. Blow driers don't even work on bare skin and it takes a fairly large number of paper towels to do a decent job of it. But I do manage, it only seems right to, and besides, I don't think licking them is going to do a very good job. I do know where my paws have been and I don't want that in my mouth.

Back by the gate, the crowd has gotten bigger and people are already lining up by the ticket scanner, waiting impatiently for the boarding call. I hang back a little, mostly to avoid bringing unwanted attention to myself. Staring is still unavoidable, however, several people aren't trying to hide it at all. I scan the crowd myself and do some staring of my own, man I hope she's sitting next to me. I wouldn't mind giving her some…

"At this time, Northwest would like to invite all first class passengers to begin boarding." My thoughts are tragically interrupted as the announcement comes over the loud speaker, one steely blue eye still on the girl. I let people go ahead. I could probably board early, giving the “anyone who needs extra time to be seated excuse, but I try to live life as normally as I possibly can. I work my way into the line, being careful to concentrate extra hard on controlling my tail. It really does have a bit of a mind of its own and I don’t want to end up hitting anyone with it. This gets infinitely more difficult as people crowd-in when standing in lines like this.

The attendant doesn't give me a second look and I hand her my crumpled ticket. "Have a good flight." I wonder how many times she's said that and not really thought about it. Walking down the slightly angled jet-way I have to adjust my stance a bit to compensate for the sloped floor, claws digging into the hard carpet on their own with each step. The flight attendants smile at me and I nod to them as I look for my seat, 18A: a window seat and a bit further back than I would have liked, but I don’t have Elite status and the flight was free, so I’m not going to complain too much. I always used to enjoy window seats, but at least it's fun to watch out the window. We all wait as people arrange their belongings and already seated people get up to let others in. The girl’s already seated and I smile at her as I go past and she smiles back. This is rather unfortunate, however, because it causes me to momentarily loose control of my tail and hit an already seated passenger. “I’m sorry! The damn thing just has a mind of its own.” I get a bit of a surprised look and a bit of an eye roll for my victim before my eyes go back up to the girl. I wonder if she likes dogs. I'm going to have to wait for her at the final destination to find out, provided I don't chicken out.

When I finally make it back to my row, I’m pleased to see the person with the isle seat isn’t there yet. Up my camera bag and down goes my special pillow. It's a custom made one with a slot for my tail so I don't have to sit on it when there is no hole in chair. Airlines seem reluctant to put tail slotted seats in planes, it's just as well; I don't want someone else to have access to it when I'm not looking. I carefully straighten the slight curl of it out and slot it into the pillow sitting down gently. To some people it might seem like a strange arrangement, but it's actually comfortable. Most people don't realize just where that thing branches off from your body, again with four legged parts on two legs.

I slot my backpack under the seat in front of me and put my iPod and magazine in the seat pock. Soon enough a stereotypical business man seems to be destined for the seat next to me. He looks at the row number, then at his seat, catching me in his gaze, and then he rechecks his ticket. I look up at him, having seen this and roll my eyes.

"I don't bite and I assure you I'm house broken." He looks surprised as if he doesn't expect me to be able to talk. Into the overhead goes his roller bag and into the seat next to me goes his ass. I just shake my head, some people. I really hope this guy's not a talker. For all the flights I've been on for work, I've had few single serving friends and I don't mind at all. Since the change the percentage has gone up, my body is a real conversation piece. Most people are genuinely curious about what it's like; others seem to think they know everything about it and love sharing their opinions on legal maters of the changed and what not. The latter are lucky I don't bite, most of the time.

Soon the rest of the passengers have boarded the plane, shuffling in through the hatch. Far too few actually go past me but I still try to distract as many people as I can. Most people never really notice, though they do scan the scene before them, they're quickly looking somewhere else before they recognize something strange. I do seem to blend in well with the interior of most planes, white walls and dark blue seats don't provide much contrast to white and dark gray fur. Some people do notice however, locking their eyes with mine, but they quickly turn their heads, embarrassed to stare at someone like that or maybe they just don't want to see the freak

Soon enough the plane is loaded and they close the door, my cell phone is already off and safely stowed. I reach into my bag and pull out my large, custom made earplugs and insert them past the thick fur of my ears. Air travel would be unbearable if not for these. The usual flickering of lights and drop off of air-conditioner airflow precedes the sudden rearward lurch as the pilots start to taxi the plane out. Once we're on our way the flight attendants go over the safety procedures, no one pays attention. I adjust the air nozzle above my head to get that cooling, hissing stream of air to cool me. The hot cabin of a plane is no place for someone covered in fur. Taxiing around DTW always takes far too much time, but it gives you plenty of time to check out the Sky Mall catalogue, the plethora of dog related products always makes me chuckle.

----

As soon as we reach a suitable altitude out come my ear plugs and in go my ear buds. I hate ear buds, I always have, but when your ears are no longer on the sides of your head, you don't have much of a choice. They're made just like ear monitors used by musicians who don't want to go deaf from playing concerts and have surprisingly high quality sound and not having to put your iPod on full blast is a nice thing to experience. I read though my magazines, then remember the cookies safely tucked away, waiting to be devoured. I indulge myself in a couple; you can never have just one, especially when they're such an unsatisfyingly small size. The flavors mingle in my muzzle as I crunch down on the nuts gleefully like I'm trying to get at the marrow of a bone as the chocolate melts in my warm mouth. The oils from the nuts travel up the back of my throat and into my nose; it's amazing to experience tastes and smells of things you love like this. I can see the guy sitting next to me kind of looking at me in the corner of my eye, frankly, I don't really care, I'm enjoying myself too much.

My ear pieces only cut out the most annoyingly loud sounds, so I have no trouble hearing when they make the announcement for the beverage service. Thankfully, the airlines are still generous enough to give out free drinks, though the barely-half can you get is hardly enough, it's better than having to pay a dollar for it like the nuts. I double check something in my complimentary copy of NWA World Traveler confidently located in the seat pouch. It is five dollars for liquor, just as I suspected. I think I’m going to have to indulge myself, it’s not like I’m going to be driving anyway. The smell of cheap coffee wafts down the cabin of the plane past me, likely unnoticed by most as the carts started to make their way down the isle. I pull a five dollar bill from my wallet and put down my tray, waiting my turn as the flight attendant starts asking people what they want. As she approaches my row, I pull out one of the ear buds, as to not appear rude, even though I know exactly what she is going to be asking.

"Can I get you anything to drink sir?" She smiles that standard smile as she looks at me.

"Diet Pepsi," I hate Pepsi, but I don't have any choice, "and Jack Daniels."

“Five dollars please.” On command, I hand over the bill.

She shuffles through the drawers on the cart, producing a miniature version of the familiar black and white labeled bottle of Tennessee Whiskey and then fills the funny little cup with ice and hands it to me, a long with a napkin, followed by a freshly opened can of pop. Apparently some assembly is required. I pull the "for your protection" seal off the top of the bottle with a claw, they are quite useful for such things and it looks much better than trying to gnaw it off. The scent of whiskey fills my nose as I pour the contents of the bottle over my ice, I drink it in, enjoying all the subtle flavors no human can ever enjoy. I've considered picking up wine tasting, but I think liquor and beer are far more enjoyable, of course. It's not like they don't get judged too, but I have enough hobbies as it is. Then comes the dark caramel-brown of the artificially sweetened cola, its aroma isn't nearly as satisfying. The artificial flavors used in modern soft drinks smell just that, artificial.

I have a feeling the stuff-shirt next to me expects that the big dog is going to lap his drink up. Quite honestly, I've never done that, not even as a joke, I still have a sense of dignity, despite the collar. The drink is consumed in the same manner as any other on the flight. Typically, I drink through a straw, it's just so much easier, but seems rather inappropriate to drink a cocktail through a straw. It did take me quite a bit of practice to get this right, and a lot of damp fur. Soon enough, the first cup load is gone, drinks never last long around me, and I refill it with the remainder of the can, there's enough room, as some ice doesn't appear to have made it. I lean back, lazily sipping away as the alcohol starts to work its magic. I never know if it's the speed I drink at, lack of tolerance, or the fact that I usually drink on an empty stomach, but I always get to this point pretty quickly.

As I return to reading, I yawn and lick my chops with my long tongue; half hoping my single serving annoyance is looking. Why don't I ever get the damn arm rest? He does smell a little nervous and he's definitely sweating. The unmistakable click of a seat belt buckle makes it past my ear buds and private performance of "Brian Wilson" as the business man gets up and heads for the restroom. The armrest is claimed as mine. While he's up, they start collecting trash, I hand over the empty cup and pop can, making a point to keep the little liquor bottle, which I put in my bag. I never got over the college standard of keeping bottles, especially unusual ones. As I sit back, I check my watch; it shouldn't be too much longer now.

The plane is obviously sloped downward as the announcement comes on to turn off and stow electronic devices. Out come the ear-buds and in go the ear plugs, landing is terribly noisy. I put my digital point and shoot in my shirt pocket so I can nab a few shots as the plane flies over Memphis. I've never been here before. I hope I can get to Graceland. The camera is such a convenient size, I prefer keeping it in my shirt pocket, and it’s less likely to get further screen damage that way. Fortunately, most of the shirts I wear anymore have pockets. My wardrobe mostly consists of bowling shirts, since they're all button up. It's not like I have antlers or horns, but getting a T-shirt on over a muzzle and canid ears is still a pain in the tail.

Landings are always such a pain, such anticipation of what's coming, that last half hour can seem incredibly long. They give the local weather conditions, hotter than Detroit, big surprise there. I lean my head down and watch out the little porthole in the fuselage and rebelliously take a few pictures as we float over the city. The airport gets closer and things start looking bigger. Soon the plane is down and the engines are thrown fully into reverse and complaining about it loudly. Taxiing to the gate takes forever, just like at Detroit, hub airports suck. As soon as the plane pulls up the gate people are standing, of course my neighbor is already up, opening the overhead bin to get his roller bag. I take a more subtle approach, though I know I wouldn't be here long. Since he's already in the aisle, I stand up and stretch a bit, pulling the pillow off my tail and giving it a good wag to make sure everything is still working alright.

It takes some time and shuffling of people and confusion about who goes first, but soon enough. I'm walking off the plane. The usual exchanging brief pleasantries with the flight attendants and co-pilot proceed as normal. Up and out of the warm jet way and into the terminal building my fellow passengers and I go. I'm greeted with lots of new smells in the terminal, the one really sticking out in my mind is barbeque, and I know I'm really going to have to get some of that while I'm down here. Subconsciously, I lick my nose, only making all those wonderful smells come out more and gain an added level of complexity. The building is unfamiliar to me, but it's still quite easy to work out where I need to go.

I can only figure the girl’s off on her way, her scent is in the air, but it will settle and I’m not about to get on all fours to try and track her. As I wander further into the airport, someone taps on my shoulder and I reflexively spin to see who it is. There’s no one there, but my ears flick around to the sound of giggling. I turn my head, followed by my body and there she is.

“I saw you making eyes at me.” Her expression quickly went serious after her little joke on me.

I can feel my ears get warm, I’m sure they’re quite red, despite the thick layer of fur.

"So, what's it like?" She returns to a much brighter disposition, satisfied in her embarrassing of me.

My brain searches for a reaction, she smells so great and it's really distracting. She's got on some kind of perfume, which normally gives me a headache, but this is subtle and sweet. "It's not bad, you get used to it pretty quickly, then it gets kind of fun." I answer her excitedly, normally I hate that question, but for a beautiful lady, I'll answer anything.

"I'm Julie, by they way." She holds out her hand.

"I'm Adam," I respond as I carefully shake her hand with my stubby fingers, trying not to grip too hard, but firm enough to appear masculine, I hate weak handshakes. The thought of a dog doing a trick always runs through my mind when I shake hands. I really appreciate it when people don’t say “shake” to me. "Are you from Detroit too?"

She giggles a little, "Sorry, your fur kind of tickled me there a little. I'm from near Detroit; I'm here to see family for the weekend." The conversation goes on from there for longer than I realize. She's surprisingly receptive to me and she seems genuinely fascinated by me. I'm obviously enjoying myself; my tail is an obvious tell, wagging away behind me. We promise to meet back home, exchanging business cards and personal numbers. I've never done something like that before; I might have to start trying this more often if it works out well.

----

When the time comes for us to go our separate ways, I'm walking on clouds all the way out to local friend. He’s been waiting for me longer than he expected to have to. We've met several times before, once since I was changed, so he doesn’t spend anytime gawking at me.

"Did you get lost?" He asks in mock annoyance.

"No, I met a girl." I grin coyly, obviously satisfied with myself.

We pick up my suitcase and head out for his car, where once again, the pillow is utilized. I never expect people to make special accommodations for me. As we pull onto the highway, he rolls down my window using his controls. "you can stick your head out if you want." I glare at him and give him a bit of a growl, he rolls it back up and we have a good laugh about it.

The hotel for the weekend's events isn't far from the airport, but some of our mutual friends are already at his place, so we go back there to get them before heading out to the hotel. I've met them all before, some I haven’t seen since before the change, some I've seen after. Well, except for his cat, who seems to have taken great interest in my tail. We're not a particularly "touchy" bunch, so my fur goes mostly undisturbed, which is just as well, I can't imagine how messed up it's going to get this weekend.

It's time to head to the hotel, I'm apprehensive about it, I don't like being an attention magnet, but I know it's going to happen. Very few of the changed are actually interested in what this convention is about, and I doubt many would be willing to do this. We park and walk up to the building, signs of the strange invaders are already showing, cars with strange bumper stickers with inside jokes, odd vanity plates, and paw print stickers on windows.

I pant a little from the heat and the asphalt is hot under my paw pads. This is a rare occasion as my tail seems to hang limply behind me, stalled by the nervousness as I enter the building. My heart is pounding in my chest. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I mean, a changed person going to a furry convention. And not just any changed person, a freaking husky; the new fox of furrydom. I must be a masochist.

The scene is nothing I haven’t experienced before; it’s just in a new place for me. There are people chatting and hugging and walking around in fursuits. Seeing those eases my mind a bit. It’ll probably be a while before anyone really notices me. I try not to do anything to get me noticed. My tail still seems a bit limp, which should help, and I’m trying extra hard to keep my ears from moving. However, trying to hold a conversation isn’t helping my cause. Well, that and my hind paws aren’t quite as big and puffy as a typical costume’s.

Soon enough I’m catching more than glances. People are pulling out cameras down right staring at me in awe. The though that this wasn’t such a good idea is creeping back into my head. I almost want to run back outside and back home, I’m sure I could find something else to do for a weekend in Memphis. I’m not going to though; I promised myself I’d do this. It’s better to get it over and done with at a smaller con.

We manage to make it registration without too much fuss. The line isn’t very long. Everyone else already had registered; they’re just keeping me company as I make my way to one of the workers checking people in. I pull out my driver’s license, this time pulling it fully out of my wallet.

“Name?”

“Adam Minter.” I present my ID and then get a long look. At first I get the distinct impression that he’s not too happy because I’m in a fursuit, then comes the recognition that I’m not. He takes my driver’s license and looks between the picture on it and my face a few times. “It’s real.” He blushes and looks down at the computer screen, checking me off and sending my badge to the printer. I get my license back and return it to my wallet, upside down; I’ll just fix it later.

Down by the printers one of the workers calls out “MintzBuck.”

I raise my hand, “Right here.”

I get a look, not the usual “oh my god, a real life furry,” it’s more of a “you’re joking right?” I take it, along with the badge holder and program book, with a big smile on my muzzle, having successfully messed with someone else’s head.

“You really got MintzBuck on your badge?”

“Yeah, why not? I still use that name most of the time.” I grin, “I may be husky but I’m still bucky on the inside.”

My statement results in the typical groaning over a bad joke.

----

Need More stuff in here

----

I wake up in the middle of the night, but I don’t get up. I just don’t feel comfortable at all. I’m cold for the first time in months, but I’ far too groggy to process what that means. I just roll over and tightened the blankets over me, trying to get comfortable. I keep drifting in and out of sleep, tossing and turning. I don’t care what time it is, I just want to sleep. I must have just gotten sick or something. Eventually, I am able to fall asleep.

“Hey, get up, it’s almost 11.”

“Huh?” I roll over onto my back and pull the covers, rubbing at my bleary eyes.

“Umm….Mintz?”

“What?” I keep rubbing my eyes, but they’re just not clearing out.

“You’re human.” I’m told very mater-of-factly.

“Haha, very funny.” But it’s not a joke, I didn’t notice at first, but my hands aren’t hitting a muzzle. I’m lying on my back and I don’t feel a tail under me, it just doesn’t feel right. “Holy shit…”

I start examining myself in disbelief, it’s not a dream or a nightmare; it’s real. Which explains why I can’t see anything, I don’t have my glasses or contacts. It’s just like when I changed; I’m now inhabiting a foreign body. Even though it’s familiar, it just doesn’t feel like I’m me. I take a deep breath, but none of the smells I’m used to and depend on are there. The world seems dead without them. My ears aren’t moving around, but I feel like they should be. It’s like I’m deaf.

I sit there, in shock. I can feel the hole in my underwear were my tail should be protruding through, it feels really bad. All of my clothes are going to be like that. And shoes, I don’t have any shoes either. Not to mention the fact that I’m now basically blind too.

Then, I start noticing some odd things. I don’t seem to have a beard, but I know I had one before and my hair seems shorter. Not to mention the fact that I seem to have a much smaller gut. The only thing I can manage to say is “These sheets are really itchy.” My mind is reeling. Nothing is making sense anymore.

“Well, how long has it been since you actually had anything touching your skin?”

It’s worse than when I changed, but that’s probably because it wasn’t something I was terribly upset about. How many furries would really be upset about being turned into an anthropomorphic animal?

[[Category:Story]][[Category:MintzBuck]]

Strange Day

2007-12-08T21:49:46Z

MintzBuck:

Strange Day

2007-12-08T21:47:55Z

MintzBuck:

I hate parking in the garage at the McNamara terminal. Even though it is one of the world’s largest parking structures, there never seem to be any spaces, at least not covered ones. I could park in one of the outside lots and take a bus to the terminal, but my laziness is winning out over my penny-pinching side. Besides, I'm finally taking advantage of my frequent flier miles, so paying a little more for parking isn't any big deal.

Finally I'm able to shoe horn the Dodge Charger into a suitable space next to a concrete support column, at least one side of it should be safe, and I'm not too far from bridge across the terminal. I make my way toward the elevators, roller bag in tow, the new standard for luggage. I wish I could have used my smaller one, I hate having to check bags, but there was no way I could pack everything I would need for a full weekend into my smaller bag without crushing something.

I use one of the quick check-in kiosks, conveniently located right by the entrance. I can feel the strange looks on me as the attendant puts the tag around the handle on my bag. They don’t really bother me anymore; I know I’d probably be doing the same thing if I were them. I pick up the freshly printed boarding pass that just dropped out of the machine, fold it at the perforated seam, and shove it in my pocket. All it takes is the swipe of a credit card, and you're checked in; isn't technology wonderful?

I make my way across the bridge, then up stairs. The upper level always moves faster for security. Most of the people who use the self check-in use the lower checkpoint, they’re the seasoned business travelers and there are a lot of them. The line doesn’t look that much shorter, but it definitely moves faster. I take my place in the queue along with my fellow travelers. Off comes my watch and, along with my keys, it gets shove it into my laptop backpack. Normally, I would have just put those in my shoes, but since I don’t wear them anymore, that’s not really an option. I open up the laptop compartment for easy access when it needs to be placed into one of the x-ray bins as the line shuffles forward and fills in behind me.

After a good five minutes of people watching, and people watching me, I make it up to the bored look TSA official checking IDs. I produce my wallet, held open to show my drivers license along with my boarding pass. I hate taking my license out of the wallet because I usually end up putting it in upside down. She looks at the already creased and wrinkled ticket, then my ID, then me. Not even a second look, a rare occurrence. Though, I suppose she’s probably seen stranger or maybe finally implemented some sort of supplemental training.

There aren't many of us who were affected by whatever caused the changed, one in a thousand or something like that. For the US, not a significant number of people, but it's still enough to populate a good sized city. No one's found an explanation for why people changed; it just seemed to have happened. Even now, you'll hear about current statistics, seems some more are added every day. Some people live on just fine, like me. Others aren't so lucky. They either can't deal with what happened to them, they changed in the wrong place at the wrong time, or any number of other fates. I don't like to use that word though, I don't believe in fate. What do I think causes this to happen to people? I don't know. I'm a scientifically minded person: I like having explanations. But for some reason, I don't care about this one.

I pull my laptop from the bag and put it by itself into one of the plastic tubs and sit my backpack next to it, queued up to make their passage through the x-ray machine, along with my camera bag and pillow. I don't trust the baggage handlers with my two thousand dollars worth of camera equipment. I chuckle as I watch my fellow travelers taking off their shoes. I always thought having to take your shoes off to get them x-rayed was a bit silly, not to mention a pain in the butt. The only thing that really bothers me about it now is the smell. At the last minute, I remember to add my wallet to the collection of soon to be irradiated kit and step though the metal detector, holding out my boarding pass for yet another TSA official to check. As I pass though the electromagnetic field, another handler guides my carry-ons into the x-ray machine, manned by a third trustworthy government contract employee. No beeping this time, despite the fact that I forgot to remove my collar, which I wear as a sort of joke.

My ticket is handed back over to me with a little bit of a scribble on it, I have an idea why they do this. I shove my sticker laden laptop back into its protective foam sleeve and extract my personal belongings from the front pouch of the bag and return them to their rightful places on my person. I know they'll be there, I just feel a lot better with them in place. I pick up the rest as it slides down the rollers and head to the stairs back down to the main level. As I walk down the stairs, I scan over the open area leading to Concourse A, for such an open area, they did a good job controlling echoes. I head over to the newsstand and convenience shop and scan the magazine racks, ignoring the news magazines, not that I've ever really read them, they've all had nothing but articles about the change since it happened.

This is my usually routine when flying. It's about the only time I bother to buy magazines. I pick up one on motorcycles and Scientific American, which I hardly ever read anymore, but there looks to be some interesting articles in this month's issue. The bottles of over priced pop and bags of salty snacks beckon to me as I head for the cashier, but they've lost already, despite the fact that I can’t bring my drink into the airport. There's no line, there rarely is. I hand over my quarry to cashier, she barely notices me at first, bored and lifeless as any airport staff member. When she looks up from the register to claim the money I owe and she gets a good look at me. Like most people, there's no question, just that too long, deer in headlights stare as her brain processes what she's looking at. Without saying anything her brain hops back onto its tracks and completes the procedure it's run through many times before without any further delay. The usual pleasantries are exchanged as I'm giving my change and my purchase. As I walk away, I know she's looking at me more. I don't really mind though, I am a rather strikingly handsome fellow.

I put the magazines into one of the pockets on my backpack as I head deeper into the terminal building. The entrance hall, complete with Duty Free store and entrance to the "World Perks" lounge ends, branching out into the mile long Concourse A. I pull the ticket back out again, which by this point is quite bent out of shape having been squashed under my wallet. I hope the ticket scanner will still read the bar code. This is always a concern, but it never seems to happen, no matter how messed up the limp thermal paper tickets get. It says Gate A8, which means a trip on overhead tram, because I really don't feel like walking a half mile to the end of the concourse if I don't have to. I could use the moving walk ways but I hate how they feel on my paws.

I take the short trip up an escalator, which I don’t like standing on any more than the moving walkways, puts me on at the central tram station where plenty of people are already waiting, too engrossed in their own thoughts to notice me. They're either checking the displays above the doors to make sure they're on the right side of the station, or watching as the two red LED bars move across the terminal map which divides the station. I take my place, checking which side I need to be on. I know I'm getting looks. It's not as if people have seen other changed people. But being that, at least now, we're fairly rare, few people have seen two who are similar. There's definitely a healthy mix of species. I guess I'm fortunate in the fact that I'm nothing too exotic, a familiar looking creature for nearly anyone in the world.

The train arrives and the glass doors slide open, I stay back a bit, not wanting to cause any brain fart related delays. Then we all make out way onto the emptied red fiberglass tram. There aren't any seats. But really, for a ride of a little over a minute, why would you need one? It's not like I could use one comfortably anyway. The doors close far too quickly as last minute stragglers try and run for it. Whoever programmed this thing was none to bright, but they've never changed it, for whatever reason, I guess they have a schedule to keep. As the electric motors spin to life before the train suddenly lurches forward, a recorded voice is ignored, instructing my fellow passengers and I to take a hold of the polished stainless steel hand- grips. I've always liked testing myself against my own momentum and just how much acceleration those powerful motors can impart to the floor underneath me. Of course, now I'm able to cheat a little bit, lightly digging my poorly manicured claws into the generic speckled carpet perfect for hiding coffee spills and other stains.

I watch people and shops zip by below and red-tailed plane after red-tailed plane, parked outside the glass walls of the terminal building, through the smoked Plexiglas windows of the train. I pull out my compact digital camera and snap a few shots. For no good reason, I just like the scenery, even though I've seen so many times before. Sometimes the moment just catches you. I quickly frame and take a couple shots using the still cracked LCD on the back that I never bothered to get fixed. And just like that, the train slows and the ride is finished almost as quickly as it started. The disembarking and loading proceed as usual, with the occasional "what the" look in my direction. Then it's back down another escalator to the main floor before the train is even fully unloaded. I really whish people would walk up and down escalators, few people ever stand on the moving walk ways, but I guess that's because of the ubiquitous roller bag. I may be lazy, but I'm also impatient.

I step off the ribbed metal step and onto the fake stone floor, which is much more pleasant under paw. I gaze over at one of the stores, The "Stylish Paw." Not that I've never seen it before, it just always makes me chuckle. Maybe some day I'll actually peak inside, just to see what reaction I get. But today, as usually, I choose to walk through the small food court area, intoxicated by the smell of toasted Quizno's subs, Hungry Howie's pizza and Mrs. Fields cookies. My stomach growls at me angrily for this, I guess I'm going to have to indulge it with some over priced airport food. Like there was ever any doubt I wasn’t going to.

I think some pizza will do me good. For some reason, I just can't resist the wonderful greasiness of it. I get in line behind some generic looking business man. This area is always a little crowded; the tables and tightly packed counters don't help with that. I wait patiently in the line, these people always take longer than it seems like they need to. I look around, pondering my options, catching the many looks I'm getting. Occasionally I lock eyes with someone and give them a bit of a wink or smiles. Yes, I know you're looking at me, and I don't really mind. Of course they quickly look away and pretend like nothing happened as they go back to their freshly toasted sub or overpriced bottle of cheap American beer. I consider my options, I could get a salad and really mess with the clerk, but I'm in line for a pizza place and I'm going to get a nice cheesy slice.

When it's my turn I order one of their over-sized pieces of pepperoni, what can I say? I stick with the classics, and a diet Coke. I've gained weight since the change, mostly in fur, I think, but I'm still a little bit husky. The clerk doesn't bat an eye or give me a second look, though some of his coworkers seem to be. I guess serving pizza is more work than making it or maybe it's just the endless stream of irritated customers who never know what they want and can't seem to be bothered to think about it until they reach the counter. Can you tell I've been there before? I take my order and set about on the quest to find a suitable place to sit, the waiting area seats seem the most appealing, less risk of tail damage there.

I balance the pop on the small box containing my catch and head over into the waiting area. The sweet smell of cookies forces me to turn my head and gaze into the brightly lit display case, maybe later. I find a nicely deserted area, I've never really liked risking unnecessary social interactions; you could really call me a lone wolf. The cup and box find their spot on one side of where I plan to sit; the rest of my kit is hefted onto the other side. The weight is really the fault of my laptop, a desktop replacement, I don't really believe in buying a new computer that's not better than what I already have. I carefully thread my tail though the opening in the back of the chair. I don't even what to think about what a reptile or kangaroo goes through when trying to find a seat. As I settle in I move the box to my lap, feeling the warmth through my shorts. Opening the lid lets out a puff of pent up smells that swirl up and gets drawn in through my cold-wet nose, which I can't help but lick, making the smell that much more intense. All this just makes my stomach that much more impatient.

Finally, I pick up the cheesy goodness from the box, not giving a thought to sopping up the glistening, orange-ish grease. Even though I know some of it is bound to soak into the white fur of my paws, it would just detract from the experience. I wiggle my somewhat stubby fingers under the warm crust, chewed on claws scraping along it. Even after the change, I still bite my nails, or claws, as the case may be. I have to sort of cup my hand under the slice; I can't exactly hold things the same way as I used to be able to. My hands are somewhere in between paws and what I had before, thankfully I still have thumbs and can generally grip things okay. It's all just a matter of adapting.

Actually eating something, as in taking bites, is quite another experience. Moving parts made for a four legged animal onto a two legged creature makes a lot of things into an interesting affair. Having a mouth made for gripping and ripping prey doesn't really make eating normal, human food all that easy but I've been manage. I take my awkward bites, pausing now and again for a sip of pop. Announcements come on regularly about last calls for boarding and that Detroit is in the Eastern Time zone in a few languages, no one pays attention to them and I have to work to keep my ears from flicking to the speakers every time one comes on. Soon enough the pizza is gone and I lick off my hand, nibbling out bits of crust and cheese. It's a bit animal like, but licking the last of the cheese and sauce from between my fingers and grooming my fur, is an amazing experience and it works a lot better than napkins. I lean back and lick my chops, satisfied with my snack.

I check my watch, adjusting the wide cuff-like leather band that I switched to in order to prevent fur snags. A quick check of the monitor by the gate reveals that I have plenty of time. I don't like doing things at the last minute or having to rush. My eye briefly catches of one of the overhead monitors showing CNN; no doubt it's another depressing report about how the world is going to hell in a hand basket. I've never much paid attention to that stuff, especially not anymore. I'm content in my life and I don't need the weight of the world crushing me. It's at a strange angle to me and my neck is complaining at me to not bend that much any more. As I reorient my head to its standard forward position, something else catches my eye, a child. It really irritates me how parents never seem to be able to control their kids, especially in crowded places. He has the usual look of fascination and wonderment children give me. I guess I'm really nothing but a big dog to them, which is better than how their parents typically see me.

"You're a doggy!" He states the obvious.

"Last I checked." My cynicism is lost on children.

"Can I pet you?" I didn't see this one coming, I'm sarcastic too.

"I don't see why not?" I lean my head down for his smallish hand. I usually oblige such requests, it really does feel good. His frustrated looking mother is already zeroing in on the scene. But I ignore her, this feels too good, he obviously has a dog or knows someone who does. My body reacts beyond my own control, tail wagging behind me, unseen between the rows of chairs; I really hope no one's sitting behind me. Through partially slitted eyes, I can see his mother get closer.

"Ethan, leave the nice man alone." I half expect her grab his hand away.

"I really don't mind, ma'am." I struggle to keep my tongue from lolling out as I talk. My head stays fixed and the small hand rubs between my ears, which find their way to being folded back in the pure bliss of it. Humans don't know what they're missing. I know what she's thinking as she demands young Ethan to stop it, "how can he let himself be treated like an animal" or some other such thinking about keeping one's dignity. Children never judge like that, they see things for what they are on the outside. Adults always seem to be too concerned with being PC, unless they're the truly disgusted ones. The ones who think you're some kind of abomination or freak. For all I know she thinks that, and doesn't want her kid touching me because that'd spread my freakiness to him or some other such nonsense. Of course, there's no proof of how the change is caused and no proof it can be spread, but that never stops people from thinking that way.

As the mother puts her arm around her child and turns him to leave, I half expect her to confront me on what just happened, to tell me I did something wrong. I'm fully prepared to lecture her on parenting and not letting her kid get away from her. I'm quite surprised when she gives me a little rub between the ears and smiles at me, as if to say "I understand," or something like that. But she turns away and leaves before my brain can make sense of it. Never judge a book by its cover I guess, but then again, some people can't resist a cute dog.

*****

The air handling systems in modern buildings are amazing. They keep the temperature perfect and completely exchange the air in a space in some extraordinarily short amount of time. This is a big benefit for those of us who have to have very sensitive noses. No objectionable odors hang around, but at the same time it makes a place feel almost dead. A human doesn't have the sense of disconnectedness this leads to. With far more keen senses you get used to seeing, hearing, and smelling people -- it makes people watching far more enjoyable, most of the time. Even with the air moving in and out at such high volumes, some smells just can't be stopped. It could just be the path that air is taking or that fact that I didn't position myself far away, but those cookies are really starting to smell really good and a single slice of pizza has never really been enough to keep me satisfied.

I slurp up the rest of my pop through the straw and gather my belongings up, hefting the laptop bag onto my back. I don't want to leave anything sitting around lest my bags are confiscated by the TSA as the recorded announcement regularly reminds us all in several languages. The inedible cardboard remnants of my meal find their final resting place in a conveniently placed trashcan as I approach the nicely lit display case of the compact Mrs. Field's. The diminutive oven behind the counter let's everyone know these cookies are relatively fresh, and in fact, the unmistakable aroma of baked goods is emanating from it as I stalk my prey.

The clerk seems distracted, either by talking to the person at the next counter or by her actual task, either way, this is my chance. I walk up to the case and crouch down to examine what they have to offer. I think she saw me, but not well. Soon I'm greeted by the standard, I'm only doing this because I have to, tone. "Can I help you?"

I rise up with a toothy grin -- which might look a bit less silly if I was really trying to look intimidating -- placing my paw-ish hands on the curved glass, claws clicking on it lightly. This elicits that primal response to anything with big sharp teeth of momentary shock as the brain grasps to come up with a plan, fight or flight. I do so love messing with people like this. She balks for a moment and then realizes what's going on, my face really looks more like an excited, friendly dog, especially when the wagging tail is taken into account. If it weren't for the clothing and decidedly more upright stance, I could be mistaken for a stray begging for a treat.

"Umm…yeah, can I get six of those little white chocolate macadamia nut ones, three M&M, and three chocolate chip?" I point to each tray with a stubby padded finger, even though I know she knows where they are. A dozen of these smallish cookies are some reduced price, but it's still more than they're probably worth. I'm a sucker for this sort of thing away. She bags them up with slick parchment paper and I watch. There are plenty of delightful looking treats, but I just can't resist white chocolate macadamia nut cookies. Thankfully, the whole "dogs and chocolate don't mix" seems to not affect me too much. That and the fact that I weigh over two hundred pounds certainly helps. The other kinds are thrown in for variety, the inevitable spur of the moment choices, and because they simply didn't have a dozen of what I was really after. Money changes hands after the standard procedures of asking if there's anything else I would like and I safely stow the bag away for later.

I check my watch, not much time before they start boarding, hopefully. Now is a good time to take care of something before I have to get onboard. Back through the food court area I go, claws lightly clicking on the easily cleaned tile floor, toward the restroom. This is where things get interesting and the four legged parts on a two legged frame really causes an issue, but you learn to adapt and not be too embarrassed by what you have to do. I duck into one of the stalls and I'll leave it at that, you can use your own imagination for this one. This avoids the inevitable awkward look from other patrons. I don't care if they're not even looking down there; I still have a hard time with people watching me. With things taken care of, I go to wash my hands. This is never particularly enjoyable, mostly because of the difficulty involved in drying furry paws. Blow driers don't even work on bare skin and it takes a fairly large number of paper towels to do a decent job of it. But I do manage, it only seems right to, and besides, I don't think licking them is going to do a very good job. I do know where my paws have been and I don't want that in my mouth.

Back by the gate, the crowd has gotten bigger and people are already lining up by the ticket scanner, waiting impatiently for the boarding call. I hang back a little, mostly to avoid bringing unwanted attention to myself. Staring is still unavoidable, however, several people aren't trying to hide it at all. I scan the crowd myself and do some staring of my own, man I hope she's sitting next to me. I wouldn't mind giving her some…

"At this time, Northwest would like to invite all first class passengers to begin boarding." My thoughts are tragically interrupted as the announcement comes over the loud speaker, one steely blue eye still on the girl. I let people go ahead. I could probably board early, giving the “anyone who needs extra time to be seated excuse, but I try to live life as normally as I possibly can. I work my way into the line, being careful to concentrate extra hard on controlling my tail. It really does have a bit of a mind of its own and I don’t want to end up hitting anyone with it. This gets infinitely more difficult as people crowd-in when standing in lines like this.

The attendant doesn't give me a second look and I hand her my crumpled ticket. "Have a good flight." I wonder how many times she's said that and not really thought about it. Walking down the slightly angled jet-way I have to adjust my stance a bit to compensate for the sloped floor, claws digging into the hard carpet on their own with each step. The flight attendants smile at me and I nod to them as I look for my seat, 18A: a window seat and a bit further back than I would have liked, but I don’t have Elite status and the flight was free, so I’m not going to complain too much. I always used to enjoy window seats, but at least it's fun to watch out the window. We all wait as people arrange their belongings and already seated people get up to let others in. The girl’s already seated and I smile at her as I go past and she smiles back. This is rather unfortunate, however, because it causes me to momentarily loose control of my tail and hit an already seated passenger. “I’m sorry! The damn thing just has a mind of its own.” I get a bit of a surprised look and a bit of an eye roll for my victim before my eyes go back up to the girl. I wonder if she likes dogs. I'm going to have to wait for her at the final destination to find out, provided I don't chicken out.

When I finally make it back to my row, I’m pleased to see the person with the isle seat isn’t there yet. Up my camera bag and down goes my special pillow. It's a custom made one with a slot for my tail so I don't have to sit on it when there is no hole in chair. Airlines seem reluctant to put tail slotted seats in planes, it's just as well; I don't want someone else to have access to it when I'm not looking. I carefully straighten the slight curl of it out and slot it into the pillow sitting down gently. To some people it might seem like a strange arrangement, but it's actually comfortable. Most people don't realize just where that thing branches off from your body, again with four legged parts on two legs.

I slot my backpack under the seat in front of me and put my iPod and magazine in the seat pock. Soon enough a stereotypical business man seems to be destined for the seat next to me. He looks at the row number, then at his seat, catching me in his gaze, and then he rechecks his ticket. I look up at him, having seen this and roll my eyes.

"I don't bite and I assure you I'm house broken." He looks surprised as if he doesn't expect me to be able to talk. Into the overhead goes his roller bag and into the seat next to me goes his ass. I just shake my head, some people. I really hope this guy's not a talker. For all the flights I've been on for work, I've had few single serving friends and I don't mind at all. Since the change the percentage has gone up, my body is a real conversation piece. Most people are genuinely curious about what it's like; others seem to think they know everything about it and love sharing their opinions on legal maters of the changed and what not. The latter are lucky I don't bite, most of the time.

Soon the rest of the passengers have boarded the plane, shuffling in through the hatch. Far too few actually go past me but I still try to distract as many people as I can. Most people never really notice, though they do scan the scene before them, they're quickly looking somewhere else before they recognize something strange. I do seem to blend in well with the interior of most planes, white walls and dark blue seats don't provide much contrast to white and dark gray fur. Some people do notice however, locking their eyes with mine, but they quickly turn their heads, embarrassed to stare at someone like that or maybe they just don't want to see the freak

Soon enough the plane is loaded and they close the door, my cell phone is already off and safely stowed. I reach into my bag and pull out my large, custom made earplugs and insert them past the thick fur of my ears. Air travel would be unbearable if not for these. The usual flickering of lights and drop off of air-conditioner airflow precedes the sudden rearward lurch as the pilots start to taxi the plane out. Once we're on our way the flight attendants go over the safety procedures, no one pays attention. I adjust the air nozzle above my head to get that cooling, hissing stream of air to cool me. The hot cabin of a plane is no place for someone covered in fur. Taxiing around DTW always takes far too much time, but it gives you plenty of time to check out the Sky Mall catalogue, the plethora of dog related products always makes me chuckle.

*****
As soon as we reach a suitable altitude out come my ear plugs and in go my ear buds. I hate ear buds, I always have, but when your ears are no longer on the sides of your head, you don't have much of a choice. They're made just like ear monitors used by musicians who don't want to go deaf from playing concerts and have surprisingly high quality sound and not having to put your iPod on full blast is a nice thing to experience. I read though my magazines, then remember the cookies safely tucked away, waiting to be devoured. I indulge myself in a couple; you can never have just one, especially when they're such an unsatisfyingly small size. The flavors mingle in my muzzle as I crunch down on the nuts gleefully like I'm trying to get at the marrow of a bone as the chocolate melts in my warm mouth. The oils from the nuts travel up the back of my throat and into my nose; it's amazing to experience tastes and smells of things you love like this. I can see the guy sitting next to me kind of looking at me in the corner of my eye, frankly, I don't really care, I'm enjoying myself too much.

My ear pieces only cut out the most annoyingly loud sounds, so I have no trouble hearing when they make the announcement for the beverage service. Thankfully, the airlines are still generous enough to give out free drinks, though the barely-half can you get is hardly enough, it's better than having to pay a dollar for it like the nuts. I double check something in my complimentary copy of NWA World Traveler confidently located in the seat pouch. It is five dollars for liquor, just as I suspected. I think I’m going to have to indulge myself, it’s not like I’m going to be driving anyway. The smell of cheap coffee wafts down the cabin of the plane past me, likely unnoticed by most as the carts started to make their way down the isle. I pull a five dollar bill from my wallet and put down my tray, waiting my turn as the flight attendant starts asking people what they want. As she approaches my row, I pull out one of the ear buds, as to not appear rude, even though I know exactly what she is going to be asking.

"Can I get you anything to drink sir?" She smiles that standard smile as she looks at me.

"Diet Pepsi," I hate Pepsi, but I don't have any choice, "and Jack Daniels."

“Five dollars please.” On command, I hand over the bill.

She shuffles through the drawers on the cart, producing a miniature version of the familiar black and white labeled bottle of Tennessee Whiskey and then fills the funny little cup with ice and hands it to me, a long with a napkin, followed by a freshly opened can of pop. Apparently some assembly is required. I pull the "for your protection" seal off the top of the bottle with a claw, they are quite useful for such things and it looks much better than trying to gnaw it off. The scent of whiskey fills my nose as I pour the contents of the bottle over my ice, I drink it in, enjoying all the subtle flavors no human can ever enjoy. I've considered picking up wine tasting, but I think liquor and beer are far more enjoyable, of course. It's not like they don't get judged too, but I have enough hobbies as it is. Then comes the dark caramel-brown of the artificially sweetened cola, its aroma isn't nearly as satisfying. The artificial flavors used in modern soft drinks smell just that, artificial.

I have a feeling the stuff-shirt next to me expects that the big dog is going to lap his drink up. Quite honestly, I've never done that, not even as a joke, I still have a sense of dignity, despite the collar. The drink is consumed in the same manner as any other on the flight. Typically, I drink through a straw, it's just so much easier, but seems rather inappropriate to drink a cocktail through a straw. It did take me quite a bit of practice to get this right, and a lot of damp fur. Soon enough, the first cup load is gone, drinks never last long around me, and I refill it with the remainder of the can, there's enough room, as some ice doesn't appear to have made it. I lean back, lazily sipping away as the alcohol starts to work its magic. I never know if it's the speed I drink at, lack of tolerance, or the fact that I usually drink on an empty stomach, but I always get to this point pretty quickly.

As I return to reading, I yawn and lick my chops with my long tongue; half hoping my single serving annoyance is looking. Why don't I ever get the damn arm rest? He does smell a little nervous and he's definitely sweating. The unmistakable click of a seat belt buckle makes it past my ear buds and private performance of "Brian Wilson" as the business man gets up and heads for the restroom. The armrest is claimed as mine. While he's up, they start collecting trash, I hand over the empty cup and pop can, making a point to keep the little liquor bottle, which I put in my bag. I never got over the college standard of keeping bottles, especially unusual ones. As I sit back, I check my watch; it shouldn't be too much longer now.

The plane is obviously sloped downward as the announcement comes on to turn off and stow electronic devices. Out come the ear-buds and in go the ear plugs, landing is terribly noisy. I put my digital point and shoot in my shirt pocket so I can nab a few shots as the plane flies over Memphis. I've never been here before. I hope I can get to Graceland. The camera is such a convenient size, I prefer keeping it in my shirt pocket, and it’s less likely to get further screen damage that way. Fortunately, most of the shirts I wear anymore have pockets. My wardrobe mostly consists of bowling shirts, since they're all button up. It's not like I have antlers or horns, but getting a T-shirt on over a muzzle and canid ears is still a pain in the tail.

Landings are always such a pain, such anticipation of what's coming, that last half hour can seem incredibly long. They give the local weather conditions, hotter than Detroit, big surprise there. I lean my head down and watch out the little porthole in the fuselage and rebelliously take a few pictures as we float over the city. The airport gets closer and things start looking bigger. Soon the plane is down and the engines are thrown fully into reverse and complaining about it loudly. Taxiing to the gate takes forever, just like at Detroit, hub airports suck. As soon as the plane pulls up the gate people are standing, of course my neighbor is already up, opening the overhead bin to get his roller bag. I take a more subtle approach, though I know I wouldn't be here long. Since he's already in the aisle, I stand up and stretch a bit, pulling the pillow off my tail and giving it a good wag to make sure everything is still working alright.

It takes some time and shuffling of people and confusion about who goes first, but soon enough. I'm walking off the plane. The usual exchanging brief pleasantries with the flight attendants and co-pilot proceed as normal. Up and out of the warm jet way and into the terminal building my fellow passengers and I go. I'm greeted with lots of new smells in the terminal, the one really sticking out in my mind is barbeque, and I know I'm really going to have to get some of that while I'm down here. Subconsciously, I lick my nose, only making all those wonderful smells come out more and gain an added level of complexity. The building is unfamiliar to me, but it's still quite easy to work out where I need to go.

I can only figure the girl’s off on her way, her scent is in the air, but it will settle and I’m not about to get on all fours to try and track her. As I wander further into the airport, someone taps on my shoulder and I reflexively spin to see who it is. There’s no one there, but my ears flick around to the sound of giggling. I turn my head, followed by my body and there she is.

“I saw you making eyes at me.” Her expression quickly went serious after her little joke on me.

I can feel my ears get warm, I’m sure they’re quite red, despite the thick layer of fur.

"So, what's it like?" She returns to a much brighter disposition, satisfied in her embarrassing of me.

My brain searches for a reaction, she smells so great and it's really distracting. She's got on some kind of perfume, which normally gives me a headache, but this is subtle and sweet. "It's not bad, you get used to it pretty quickly, then it gets kind of fun." I answer her excitedly, normally I hate that question, but for a beautiful lady, I'll answer anything.

"I'm Julie, by they way." She holds out her hand.

"I'm Adam," I respond as I carefully shake her hand with my stubby fingers, trying not to grip too hard, but firm enough to appear masculine, I hate weak handshakes. The thought of a dog doing a trick always runs through my mind when I shake hands. I really appreciate it when people don’t say “shake” to me. "Are you from Detroit too?"

She giggles a little, "Sorry, your fur kind of tickled me there a little. I'm from near Detroit; I'm here to see family for the weekend." The conversation goes on from there for longer than I realize. She's surprisingly receptive to me and she seems genuinely fascinated by me. I'm obviously enjoying myself; my tail is an obvious tell, wagging away behind me. We promise to meet back home, exchanging business cards and personal numbers. I've never done something like that before; I might have to start trying this more often if it works out well.

*****
When the time comes for us to go our separate ways, I'm walking on clouds all the way out to local friend. He’s been waiting for me longer than he expected to have to. We've met several times before, once since I was changed, so he doesn’t spend anytime gawking at me.

"Did you get lost?" He asks in mock annoyance.

"No, I met a girl." I grin coyly, obviously satisfied with myself.

We pick up my suitcase and head out for his car, where once again, the pillow is utilized. I never expect people to make special accommodations for me. As we pull onto the highway, he rolls down my window using his controls. "you can stick your head out if you want." I glare at him and give him a bit of a growl, he rolls it back up and we have a good laugh about it.

The hotel for the weekend's events isn't far from the airport, but some of our mutual friends are already at his place, so we go back there to get them before heading out to the hotel. I've met them all before, some I haven’t seen since before the change, some I've seen after. Well, except for his cat, who seems to have taken great interest in my tail. We're not a particularly "touchy" bunch, so my fur goes mostly undisturbed, which is just as well, I can't imagine how messed up it's going to get this weekend.

It's time to head to the hotel, I'm apprehensive about it, I don't like being an attention magnet, but I know it's going to happen. Very few of the changed are actually interested in what this convention is about, and I doubt many would be willing to do this. We park and walk up to the building, signs of the strange invaders are already showing, cars with strange bumper stickers with inside jokes, odd vanity plates, and paw print stickers on windows.

I pant a little from the heat and the asphalt is hot under my paw pads. This is a rare occasion as my tail seems to hang limply behind me, stalled by the nervousness as I enter the building. My heart is pounding in my chest. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I mean, a changed person going to a furry convention. And not just any changed person, a freaking husky; the new fox of furrydom. I must be a masochist.

The scene is nothing I haven’t experienced before; it’s just in a new place for me. There are people chatting and hugging and walking around in fursuits. Seeing those eases my mind a bit. It’ll probably be a while before anyone really notices me. I try not to do anything to get me noticed. My tail still seems a bit limp, which should help, and I’m trying extra hard to keep my ears from moving. However, trying to hold a conversation isn’t helping my cause. Well, that and my hind paws aren’t quite as big and puffy as a typical costume’s.

Soon enough I’m catching more than glances. People are pulling out cameras down right staring at me in awe. The though that this wasn’t such a good idea is creeping back into my head. I almost want to run back outside and back home, I’m sure I could find something else to do for a weekend in Memphis. I’m not going to though; I promised myself I’d do this. It’s better to get it over and done with at a smaller con.

We manage to make it registration without too much fuss. The line isn’t very long. Everyone else already had registered; they’re just keeping me company as I make my way to one of the workers checking people in. I pull out my driver’s license, this time pulling it fully out of my wallet.

“Name?”

“Adam Minter.” I present my ID and then get a long look. At first I get the distinct impression that he’s not too happy because I’m in a fursuit, then comes the recognition that I’m not. He takes my driver’s license and looks between the picture on it and my face a few times. “It’s real.” He blushes and looks down at the computer screen, checking me off and sending my badge to the printer. I get my license back and return it to my wallet, upside down; I’ll just fix it later.

Down by the printers one of the workers calls out “MintzBuck.”

I raise my hand, “Right here.”

I get a look, not the usual “oh my god, a real life furry,” it’s more of a “you’re joking right?” I take it, along with the badge holder and program book, with a big smile on my muzzle, having successfully messed with someone else’s head.

“You really got MintzBuck on your badge?”

“Yeah, why not? I still use that name most of the time.” I grin, “I may be husky but I’m still bucky on the inside.”

My statement results in the typical groaning over a bad joke.

*****

Need More stuff in here

*****

I wake up in the middle of the night, but I don’t get up. I just don’t feel comfortable at all. I’m cold for the first time in months, but I’ far too groggy to process what that means. I just roll over and tightened the blankets over me, trying to get comfortable. I keep drifting in and out of sleep, tossing and turning. I don’t care what time it is, I just want to sleep. I must have just gotten sick or something. Eventually, I am able to fall asleep.

“Hey, get up, it’s almost 11.”

“Huh?” I roll over onto my back and pull the covers, rubbing at my bleary eyes.

“Umm….Mintz?”

“What?” I keep rubbing my eyes, but they’re just not clearing out.

“You’re human.” I’m told very mater-of-factly.

“Haha, very funny.” But it’s not a joke, I didn’t notice at first, but my hands aren’t hitting a muzzle. I’m lying on my back and I don’t feel a tail under me, it just doesn’t feel right. “Holy shit…”

I start examining myself in disbelief, it’s not a dream or a nightmare; it’s real. Which explains why I can’t see anything, I don’t have my glasses or contacts. It’s just like when I changed; I’m now inhabiting a foreign body. Even though it’s familiar, it just doesn’t feel like I’m me. I take a deep breath, but none of the smells I’m used to and depend on are there. The world seems dead without them. My ears aren’t moving around, but I feel like they should be. It’s like I’m deaf.

I sit there, in shock. I can feel the hole in my underwear were my tail should be protruding through, it feels really bad. All of my clothes are going to be like that. And shoes, I don’t have any shoes either. Not to mention the fact that I’m now basically blind too.

Then, I start noticing some odd things. I don’t seem to have a beard, but I know I had one before and my hair seems shorter. Not to mention the fact that I seem to have a much smaller gut. The only thing I can manage to say is “These sheets are really itchy.” My mind is reeling. Nothing is making sense anymore.

“Well, how long has it been since you actually had anything touching your skin?”

It’s worse than when I changed, but that’s probably because it wasn’t something I was terribly upset about. How many furries would really be upset about being turned into an anthropomorphic animal?

[[Category:Story]][[Category:MintzBuck]]

Strange Day

2007-12-08T21:46:47Z

MintzBuck: New page: I hate parking in the garage at the McNamara terminal. Even though it is one of the world’s largest parking structures, there never seem to be any spaces, at least not covered ones. I co...

I hate parking in the garage at the McNamara terminal. Even though it is one of the world’s largest parking structures, there never seem to be any spaces, at least not covered ones. I could park in one of the outside lots and take a bus to the terminal, but my laziness is winning out over my penny-pinching side. Besides, I'm finally taking advantage of my frequent flier miles, so paying a little more for parking isn't any big deal.

Finally I'm able to shoe horn the Dodge Charger into a suitable space next to a concrete support column, at least one side of it should be safe, and I'm not too far from bridge across the terminal. I make my way toward the elevators, roller bag in tow, the new standard for luggage. I wish I could have used my smaller one, I hate having to check bags, but there was no way I could pack everything I would need for a full weekend into my smaller bag without crushing something.

I use one of the quick check-in kiosks, conveniently located right by the entrance. I can feel the strange looks on me as the attendant puts the tag around the handle on my bag. They don’t really bother me anymore; I know I’d probably be doing the same thing if I were them. I pick up the freshly printed boarding pass that just dropped out of the machine, fold it at the perforated seam, and shove it in my pocket. All it takes is the swipe of a credit card, and you're checked in; isn't technology wonderful?

I make my way across the bridge, then up stairs. The upper level always moves faster for security. Most of the people who use the self check-in use the lower checkpoint, they’re the seasoned business travelers and there are a lot of them. The line doesn’t look that much shorter, but it definitely moves faster. I take my place in the queue along with my fellow travelers. Off comes my watch and, along with my keys, it gets shove it into my laptop backpack. Normally, I would have just put those in my shoes, but since I don’t wear them anymore, that’s not really an option. I open up the laptop compartment for easy access when it needs to be placed into one of the x-ray bins as the line shuffles forward and fills in behind me.

After a good five minutes of people watching, and people watching me, I make it up to the bored look TSA official checking IDs. I produce my wallet, held open to show my drivers license along with my boarding pass. I hate taking my license out of the wallet because I usually end up putting it in upside down. She looks at the already creased and wrinkled ticket, then my ID, then me. Not even a second look, a rare occurrence. Though, I suppose she’s probably seen stranger or maybe finally implemented some sort of supplemental training.

There aren't many of us who were affected by whatever caused the changed, one in a thousand or something like that. For the US, not a significant number of people, but it's still enough to populate a good sized city. No one's found an explanation for why people changed; it just seemed to have happened. Even now, you'll hear about current statistics, seems some more are added every day. Some people live on just fine, like me. Others aren't so lucky. They either can't deal with what happened to them, they changed in the wrong place at the wrong time, or any number of other fates. I don't like to use that word though, I don't believe in fate. What do I think causes this to happen to people? I don't know. I'm a scientifically minded person: I like having explanations. But for some reason, I don't care about this one.

I pull my laptop from the bag and put it by itself into one of the plastic tubs and sit my backpack next to it, queued up to make their passage through the x-ray machine, along with my camera bag and pillow. I don't trust the baggage handlers with my two thousand dollars worth of camera equipment. I chuckle as I watch my fellow travelers taking off their shoes. I always thought having to take your shoes off to get them x-rayed was a bit silly, not to mention a pain in the butt. The only thing that really bothers me about it now is the smell. At the last minute, I remember to add my wallet to the collection of soon to be irradiated kit and step though the metal detector, holding out my boarding pass for yet another TSA official to check. As I pass though the electromagnetic field, another handler guides my carry-ons into the x-ray machine, manned by a third trustworthy government contract employee. No beeping this time, despite the fact that I forgot to remove my collar, which I wear as a sort of joke.

My ticket is handed back over to me with a little bit of a scribble on it, I have an idea why they do this. I shove my sticker laden laptop back into its protective foam sleeve and extract my personal belongings from the front pouch of the bag and return them to their rightful places on my person. I know they'll be there, I just feel a lot better with them in place. I pick up the rest as it slides down the rollers and head to the stairs back down to the main level. As I walk down the stairs, I scan over the open area leading to Concourse A, for such an open area, they did a good job controlling echoes. I head over to the newsstand and convenience shop and scan the magazine racks, ignoring the news magazines, not that I've ever really read them, they've all had nothing but articles about the change since it happened.

This is my usually routine when flying. It's about the only time I bother to buy magazines. I pick up one on motorcycles and Scientific American, which I hardly ever read anymore, but there looks to be some interesting articles in this month's issue. The bottles of over priced pop and bags of salty snacks beckon to me as I head for the cashier, but they've lost already, despite the fact that I can’t bring my drink into the airport. There's no line, there rarely is. I hand over my quarry to cashier, she barely notices me at first, bored and lifeless as any airport staff member. When she looks up from the register to claim the money I owe and she gets a good look at me. Like most people, there's no question, just that too long, deer in headlights stare as her brain processes what she's looking at. Without saying anything her brain hops back onto its tracks and completes the procedure it's run through many times before without any further delay. The usual pleasantries are exchanged as I'm giving my change and my purchase. As I walk away, I know she's looking at me more. I don't really mind though, I am a rather strikingly handsome fellow.

I put the magazines into one of the pockets on my backpack as I head deeper into the terminal building. The entrance hall, complete with Duty Free store and entrance to the "World Perks" lounge ends, branching out into the mile long Concourse A. I pull the ticket back out again, which by this point is quite bent out of shape having been squashed under my wallet. I hope the ticket scanner will still read the bar code. This is always a concern, but it never seems to happen, no matter how messed up the limp thermal paper tickets get. It says Gate A8, which means a trip on overhead tram, because I really don't feel like walking a half mile to the end of the concourse if I don't have to. I could use the moving walk ways but I hate how they feel on my paws.

I take the short trip up an escalator, which I don’t like standing on any more than the moving walkways, puts me on at the central tram station where plenty of people are already waiting, too engrossed in their own thoughts to notice me. They're either checking the displays above the doors to make sure they're on the right side of the station, or watching as the two red LED bars move across the terminal map which divides the station. I take my place, checking which side I need to be on. I know I'm getting looks. It's not as if people have seen other changed people. But being that, at least now, we're fairly rare, few people have seen two who are similar. There's definitely a healthy mix of species. I guess I'm fortunate in the fact that I'm nothing too exotic, a familiar looking creature for nearly anyone in the world.

The train arrives and the glass doors slide open, I stay back a bit, not wanting to cause any brain fart related delays. Then we all make out way onto the emptied red fiberglass tram. There aren't any seats. But really, for a ride of a little over a minute, why would you need one? It's not like I could use one comfortably anyway. The doors close far too quickly as last minute stragglers try and run for it. Whoever programmed this thing was none to bright, but they've never changed it, for whatever reason, I guess they have a schedule to keep. As the electric motors spin to life before the train suddenly lurches forward, a recorded voice is ignored, instructing my fellow passengers and I to take a hold of the polished stainless steel hand- grips. I've always liked testing myself against my own momentum and just how much acceleration those powerful motors can impart to the floor underneath me. Of course, now I'm able to cheat a little bit, lightly digging my poorly manicured claws into the generic speckled carpet perfect for hiding coffee spills and other stains.

I watch people and shops zip by below and red-tailed plane after red-tailed plane, parked outside the glass walls of the terminal building, through the smoked Plexiglas windows of the train. I pull out my compact digital camera and snap a few shots. For no good reason, I just like the scenery, even though I've seen so many times before. Sometimes the moment just catches you. I quickly frame and take a couple shots using the still cracked LCD on the back that I never bothered to get fixed. And just like that, the train slows and the ride is finished almost as quickly as it started. The disembarking and loading proceed as usual, with the occasional "what the" look in my direction. Then it's back down another escalator to the main floor before the train is even fully unloaded. I really whish people would walk up and down escalators, few people ever stand on the moving walk ways, but I guess that's because of the ubiquitous roller bag. I may be lazy, but I'm also impatient.

I step off the ribbed metal step and onto the fake stone floor, which is much more pleasant under paw. I gaze over at one of the stores, The "Stylish Paw." Not that I've never seen it before, it just always makes me chuckle. Maybe some day I'll actually peak inside, just to see what reaction I get. But today, as usually, I choose to walk through the small food court area, intoxicated by the smell of toasted Quizno's subs, Hungry Howie's pizza and Mrs. Fields cookies. My stomach growls at me angrily for this, I guess I'm going to have to indulge it with some over priced airport food. Like there was ever any doubt I wasn’t going to.

I think some pizza will do me good. For some reason, I just can't resist the wonderful greasiness of it. I get in line behind some generic looking business man. This area is always a little crowded; the tables and tightly packed counters don't help with that. I wait patiently in the line, these people always take longer than it seems like they need to. I look around, pondering my options, catching the many looks I'm getting. Occasionally I lock eyes with someone and give them a bit of a wink or smiles. Yes, I know you're looking at me, and I don't really mind. Of course they quickly look away and pretend like nothing happened as they go back to their freshly toasted sub or overpriced bottle of cheap American beer. I consider my options, I could get a salad and really mess with the clerk, but I'm in line for a pizza place and I'm going to get a nice cheesy slice.

When it's my turn I order one of their over-sized pieces of pepperoni, what can I say? I stick with the classics, and a diet Coke. I've gained weight since the change, mostly in fur, I think, but I'm still a little bit husky. The clerk doesn't bat an eye or give me a second look, though some of his coworkers seem to be. I guess serving pizza is more work than making it or maybe it's just the endless stream of irritated customers who never know what they want and can't seem to be bothered to think about it until they reach the counter. Can you tell I've been there before? I take my order and set about on the quest to find a suitable place to sit, the waiting area seats seem the most appealing, less risk of tail damage there.

I balance the pop on the small box containing my catch and head over into the waiting area. The sweet smell of cookies forces me to turn my head and gaze into the brightly lit display case, maybe later. I find a nicely deserted area, I've never really liked risking unnecessary social interactions; you could really call me a lone wolf. The cup and box find their spot on one side of where I plan to sit; the rest of my kit is hefted onto the other side. The weight is really the fault of my laptop, a desktop replacement, I don't really believe in buying a new computer that's not better than what I already have. I carefully thread my tail though the opening in the back of the chair. I don't even what to think about what a reptile or kangaroo goes through when trying to find a seat. As I settle in I move the box to my lap, feeling the warmth through my shorts. Opening the lid lets out a puff of pent up smells that swirl up and gets drawn in through my cold-wet nose, which I can't help but lick, making the smell that much more intense. All this just makes my stomach that much more impatient.

Finally, I pick up the cheesy goodness from the box, not giving a thought to sopping up the glistening, orange-ish grease. Even though I know some of it is bound to soak into the white fur of my paws, it would just detract from the experience. I wiggle my somewhat stubby fingers under the warm crust, chewed on claws scraping along it. Even after the change, I still bite my nails, or claws, as the case may be. I have to sort of cup my hand under the slice; I can't exactly hold things the same way as I used to be able to. My hands are somewhere in between paws and what I had before, thankfully I still have thumbs and can generally grip things okay. It's all just a matter of adapting.

Actually eating something, as in taking bites, is quite another experience. Moving parts made for a four legged animal onto a two legged creature makes a lot of things into an interesting affair. Having a mouth made for gripping and ripping prey doesn't really make eating normal, human food all that easy but I've been manage. I take my awkward bites, pausing now and again for a sip of pop. Announcements come on regularly about last calls for boarding and that Detroit is in the Eastern Time zone in a few languages, no one pays attention to them and I have to work to keep my ears from flicking to the speakers every time one comes on. Soon enough the pizza is gone and I lick off my hand, nibbling out bits of crust and cheese. It's a bit animal like, but licking the last of the cheese and sauce from between my fingers and grooming my fur, is an amazing experience and it works a lot better than napkins. I lean back and lick my chops, satisfied with my snack.

I check my watch, adjusting the wide cuff-like leather band that I switched to in order to prevent fur snags. A quick check of the monitor by the gate reveals that I have plenty of time. I don't like doing things at the last minute or having to rush. My eye briefly catches of one of the overhead monitors showing CNN; no doubt it's another depressing report about how the world is going to hell in a hand basket. I've never much paid attention to that stuff, especially not anymore. I'm content in my life and I don't need the weight of the world crushing me. It's at a strange angle to me and my neck is complaining at me to not bend that much any more. As I reorient my head to its standard forward position, something else catches my eye, a child. It really irritates me how parents never seem to be able to control their kids, especially in crowded places. He has the usual look of fascination and wonderment children give me. I guess I'm really nothing but a big dog to them, which is better than how their parents typically see me.

"You're a doggy!" He states the obvious.

"Last I checked." My cynicism is lost on children.

"Can I pet you?" I didn't see this one coming, I'm sarcastic too.

"I don't see why not?" I lean my head down for his smallish hand. I usually oblige such requests, it really does feel good. His frustrated looking mother is already zeroing in on the scene. But I ignore her, this feels too good, he obviously has a dog or knows someone who does. My body reacts beyond my own control, tail wagging behind me, unseen between the rows of chairs; I really hope no one's sitting behind me. Through partially slitted eyes, I can see his mother get closer.

"Ethan, leave the nice man alone." I half expect her grab his hand away.

"I really don't mind, ma'am." I struggle to keep my tongue from lolling out as I talk. My head stays fixed and the small hand rubs between my ears, which find their way to being folded back in the pure bliss of it. Humans don't know what they're missing. I know what she's thinking as she demands young Ethan to stop it, "how can he let himself be treated like an animal" or some other such thinking about keeping one's dignity. Children never judge like that, they see things for what they are on the outside. Adults always seem to be too concerned with being PC, unless they're the truly disgusted ones. The ones who think you're some kind of abomination or freak. For all I know she thinks that, and doesn't want her kid touching me because that'd spread my freakiness to him or some other such nonsense. Of course, there's no proof of how the change is caused and no proof it can be spread, but that never stops people from thinking that way.

As the mother puts her arm around her child and turns him to leave, I half expect her to confront me on what just happened, to tell me I did something wrong. I'm fully prepared to lecture her on parenting and not letting her kid get away from her. I'm quite surprised when she gives me a little rub between the ears and smiles at me, as if to say "I understand," or something like that. But she turns away and leaves before my brain can make sense of it. Never judge a book by its cover I guess, but then again, some people can't resist a cute dog.

*****

The air handling systems in modern buildings are amazing. They keep the temperature perfect and completely exchange the air in a space in some extraordinarily short amount of time. This is a big benefit for those of us who have to have very sensitive noses. No objectionable odors hang around, but at the same time it makes a place feel almost dead. A human doesn't have the sense of disconnectedness this leads to. With far more keen senses you get used to seeing, hearing, and smelling people -- it makes people watching far more enjoyable, most of the time. Even with the air moving in and out at such high volumes, some smells just can't be stopped. It could just be the path that air is taking or that fact that I didn't position myself far away, but those cookies are really starting to smell really good and a single slice of pizza has never really been enough to keep me satisfied.

I slurp up the rest of my pop through the straw and gather my belongings up, hefting the laptop bag onto my back. I don't want to leave anything sitting around lest my bags are confiscated by the TSA as the recorded announcement regularly reminds us all in several languages. The inedible cardboard remnants of my meal find their final resting place in a conveniently placed trashcan as I approach the nicely lit display case of the compact Mrs. Field's. The diminutive oven behind the counter let's everyone know these cookies are relatively fresh, and in fact, the unmistakable aroma of baked goods is emanating from it as I stalk my prey.

The clerk seems distracted, either by talking to the person at the next counter or by her actual task, either way, this is my chance. I walk up to the case and crouch down to examine what they have to offer. I think she saw me, but not well. Soon I'm greeted by the standard, I'm only doing this because I have to, tone. "Can I help you?"

I rise up with a toothy grin -- which might look a bit less silly if I was really trying to look intimidating -- placing my paw-ish hands on the curved glass, claws clicking on it lightly. This elicits that primal response to anything with big sharp teeth of momentary shock as the brain grasps to come up with a plan, fight or flight. I do so love messing with people like this. She balks for a moment and then realizes what's going on, my face really looks more like an excited, friendly dog, especially when the wagging tail is taken into account. If it weren't for the clothing and decidedly more upright stance, I could be mistaken for a stray begging for a treat.

"Umm…yeah, can I get six of those little white chocolate macadamia nut ones, three M&M, and three chocolate chip?" I point to each tray with a stubby padded finger, even though I know she knows where they are. A dozen of these smallish cookies are some reduced price, but it's still more than they're probably worth. I'm a sucker for this sort of thing away. She bags them up with slick parchment paper and I watch. There are plenty of delightful looking treats, but I just can't resist white chocolate macadamia nut cookies. Thankfully, the whole "dogs and chocolate don't mix" seems to not affect me too much. That and the fact that I weigh over two hundred pounds certainly helps. The other kinds are thrown in for variety, the inevitable spur of the moment choices, and because they simply didn't have a dozen of what I was really after. Money changes hands after the standard procedures of asking if there's anything else I would like and I safely stow the bag away for later.

I check my watch, not much time before they start boarding, hopefully. Now is a good time to take care of something before I have to get onboard. Back through the food court area I go, claws lightly clicking on the easily cleaned tile floor, toward the restroom. This is where things get interesting and the four legged parts on a two legged frame really causes an issue, but you learn to adapt and not be too embarrassed by what you have to do. I duck into one of the stalls and I'll leave it at that, you can use your own imagination for this one. This avoids the inevitable awkward look from other patrons. I don't care if they're not even looking down there; I still have a hard time with people watching me. With things taken care of, I go to wash my hands. This is never particularly enjoyable, mostly because of the difficulty involved in drying furry paws. Blow driers don't even work on bare skin and it takes a fairly large number of paper towels to do a decent job of it. But I do manage, it only seems right to, and besides, I don't think licking them is going to do a very good job. I do know where my paws have been and I don't want that in my mouth.

Back by the gate, the crowd has gotten bigger and people are already lining up by the ticket scanner, waiting impatiently for the boarding call. I hang back a little, mostly to avoid bringing unwanted attention to myself. Staring is still unavoidable, however, several people aren't trying to hide it at all. I scan the crowd myself and do some staring of my own, man I hope she's sitting next to me. I wouldn't mind giving her some…

"At this time, Northwest would like to invite all first class passengers to begin boarding." My thoughts are tragically interrupted as the announcement comes over the loud speaker, one steely blue eye still on the girl. I let people go ahead. I could probably board early, giving the “anyone who needs extra time to be seated excuse, but I try to live life as normally as I possibly can. I work my way into the line, being careful to concentrate extra hard on controlling my tail. It really does have a bit of a mind of its own and I don’t want to end up hitting anyone with it. This gets infinitely more difficult as people crowd-in when standing in lines like this.

The attendant doesn't give me a second look and I hand her my crumpled ticket. "Have a good flight." I wonder how many times she's said that and not really thought about it. Walking down the slightly angled jet-way I have to adjust my stance a bit to compensate for the sloped floor, claws digging into the hard carpet on their own with each step. The flight attendants smile at me and I nod to them as I look for my seat, 18A: a window seat and a bit further back than I would have liked, but I don’t have Elite status and the flight was free, so I’m not going to complain too much. I always used to enjoy window seats, but at least it's fun to watch out the window. We all wait as people arrange their belongings and already seated people get up to let others in. The girl’s already seated and I smile at her as I go past and she smiles back. This is rather unfortunate, however, because it causes me to momentarily loose control of my tail and hit an already seated passenger. “I’m sorry! The damn thing just has a mind of its own.” I get a bit of a surprised look and a bit of an eye roll for my victim before my eyes go back up to the girl. I wonder if she likes dogs. I'm going to have to wait for her at the final destination to find out, provided I don't chicken out.

When I finally make it back to my row, I’m pleased to see the person with the isle seat isn’t there yet. Up my camera bag and down goes my special pillow. It's a custom made one with a slot for my tail so I don't have to sit on it when there is no hole in chair. Airlines seem reluctant to put tail slotted seats in planes, it's just as well; I don't want someone else to have access to it when I'm not looking. I carefully straighten the slight curl of it out and slot it into the pillow sitting down gently. To some people it might seem like a strange arrangement, but it's actually comfortable. Most people don't realize just where that thing branches off from your body, again with four legged parts on two legs.

I slot my backpack under the seat in front of me and put my iPod and magazine in the seat pock. Soon enough a stereotypical business man seems to be destined for the seat next to me. He looks at the row number, then at his seat, catching me in his gaze, and then he rechecks his ticket. I look up at him, having seen this and roll my eyes.

"I don't bite and I assure you I'm house broken." He looks surprised as if he doesn't expect me to be able to talk. Into the overhead goes his roller bag and into the seat next to me goes his ass. I just shake my head, some people. I really hope this guy's not a talker. For all the flights I've been on for work, I've had few single serving friends and I don't mind at all. Since the change the percentage has gone up, my body is a real conversation piece. Most people are genuinely curious about what it's like; others seem to think they know everything about it and love sharing their opinions on legal maters of the changed and what not. The latter are lucky I don't bite, most of the time.

Soon the rest of the passengers have boarded the plane, shuffling in through the hatch. Far too few actually go past me but I still try to distract as many people as I can. Most people never really notice, though they do scan the scene before them, they're quickly looking somewhere else before they recognize something strange. I do seem to blend in well with the interior of most planes, white walls and dark blue seats don't provide much contrast to white and dark gray fur. Some people do notice however, locking their eyes with mine, but they quickly turn their heads, embarrassed to stare at someone like that or maybe they just don't want to see the freak

Soon enough the plane is loaded and they close the door, my cell phone is already off and safely stowed. I reach into my bag and pull out my large, custom made earplugs and insert them past the thick fur of my ears. Air travel would be unbearable if not for these. The usual flickering of lights and drop off of air-conditioner airflow precedes the sudden rearward lurch as the pilots start to taxi the plane out. Once we're on our way the flight attendants go over the safety procedures, no one pays attention. I adjust the air nozzle above my head to get that cooling, hissing stream of air to cool me. The hot cabin of a plane is no place for someone covered in fur. Taxiing around DTW always takes far too much time, but it gives you plenty of time to check out the Sky Mall catalogue, the plethora of dog related products always makes me chuckle.

*****
As soon as we reach a suitable altitude out come my ear plugs and in go my ear buds. I hate ear buds, I always have, but when your ears are no longer on the sides of your head, you don't have much of a choice. They're made just like ear monitors used by musicians who don't want to go deaf from playing concerts and have surprisingly high quality sound and not having to put your iPod on full blast is a nice thing to experience. I read though my magazines, then remember the cookies safely tucked away, waiting to be devoured. I indulge myself in a couple; you can never have just one, especially when they're such an unsatisfyingly small size. The flavors mingle in my muzzle as I crunch down on the nuts gleefully like I'm trying to get at the marrow of a bone as the chocolate melts in my warm mouth. The oils from the nuts travel up the back of my throat and into my nose; it's amazing to experience tastes and smells of things you love like this. I can see the guy sitting next to me kind of looking at me in the corner of my eye, frankly, I don't really care, I'm enjoying myself too much.

My ear pieces only cut out the most annoyingly loud sounds, so I have no trouble hearing when they make the announcement for the beverage service. Thankfully, the airlines are still generous enough to give out free drinks, though the barely-half can you get is hardly enough, it's better than having to pay a dollar for it like the nuts. I double check something in my complimentary copy of NWA World Traveler confidently located in the seat pouch. It is five dollars for liquor, just as I suspected. I think I’m going to have to indulge myself, it’s not like I’m going to be driving anyway. The smell of cheap coffee wafts down the cabin of the plane past me, likely unnoticed by most as the carts started to make their way down the isle. I pull a five dollar bill from my wallet and put down my tray, waiting my turn as the flight attendant starts asking people what they want. As she approaches my row, I pull out one of the ear buds, as to not appear rude, even though I know exactly what she is going to be asking.

"Can I get you anything to drink sir?" She smiles that standard smile as she looks at me.

"Diet Pepsi," I hate Pepsi, but I don't have any choice, "and Jack Daniels."

“Five dollars please.” On command, I hand over the bill.

She shuffles through the drawers on the cart, producing a miniature version of the familiar black and white labeled bottle of Tennessee Whiskey and then fills the funny little cup with ice and hands it to me, a long with a napkin, followed by a freshly opened can of pop. Apparently some assembly is required. I pull the "for your protection" seal off the top of the bottle with a claw, they are quite useful for such things and it looks much better than trying to gnaw it off. The scent of whiskey fills my nose as I pour the contents of the bottle over my ice, I drink it in, enjoying all the subtle flavors no human can ever enjoy. I've considered picking up wine tasting, but I think liquor and beer are far more enjoyable, of course. It's not like they don't get judged too, but I have enough hobbies as it is. Then comes the dark caramel-brown of the artificially sweetened cola, its aroma isn't nearly as satisfying. The artificial flavors used in modern soft drinks smell just that, artificial.

I have a feeling the stuff-shirt next to me expects that the big dog is going to lap his drink up. Quite honestly, I've never done that, not even as a joke, I still have a sense of dignity, despite the collar. The drink is consumed in the same manner as any other on the flight. Typically, I drink through a straw, it's just so much easier, but seems rather inappropriate to drink a cocktail through a straw. It did take me quite a bit of practice to get this right, and a lot of damp fur. Soon enough, the first cup load is gone, drinks never last long around me, and I refill it with the remainder of the can, there's enough room, as some ice doesn't appear to have made it. I lean back, lazily sipping away as the alcohol starts to work its magic. I never know if it's the speed I drink at, lack of tolerance, or the fact that I usually drink on an empty stomach, but I always get to this point pretty quickly.

As I return to reading, I yawn and lick my chops with my long tongue; half hoping my single serving annoyance is looking. Why don't I ever get the damn arm rest? He does smell a little nervous and he's definitely sweating. The unmistakable click of a seat belt buckle makes it past my ear buds and private performance of "Brian Wilson" as the business man gets up and heads for the restroom. The armrest is claimed as mine. While he's up, they start collecting trash, I hand over the empty cup and pop can, making a point to keep the little liquor bottle, which I put in my bag. I never got over the college standard of keeping bottles, especially unusual ones. As I sit back, I check my watch; it shouldn't be too much longer now.

The plane is obviously sloped downward as the announcement comes on to turn off and stow electronic devices. Out come the ear-buds and in go the ear plugs, landing is terribly noisy. I put my digital point and shoot in my shirt pocket so I can nab a few shots as the plane flies over Memphis. I've never been here before. I hope I can get to Graceland. The camera is such a convenient size, I prefer keeping it in my shirt pocket, and it’s less likely to get further screen damage that way. Fortunately, most of the shirts I wear anymore have pockets. My wardrobe mostly consists of bowling shirts, since they're all button up. It's not like I have antlers or horns, but getting a T-shirt on over a muzzle and canid ears is still a pain in the tail.

Landings are always such a pain, such anticipation of what's coming, that last half hour can seem incredibly long. They give the local weather conditions, hotter than Detroit, big surprise there. I lean my head down and watch out the little porthole in the fuselage and rebelliously take a few pictures as we float over the city. The airport gets closer and things start looking bigger. Soon the plane is down and the engines are thrown fully into reverse and complaining about it loudly. Taxiing to the gate takes forever, just like at Detroit, hub airports suck. As soon as the plane pulls up the gate people are standing, of course my neighbor is already up, opening the overhead bin to get his roller bag. I take a more subtle approach, though I know I wouldn't be here long. Since he's already in the aisle, I stand up and stretch a bit, pulling the pillow off my tail and giving it a good wag to make sure everything is still working alright.

It takes some time and shuffling of people and confusion about who goes first, but soon enough. I'm walking off the plane. The usual exchanging brief pleasantries with the flight attendants and co-pilot proceed as normal. Up and out of the warm jet way and into the terminal building my fellow passengers and I go. I'm greeted with lots of new smells in the terminal, the one really sticking out in my mind is barbeque, and I know I'm really going to have to get some of that while I'm down here. Subconsciously, I lick my nose, only making all those wonderful smells come out more and gain an added level of complexity. The building is unfamiliar to me, but it's still quite easy to work out where I need to go.

I can only figure the girl’s off on her way, her scent is in the air, but it will settle and I’m not about to get on all fours to try and track her. As I wander further into the airport, someone taps on my shoulder and I reflexively spin to see who it is. There’s no one there, but my ears flick around to the sound of giggling. I turn my head, followed by my body and there she is.

“I saw you making eyes at me.” Her expression quickly went serious after her little joke on me.

I can feel my ears get warm, I’m sure they’re quite red, despite the thick layer of fur.

"So, what's it like?" She returns to a much brighter disposition, satisfied in her embarrassing of me.

My brain searches for a reaction, she smells so great and it's really distracting. She's got on some kind of perfume, which normally gives me a headache, but this is subtle and sweet. "It's not bad, you get used to it pretty quickly, then it gets kind of fun." I answer her excitedly, normally I hate that question, but for a beautiful lady, I'll answer anything.

"I'm Julie, by they way." She holds out her hand.

"I'm Adam," I respond as I carefully shake her hand with my stubby fingers, trying not to grip too hard, but firm enough to appear masculine, I hate weak handshakes. The thought of a dog doing a trick always runs through my mind when I shake hands. I really appreciate it when people don’t say “shake” to me. "Are you from Detroit too?"

She giggles a little, "Sorry, your fur kind of tickled me there a little. I'm from near Detroit; I'm here to see family for the weekend." The conversation goes on from there for longer than I realize. She's surprisingly receptive to me and she seems genuinely fascinated by me. I'm obviously enjoying myself; my tail is an obvious tell, wagging away behind me. We promise to meet back home, exchanging business cards and personal numbers. I've never done something like that before; I might have to start trying this more often if it works out well.

*****
When the time comes for us to go our separate ways, I'm walking on clouds all the way out to local friend. He’s been waiting for me longer than he expected to have to. We've met several times before, once since I was changed, so he doesn’t spend anytime gawking at me.

"Did you get lost?" He asks in mock annoyance.

"No, I met a girl." I grin coyly, obviously satisfied with myself.

We pick up my suitcase and head out for his car, where once again, the pillow is utilized. I never expect people to make special accommodations for me. As we pull onto the highway, he rolls down my window using his controls. "you can stick your head out if you want." I glare at him and give him a bit of a growl, he rolls it back up and we have a good laugh about it.

The hotel for the weekend's events isn't far from the airport, but some of our mutual friends are already at his place, so we go back there to get them before heading out to the hotel. I've met them all before, some I haven’t seen since before the change, some I've seen after. Well, except for his cat, who seems to have taken great interest in my tail. We're not a particularly "touchy" bunch, so my fur goes mostly undisturbed, which is just as well, I can't imagine how messed up it's going to get this weekend.

It's time to head to the hotel, I'm apprehensive about it, I don't like being an attention magnet, but I know it's going to happen. Very few of the changed are actually interested in what this convention is about, and I doubt many would be willing to do this. We park and walk up to the building, signs of the strange invaders are already showing, cars with strange bumper stickers with inside jokes, odd vanity plates, and paw print stickers on windows.

I pant a little from the heat and the asphalt is hot under my paw pads. This is a rare occasion as my tail seems to hang limply behind me, stalled by the nervousness as I enter the building. My heart is pounding in my chest. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I mean, a changed person going to a furry convention. And not just any changed person, a freaking husky; the new fox of furrydom. I must be a masochist.

The scene is nothing I haven’t experienced before; it’s just in a new place for me. There are people chatting and hugging and walking around in fursuits. Seeing those eases my mind a bit. It’ll probably be a while before anyone really notices me. I try not to do anything to get me noticed. My tail still seems a bit limp, which should help, and I’m trying extra hard to keep my ears from moving. However, trying to hold a conversation isn’t helping my cause. Well, that and my hind paws aren’t quite as big and puffy as a typical costume’s.

Soon enough I’m catching more than glances. People are pulling out cameras down right staring at me in awe. The though that this wasn’t such a good idea is creeping back into my head. I almost want to run back outside and back home, I’m sure I could find something else to do for a weekend in Memphis. I’m not going to though; I promised myself I’d do this. It’s better to get it over and done with at a smaller con.

We manage to make it registration without too much fuss. The line isn’t very long. Everyone else already had registered; they’re just keeping me company as I make my way to one of the workers checking people in. I pull out my driver’s license, this time pulling it fully out of my wallet.

“Name?”

“Adam Minter.” I present my ID and then get a long look. At first I get the distinct impression that he’s not too happy because I’m in a fursuit, then comes the recognition that I’m not. He takes my driver’s license and looks between the picture on it and my face a few times. “It’s real.” He blushes and looks down at the computer screen, checking me off and sending my badge to the printer. I get my license back and return it to my wallet, upside down; I’ll just fix it later.

Down by the printers one of the workers calls out “MintzBuck.”

I raise my hand, “Right here.”

I get a look, not the usual “oh my god, a real life furry,” it’s more of a “you’re joking right?” I take it, along with the badge holder and program book, with a big smile on my muzzle, having successfully messed with someone else’s head.

“You really got MintzBuck on your badge?”

“Yeah, why not? I still use that name most of the time.” I grin, “I may be husky but I’m still bucky on the inside.”

My statement results in the typical groaning over a bad joke.

*****

Need More stuff in here

*****

I wake up in the middle of the night, but I don’t get up. I just don’t feel comfortable at all. I’m cold for the first time in months, but I’ far too groggy to process what that means. I just roll over and tightened the blankets over me, trying to get comfortable. I keep drifting in and out of sleep, tossing and turning. I don’t care what time it is, I just want to sleep. I must have just gotten sick or something. Eventually, I am able to fall asleep.

“Hey, get up, it’s almost 11.”

“Huh?” I roll over onto my back and pull the covers, rubbing at my bleary eyes.

“Umm….Mintz?”

“What?” I keep rubbing my eyes, but they’re just not clearing out.

“You’re human.” I’m told very mater-of-factly.

“Haha, very funny.” But it’s not a joke, I didn’t notice at first, but my hands aren’t hitting a muzzle. I’m lying on my back and I don’t feel a tail under me, it just doesn’t feel right. “Holy shit…”

I start examining myself in disbelief, it’s not a dream or a nightmare; it’s real. Which explains why I can’t see anything, I don’t have my glasses or contacts. It’s just like when I changed; I’m now inhabiting a foreign body. Even though it’s familiar, it just doesn’t feel like I’m me. I take a deep breath, but none of the smells I’m used to and depend on are there. The world seems dead without them. My ears aren’t moving around, but I feel like they should be. It’s like I’m deaf.

I sit there, in shock. I can feel the hole in my underwear were my tail should be protruding through, it feels really bad. All of my clothes are going to be like that. And shoes, I don’t have any shoes either. Not to mention the fact that I’m now basically blind too.

Then, I start noticing some odd things. I don’t seem to have a beard, but I know I had one before and my hair seems shorter. Not to mention the fact that I seem to have a much smaller gut. The only thing I can manage to say is “These sheets are really itchy.” My mind is reeling. Nothing is making sense anymore.

“Well, how long has it been since you actually had anything touching your skin?”

It’s worse than when I changed, but that’s probably because it wasn’t something I was terribly upset about. How many furries would really be upset about being turned into an anthropomorphic animal?

The Catalyst

2007-12-08T21:45:21Z

MintzBuck: New page: Prologue It all started late in the day of March 6, 2002, or maybe it was closer to the morning of March 7, in a mid-western college town. Ann Arbor, Michigan isn’t really that quiet a ...

Prologue

It all started late in the day of March 6, 2002, or maybe it was closer to the morning of March 7, in a mid-western college town. Ann Arbor, Michigan isn’t really that quiet a place, especially during March Madness, when the home team is in the tournament, but this March was going to be even madder than most. A change was coming, in more ways than one, but no one suspected anything. It was calm, unusually warm for the time of year. Deep in the offices of the sociology department at the University of Michigan, someone was still working deep into the night, studying something unusual, a book, a talisman, a statue? No one knew what started this all. The professor had finally found its secret and was about to unleash its power on the world. He had not clue what he was really doing, his whole life he had secretly studied these things, too scared of what people might think if they knew how he felt about it. The professor had been studying transformation myths in society, what would happen if all of a sudden people started changing, not mentally, but physically. Events had shaped how people thought, sometimes not even permanently, but what he wanted to do would bring an ever lasting to the society that he had been paid to study and teach about for years.

After years of searching, he found what he was looking for, the thing that would allow for the change, make it possible and he was going to lead it. From ancient South America it came, a society that he had neglected to study, he just hadn’t found it that terribly interesting. Anyway, who wanted to get eaten by bugs and mosquitoes trying to find artifacts in the rainforest? Besides, there were plenty of other transformation myths in Greek and Roman and Native North American societies to study, and they offered much more pleasant working conditions. But non the less, this was his best lead. Wanting to keep this a private, personal search, he relied on his own vague translations of the writing, but they seemed to be telling him what he wanted. This would transform him just how he wanted, he wasn’t sure of the form itself, the word wasn’t in his translation guide, but whatever it was would probably be better than human, and cause some kind of stir. What would a single changed individual lead to, would others want to follow (something he figured was a given anyway after years of lurking around groups on the internet), how would those who change be treated, and so on. He was opening the door for people to explore something more in life, that there is more than just being human.

Over the years, seeing the art and reading the stories he found made him care less and less for being human. Compared to what people had dreamed up, it was down right boring. He wanted to make that true, for himself at least. This was his last best hope, and it was about time to go for it. He didn’t know how it would end, but it really didn’t matter, he didn’t even think about what could go wrong as he read. Only the reader would be changed, as far as he could tell. Which was good, he didn’t want anyone changing who didn’t want to or to have to involve someone else in his little venture.

He read the words that he barely understood; not realizing what might be unleashed. The pronunciation was a little off, but the Gods knew what was being asked of them non-the less. His lips quivered and his hands shook as he finished reading, but he felt nothing, not a tingle, not short of breath, not even aroused. Disappointed, he slumped down in his desk chair and dropped the object on the table. Nothing spectacular happened. The sun didn’t stop shining (not like he could tell, it was night anyway), the Earth was still turning, and he was still himself. He sat up and examined the object closely; it showed no signs of changing either. As he turned to get one of the books he had gotten on translation, he definitely felt something. His whole body felt dry, but he wasn’t thirsty, his clothes felt constricting and unnecessary, so he removed them over a time that felt like hours, but was less than a minute. Sill nothing on the outside showed, still pink flesh. He looks back up, his legs wobbled a bit and he fell to the floor, pushing the chair out of the way. Again, what only took minutes, seemed like hours, he lay there, unconscious, head swimming around in a sea of bazaar dreams and visions. When he awoke, thinks where a bit garbled, he blinked as his eyes adjusted, something filled the center of his vision. He tried to stand, but couldn’t, instead he rolled onto his belly and stood up on all fours. Oddly, it didn’t seem foreign or uncomfortable at all, it felt good. He looked his new body over, he flicked his new tail as he looked down his black-spot-on-yellow furred cat-like body and saw something completely unexpected, wings. Hey, it might be more fun this way. He saw his hands where now scaly-clawed bird’s feet. He had to get a better view of this. The clock showed him only twenty minutes had passes since his experiment began, still plenty of time to explore this and hide away somewhere.

Opening the door didn’t prove to be as hard as he had expected, but it was still pretty scratched up. He padded down the hall to the restrooms, pulling the door open with his large beak. What he saw in the mirror excited him, a perfect griffin staring back at him. After satisfying his curiosity, the professor made his way back to his office, strange thoughts started to enter his mind. He had to find others, to share this, he could spread this, to let others experience what he had, the joy. But for now, he had to hide his treasure. Over the years he had planed for this, incase something actually did work; he’d have to find a place to hide out for a while. He took his prized possession, the only thing he really cared about anymore there. Tucked away in a hidden corner, it was perfect; no one could find it or him, even if they wanted to. Now, to experience what this body had to offer.

He passed back through the offices, claws clicking against the floor. As he stepped outside into a dimly lit courtyard, he fully spread his wings. It felt so great! Their weight hung from his body, their substantial mass ready to lift him, his muscled tensed. He flapped them a bit to get a feel for them, it felt so natural and right, the urge to spread his gift heightened. He trotted a short distance and took off, the wind ran through his fur and feathers, it was wonderful. The world spread bellow him, the few students wandering around, likely drunk or looking to get so, didn’t notice him. Perhaps they’d want to share this. How wonderful to have more like him. No warnings about such things where known to him, no way of spreading it other than the talisman was known to him either, but he certainly felt like a bit or scratch would do it. He spotted two girls walking towards from a frat house, perfect. He landed silently between a pair of houses ahead of them in the direction they were heading.

They were obviously drunk, stumbling down the streets of Ann Arbor. At least they might not feel pain, if there was any. One started to wander through the lawn towards him. Good, the less work he has to do. Her friend weakly followed, mumbling something. He could hear it perfectly, but wasn’t paying attention; his sharp eyes were fixated on the short brunette who was headed his way. Distances and what to do were being plotted in his head. She was getting closer and closer, and then she tripped, right in front of him. He panicked, looking at the fallen human. She looked up, blinked and screamed, as though sobered for an instant, a look of pure shock and horror on her face. He grabbed her with his strong talons as her friend looked up, then turned tail and ran. He paid no mind to the feeing girl. The screaming ended as the girl passed out, either from fright or drunkenness. The smell of alcohol permeated his nose, or what he had of one, why did humans even bother with this stuff. He gently bit into her shoulder and stepped back. Her body twitched. Though the light was dim, he could see perfectly, the young woman’s body seemed to dissolve in placed, leaving something that resembled a large robin. Had something gone wrong? What had happened her? The bird fluttered away, past him. It seemed to be following its former companion. Something didn’t seem so unusual about this to him. Maybe it was supposed to happen this way. He shrugged and took off, looking for more people to change.

That night he managed to repeat the same thing fourteen times, no two came out exactly the same. Each resulted in a different creature, bird and varying things that resembled different mammals. They all scurried of few off though, leaving him to wonder what they might do on their own. One even resembled some sort of fish. Not wanting to kill anyone, he carried it to the river and dropped it there. He couldn’t directly change people into what he was maybe. Or where his victims doomed to becoming mere animals, loosing all sense of humanity? He knew he didn’t look it, but at least couldn’t they be like him, keeping their minds in their new bodies? It was getting nearer to sunrise, so he headed back to the office, retrieved his treasure and headed to his former human home. Perhaps there was no place for him to really hide, a life traveling seemed to suit him more now. He found a way to carry his treasure and fled, never to be seen again. A life alone seemed to be his way, occasionally sharing his gift, but never letting his identity or form be known. He would be the only griffin, the originator of all of what was to come.

He was out of contact with the world for weeks. The affairs of the human world were of no consequence to him now. It would be long before he knew what he had unleashed on the world, how his dream, and the dream of those like him, really had come true.

Those first victims spread out, attacking others, many not knowing what had happened to them. They changed, but most would not end up as those, The Catalysts, where were the first victims of the professor. They turned into all manor of beast, but all kept a precious grab onto whom they were. Still able to function as they did before, though now part beast. It wasn’t even an important story for quite some time after it had started. The changed took place over days. A tabloid fantasy that seemed to be real news in a preoccupied nation was ignored. By the time anyone started to care, it was too late, there was no stopping what had already begun and would continue for a long time to come.

No one seemed to notice the disappearance of the professor, most of his classes where taught by graduate students anyway. The others were mostly college students, who tend to disappear randomly anyway. There was no big story because no one really knew what had happened. The first victims where ignored by the news because no one would believe it, it all seemed so impossible. But sometimes the impossible is the only truth.

Day 1

It was a typical day, as all days seem to be after a while. Wake up at the same time to the same radio station, same glass of orange juice, read the same web comics. Days never seem special, especially those that end up being way out of the ordinary. I was happy to be out of Thursday Physics early, as usual and have my lunch and head back to my on campus apartment. Not that it was really on campus, being a quarter mile down the road and not even built by the school, but the fries were fresh, so hopefully they wouldn’t cool down too much. A rather large bird swooped around the quad. Not an unusual sight, Canada Geese liked to hang out around on the grassy area framed by the five main buildings on campus. It looked different though, it acted a lot different too. It looked like it was dive-bombing people. I just thought it was proof birds really did try and poop on people’s heads, shrugged it off and went on. I strolled down the walkway, then smack! The damn thing got me. I stumbled a bit, trying to not spill my foot all over the ground and land on it. The thing swooped over me and perched up on the new building, almost looking proud of what it had done, before swooping off to look for something else to occupy its time with, other students. I stood there for a minute; it must have gotten five other people, I hope someone called animal control on that damn thing.

I set down my food for a second and adjusted my jacket, the damn thing hand bitten through it and me. That was just what I needed, a bird bite on my right shoulder about where the strap of my backpack normally sat. With my lunch in hand, and backpack over one shoulder I continued on. That was going to need some attention, hydrogen peroxide, triple antibiotic cream, and a band aide would do nicely. When I got back to my seventh floor apartment, I checked it out. Good, barely a scratch, no stitches, no need to waist my time at a hospital. All fixed up I turned to my lunch; it was a bit jumbled, but not much worse for wear than normal. With plenty of time until my next class, I kicked back and checked on some news on the Internet. Same old same old, though there were a couple people missing in Ann Arbor, they probably just got drunk and wandered off somewhere. They’d show up in a couple days and all would be right with the world.

Man, that bite itched. I scratched at it as I wandered the web, not really paying much mind. It was probably just from the band aide. I checked it again; the cut wasn’t bleeding so I just took the band aide off. It felt much better that way, but still itched a little, some raised bumps seemed to have formed around it. I had no intention of going to the damn hospital; I had my last class for the day now any. I headed back across 10 Mile to Physics Lab.

Right on time, my partner had already started getting the stuff out for it. More fun with forces, oh boy. Thank god these things never take long, that bite was starting to itch more. The class seemed a bit thin today. Maybe someone got bitten and decided to take the rest of the day off, or actually went to the hospital. I might have, if not for the fact that we aren’t exactly the largest college in the state of Michigan and don’t have an on campus medical center. They must have just gotten it worse. At least if there was something more to the cut, it wasn’t hurting me enough to stop me from going to any classes. It was almost the weekend away, so I wasn’t worried even if my arm did fall off, I could get it put back on over the weekend.

With the lab over I headed back down the road to go home. I hadn’t seen it on my way to class, but there seemed to be a small flock of birds hanging around. All slightly different, swooping at whom ever passed by. They just kind of watched me, as if to know I had already been taken care of. Something ran past me. What the heck? Why on earth had someone let their dog loose on campus? It took off down the road, probably just heading home. I stopped around where I had been attacked earlier and looked back at the birds perched along the top of the Engineering building. It was eerie, just sitting there, four birds, all of them were different species. Animal control must be backed up or something, because in the middle sat that first one, some kind of a bizarre goose. How the hell did that thing manage to bite through a jacket and shirt? I shrugged it off and continued on, the bite itching more now. It seemed to get worse with each step; I was going to have to check it again once I got back to my apartment.

I dropped my backpack and started to work on a lap report, having completely forgotten about my little wound. Half way through it, the bite started to itch again. I just decided to wait until I was done with the report to even bother; it was probably just the scab forming over it anyway. As I printed the lab report out, it took three tries because the ink head dries out easily, my shirt felt strange. I could feel my shirt, but not directly, like how you feel a jacket over a t-shirt, disconnected, it moved too easily over my shoulder. Now that wasn’t right. Quickly, I attached papers together with my shark stapler and headed for the bathroom.

I didn’t really expect to see anything unusual; it probably just broke a nerve or something. With the door closed for privacy, I pulled my shirt off; it almost felt like it was getting caught on something under it, over my shoulder. Something was definitely NOT right. Man, what’s going on here, I gulped and took a look. There was indeed something strange going on. A tuft of iridescent green feathers stuck out from the skin, a few rows of them poked from my shoulder and arm. Oddly enough, they looked like they belonged there; they sat smoothly against my flesh, small bumps sat around them, some with small quills sticking out of them. A large portion of my back looked liked a plucked chicken.

Now it was just weird. What the hell was going on? This kind of thing was not supposed to be possible; humans tend not to spontaneously grow feathers after a bird bites them. What the heck is going to happen to me? It looked like more where coming in. But was anything else going to come with them? Wings? Talons? A beak!? I have to admit, there was a part of me that was utterly fascinated, that wanted it to happen, but why did it have to be a bird? Then there was the logical side, the side that feared being treated like some kind of freak or out cast. I wasn’t going to let this out any sooner than I had to. Hopefully it wouldn’t be hard to keep under wraps, at least for a few days. I sighed and pulled a shirt back on, trying to be a bit more careful with my new feathers.

I couldn’t shake the image of them under my shirt for the rest of the day. I could feel more growing in and pull on my shirt, forcing me to adjust it form time to time. Man, they grew in fast too. I didn’t tell a sole, none of my roommates, none of my online friends, and not my parents. Though I knew some of my online friends would be very interested in this, heck, I was myself. But there’s a big difference between imagining you’re something else or being turned into something else, and actually having that happen. I don’t know for what reason I was really hiding it; not wanting to get caught, wanting to keep it for myself to enjoy, or because I didn’t want to seem like a bragger. I’ve always been a modest person.

As I sat in my chair, things seemed so, well, normal again. Other than the fact that I was growing green feathers, the world seemed no different. I actually watched the news for once, maybe there would be something about these animals on, but I was disappointed to find nothing, but not really surprised. When I ate dinner, things did seem kind of odd, my teeth were way too smooth and hard, leading me to believe I had a beak coming sometime, hopefully later rather than sooner. I could feel the feathers whenever I stretched, it seemed like they were spreading to my chest and belly. Plus, there was something weird with my back, a dull numbness between my shoulders, I could only guess what that meant, though I really didn’t want to. I couldn’t really lean back in my chair, not because of the feathers though. My clothes just felt wrong, like I had been given someone else’s wardrobe.

I stuck it out until my normal shower and bedtime. Now this was going to be interesting, as best as I could tell, they weren’t really duck feathers and I didn’t think most feathers handled water all that well. I got my sleeping shorts and underwear and grabbed a t-shirt. Usually, I slept without a shirt on, but I also usually didn’t have feathers on my back. With the bathroom door safely shut, I pulled off my shirt, feeling it brush against feathers all the way. I closed my eyes and turned around, back facing the mirror, burned my head and looked. Solid feathers all down my back, lying smoothly against the skin, overlapping my pants. I turned slightly, trying to see if I could tell what was wrong with my back, there was a definite bulge that was fare more evident from the side. As I looked, I could swear I saw it grow and twitch a bit. I faced the mirror; some feathers came over my shoulders and around my sides. My whole front looked as though it was covered in goose bumps. I leaned in close to the mirror and opened my mouth, my teeth weren’t really teeth anymore, instead; they were rough black ridges. I sighed, at least I could still hide it, for how much longer, I didn’t know.

I stepped into the shower, it was then that I noticed how dry my feet seemed, but I wasn’t really concerned with that at the time. I looked at the handle, then at the showerhead, man I whish I used wash clothes, it would have vastly simplified things. I turned on the water, and waited for it to warm up. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, if I were going to be a bird, I probably wouldn’t have to take showers too often. I turned on the shower and stepped under the water, trying only to get the parts that were still bare wet. I tried to just wash my hair, but instead learned just how much water feathers can hold and how long it takes for them to dry. Wet ruffled feathers are no fun when you have no way of preening them. Once I managed to dry my back, my feathers felt horribly uncomfortable matted under a t-shirt. I slunk into bed and laid on my stomach, there was no way I could have slept on my back, not that I ever really did. I checked my clock one last time before drifting off.

Day Two

Dick Purtan, local Oldies morning DJ extraordinaire, greeted me once again, right on time at 8:30 am. Things where just like they were supposed to be for that last minute of bliss before the reality struck and I felt the tightness in my shirt and just a general discomfort. The events of the day before popped back in my head as I pulled on my glasses and shut the radio off. My glasses didn’t fit as well as they had the night before, why should I expect sleep to slow down what ever was happening to me. I tossed back the blanket with a heavy sigh and sat up. I slid off the bed, my bare feet hit the carpet; something didn’t feel right about how the skin of my feet slid along it. I dreaded looking down, but I was going to have to sometime anyway. The skin of my feet was dry, brittle, and gray, my toes seemed long too, and the smallest two seemed to be reseeding. I flexed my toes and turned my feet a bit at the angle, everything was working right. The nails had changed too, they where thick and black, curling over the tips of my toes. Firmly planted on the floor, I stood. Everything seemed to be working right, so far.

I walked over and pulled open my sock drawer to retrieve a pair. It isn’t until something is different about you that you really notice what you are doing, but when you see that difference it tends to shake you up. I saw my hands; they looked a lot like my feet had. I was a bit more shaken up over it; I watched the crackled gray skin and clawed hands reach in for a white pair of balled socks. I tried to shake it off, but it was just freaky. I slumped over a bit and pulled the socks over my strange feet, feeling the toe nails stick on the elastic fabric. Socks were added to the list of things I would likely not need soon, even if I did need them it’s not like I could use them. I pulled down my sleeping shorts, at least my legs seemed mostly normal. But the shorts did seem to stick on something on my rear; I had a pretty good idea of what was there. I ran my hand over my rear, feeling the growing bulge of a tail, its growing quills poking through the fabric. Pants and underwear were definitely going to need some changes in the near future. My jeans were next; at least they went on without any problem. I looked into my closet; there was no way I was going to attempt changing shirts so I just decided to pull on a flannel over my t-shirt. It was then that I noticed the t-shirt that I had put on the night before. It was a Jimmy Buffett shirt, and like many of his shirts, it featured anthropomorphic parrots. I did sort of laugh to myself, since I certainly seemed like I was on my way to looking like one of them. Finally, I put on my shoes; thankfully, they easily slid onto my feet, at least that was one normal thing.

Next on the agenda, breakfast, which was, and still is, my usual glass of orange juice. As I sipped it, I headed for the bathroom, not really wanting to think about what I might find in there. Much to my surprise, the first thing was a trashcan full of brown hair. I didn’t even want to think about what that might mean. Shrugging that off, I looked at my face in the mirror, it seemed different, but I couldn’t really put my finger on how. Another sip of OJ and I opened my mouth to take a look, the dark gray masses that had once been my teeth seemed to have moved around a bit, getting ready to grow out. The upper and lower masses seemed to have a tip to them. Next, time for my contacts, I set my glasses aside and popped them in without thinking. Which was dangerous, I nearly poked out my right eye with a growing talon. I ran a brush though my hair, which seemed to pick up a lot more loose hair than usual and I finished off my orange juice and rinsed out the cup in the sink.

As I walked back out through the kitchen, I replaced my cup to its usual position. I flopped down in my chair to watch television and kill some time before class. I cringed, feeling my new tail a bit crushed under me. Now, not having to take shows or not being able to wear socks didn’t bug me at all, but not being able to sit, that was not going to fly with me, not like I really had any choice in the matter though. I tried leaning back, but whatever was on my back had gotten larger and more painful so I leaned forward, which I was at least used to doing. More of the same old crap on the morning shows so I shut it off and checked my usual web comics; another check mark for normality. I made sure my stuff was ready for class and pulled on my jacket. Having a normal routine, or a backpack, doesn’t help when you have feathers or stuff growing out of your back. With a bit of a painful crunch, I pulled on my backpack. It was bearable, but I could tell I wasn’t going to be using it much longer.

With that, I went out into the world, or at least the hallway. Out there, it seemed just like normal, or at least what normal had been. Waiting for the elevator, worrying about the strange sounds it made. Not that it was unusual, but I seemed to be the only person leaving the building at the time. I walked to class along 10 Mile Road as normal, but the traffic seemed a bit light; it was far easier to j-walk than normal to get across the five lanes. Even for nine in the morning on a commuter campus, it seemed dead. There were still a few of those birds hanging around and a few dogs. Now that was a different, dogs on campus, or things that looked like dogs, they just sort of watched me walk by. Once in the science building, I climbed the stairs to the second floor for my first class of the day.

I bend down to sit in my normal seat, it definitely seemed more empty than usual, and then my butt hit the chair. I shuddered, just then remembering what was under the seat of my pants, feeling feathers and flesh crushed under my weight. This is going to be a pain in the ass. I let myself down the rest of the way, wiggling a bit before getting comfortable enough to sit there, at least of the time being. I pulled out my notebook and pencil. This was going to be as normal a day as I could possibly make it. I glanced around the room, four, maybe five people. At least one of my classmates seemed to be a bit uncomfortable, sweating a good bit, even though the room wasn’t all that warm. The teacher arrived right on time as always, she was a bit surprised at how empty the room was, she made some comment, though I didn’t pay much attention, nor care. She took roll, which was unusual, but she had done it before on low attendance days. The lesson went forward though. I found myself trying to find a more comfortable possession every five minutes. It made the class seem like an eternity. That and most of my body, that hadn’t already had confirmed feather sightings began to itch. Finally, it ended, I got up and left, glad to know I only had one more class that day, and it was just down the hall.

A small crowd waited outside, the next class inside would soon be over and then it would be time to try and sit again. A few of the people waiting looked sort of off, only how I could imagine myself looking at the moment. Not too comfortable in their clothes or at least trying to hide something. The class let out, fewer people than usual, for that one as well. This thing really was affecting quite a few people, or they were at least scared off by what was going on the day before. Those of us who where waiting for class filed in and took out seats. I just sat on the edge of the chair, it was more comfortable that. I stared at my notes, and then glanced at my watch. Shouldn’t have class started by now. Those of us who where there started looking around, and each other. The teacher obviously wasn’t coming, we all agreed on that and left.

I decided to get something to eat from the cafeteria again; man was I starving. Fortunately, it was open and I got a two grilled chicken sandwiches and fries. I grabbed a bunch of mayo packet and to drink, I got pink lemonade. I was surprised by the choice myself; I usually got Mt. Dew or Pepsi, but it just sounded good to me. I carried it back to my apartment, just as the day before, but with far less trouble.

Back at home; I ate my lunch while watching "The Price is Right.” I was getting more used to sitting on my new tail. The concept of having it was still quite foreign to me though. The feeling of tightness in my shirt started to increase, but since it was now the weekend, I wouldn’t have to worry so much about appearances, there was no way I was going to go out unless I had to. Thankfully weekends where always dead times, I’d normally be alone most of the time anyway, so I wouldn’t have to wear certain clothing items unless I had to.

After I finished eating I went to the bathroom, I supposed I’d have to face that sooner or later anyway. It would be a good idea to take stock on what was going on anyway. Thankfully I was the only one home at the moment, so I would be able to take as long as I liked. Having already taken off my shoes when I got back, I first pulled off my socks. It was fare easier to get them off than it was to get them on earlier that day. What was inside was quite different. Three large toes, each tipped with the thick claw and covered in over lapping gray scales, each with a slight dull sheen. The back of my foot looked like it was ready to burst open, it was amazing that I couldn’t feel the claws that were threatening to push out of my heels. My shoes and socks would never be worn again, it’s not like I could even wear them if I had wanted to.

Next, I undid my belt and pants, sliding them, along with my underwear, down my legs. I pulled them off over my feet, and inspected myself. Still relatively unchanged, though my legs were covered in bumps and growing quills, soft and downy feathers surrounded my crotch, which it seemed relatively untouched. At least that was something. But as I looked back at my tail, I had to wonder exactly how I was going to be able to keep my modesty with that thing sticking out of my rear. I ran my hands down the smooth feathers, it felt oddly good, better than just skin. I looked down as I stroked the feathers, for the first time noticing just how much my hands had changed. I was left with three fingers and a thumb on each hand, the same color gray scales and claws were almost complete as with my feet. I wondered exactly how I could have missed such a dramatic change in my hands. Maybe I didn’t want to see it, or maybe it just happened so subtly that everything seemed so natural. Fast enough so you don’t linger on how your body is being pulled, stretched, and reshaped, but slow enough so you can get used to it. I wiggled my fingers, inter-laced the clawed fingers, it all seemed so natural. Loosing a finger on each hand didn’t seem to make that much of a difference, so far. Everything moved like it should, I didn’t even feel like I was missing anything, to my brain, I wasn’t.

After staring at my hands, for god knows how long, I finally and carefully, pealed off my shirt. As I drew it over my head, I felt feathers jam and stick painfully to the fabric. Whatever was growing out of my back didn’t make it any easier, though eventually, everything seemed to calm itself down, and I got the shirt off. In the mirror, my chest seemed to stick out more, covered with a solid layer of bright white feathers. I turned sideways to get a better look; overall, it looked like I was leaning forward a bit, my green back feathers glinting in the light. Now that I had a better look at them, the bumps seemed more like arms, and with some concentration, I could move them. They too were covered in green feathers; some white or grayish feathers lined the bottoms. After a little while, I could move them quite easily, though there movement seemed somewhat restricted. I was able to fold them up, somehow, along my back. They seemed to just want to sit that way. It was eerily comfortable. I looked myself over a bit more. The feathers were to my elbow, but it didn’t seem like they were going any farther. Instead, my lower arms where dry and cracked, like my hands had been the day before; all the hair stripped from the surface.

For the first time, I looked straight into my own eyes in the reflection. I was still in there, wasn’t I? My eyes seemed be a bit bigger and farther apart, the color of my irises the same grayish blue they had always been, with the same glint. I studied my face some more, leaning over the sink. My face was covered with what looked like stubble, but was only the start of the feathers what would eventually cover it. My nose definitely seemed smaller, my lips thinner and pushed out a bit by what was behind them. I tilted my head, there was quite a bit of hair missing, but in contrast, a few green feathers stuck up through it. Inside my mouth, still poised to exit, were the makings of a beak. It was odd though; parts seemed thick and wide, like molars almost. Inside the beak was a soft pink tongue that seemed to be coming from deep within my mouth. I lifted my tongue; beneath it was solid beak, smooth and bony. Before I readied myself to get dressed again, at least as much as I was going to be able to dress myself anyway, I noticed a patch of bright rosy red feathers on my thought. I shook my head and resolved to try and figure out just what kind of bird I was turning into.

Shirtless, I walked into my bedroom and traded in my t-shirt for a bowling shirt, at least I could leave it up buttoned and it wouldn’t be so obvious that something was happening to me. Plus, it would be quite a bit more comfortable and less restrictive for my growing wings. That was what I had finally decided my new limbs where. Besides, what else could they have been? I also went with shorts instead of pants, less for growing feathers to bind up on. I retired to my chair, carefully sitting on my tail, something I wasn’t going to be able to keep doing. I sat there, shoe and sock less in front of my laptop, which rested on it’s rolling cart.

It’s almost always a pain to try and find information on the Internet, even when it’s as broad as lists of kinds of birds. Today, it seemed to be overly generous that day. I easily found a site that showed species of birds with names and pictures. I scrolled through the pages. Sparrows, no, owls, no, hawks and eagles, no. Maybe parrots, though none of them seemed to have the same color feathers, at least not ones that were so bright. I looked through a little more, there was one more category: humming birds. I was taken a bit aback, but there it was, right at the top, a male ruby-throated humming bird. It definitely seemed to have the right colors. Only time would tell if the look was the same, but so far, it was pretty close.

So I was turning into a giant, six-limbed humming bird, I wasn’t really sure what to think about that. I just sat there and stared at the picture. At least I wasn’t turning into something ugly. I really hoped I wasn’t going to shrink too much or be really jumpy; I just couldn’t picture myself fluttering all over the place.

I tried not to act any differently, going through my usually routine of spending the rest of the day online, checking things from time to time. I was perhaps a bit lower key then usual though, I wasn’t sure how I would react to anything. As I web surfed, I decided to actually check some news websites. I often checked the Detroit Free Press’s website, but that was mostly for sports. Though, that day something on the front page caught my eye. “Unusually High Number of Animal Attacks Reported in Metro Area.” I blinked and clicked the link. All over southeastern Michigan there had been thousands of animal attacks from all manner of creature. All the people who had been attacked were showing signs of strange changes; all were growing feathers, fur, or scales. People farther and farther away were reporting the same thing. A massive effort was under way to capture the animals that were doing the attacking, but there was no way to tell them from any other pet or wild animal. No one knew what caused it or where it started; it just seemed to happen. I sat back to let it all sink in, before I was dragged back into reality when my growing wings hit the seat back. It’s hard to remember that a seat back is out of bounds.

I forgot about the computer for a second and sat there, leaning forward. My body was already feeling different than it had an hour before; it just changed so slowly I didn’t notice. I licked my lips; they were farther out than they should have been, the razor edge of a beak was just behind them. The door opened and I looked towards it. My least favorite roommate was there; he was obviously getting ready to leave for the weekend, though he looked quite a bit more nervous than usual. Moving some things from his room and out the door, gone as quickly as he came. From what I say, me moved differently and looked different, but it still was him. Maybe that trash can full of hair was his doing, shaving off his new fur in shame. I looked down at my feathered arms and scaled hands. There was no way to get rid of this, even if I wanted to. It seemed inevitable, I was going to be growing feathers sooner or later, cutting them off now would just make it worse for me later. Thankfully for me, he didn’t seem to care that I was there, he never did. He never seemed to notice that anyone else lived there. Maybe if he changed enough he’d leave. I certainly wouldn’t have minded that.

I watched the door for a while, no one else came or when for fifteen minutes, or something like that, I wasn’t paying any attention to the clock. I knew one thing though; I had to go to the bathroom, that’s what I get for drinking so much. I got up, noticing a bit of a forward lean to my stance, and I walked back to the bathroom. The door was still closed on the second bedroom. Mike must have still been asleep. Man, it was three o’clock and he was still in there. I proceeded into the bathroom. It seemed as though the trashcan was a bit more full, a second layer of hair in the trash can, only this seemed a bit different, a little thicker and shiny. I bent down and pick some out of it, just to see if it was more than just hair. It certainly didn’t feel like hair, I really did have more the consistency of thick fur. The slight sheen on it seemed to be from oil on it. I could only guess what that meant, but wasn’t going to.

I sighed and pulled down my short, worried about what I might find there. Fortunately, not much had really changed, and things were working normally. There might have been more feathers, but that was another thing I didn’t want to think about, of see for that matter. I flushed the toilet, pulled my shorts back on, and turned towards the mirror. Things there’s where only subtly different, though my stubble did have a greenish cast to it and I seemed to have less hair. I didn’t look long, it wasn’t really important to me. I looked down and washed my hands, avoiding looking into the mirror. The water did feel nice over the smooth scales of my hands, I watched and felt the water run over my hands, turning them over and studying them. I caught myself and shut off the water, dried them and left the bathroom, a little embarrassed with myself.

I just ran on autopilot for the rest of the day, not really paying attention to what anyone said. I’m sure someone mentioned the strange changes that where going on, maybe even some that they were going through. I didn’t notice, someone did ask me if I knew anything about it, being from Michigan, but I just shrugged it of with a lie. I had no desire to talk about, I couldn’t hide it forever, but I didn’t feel it necessary to mention anything about it to anyone. By eleven, I had had enough of that day and said my goodnights and went to bed without a shower, it wouldn’t have done me any good anyway.

Day 3

The weekend started at ten a.m., as it usually did for me. I looked over at the clock, lying there on my belly. I blinked a bit; I could actually read it’s blue numbers. My eyes had been so bad I couldn’t read the think from two feet away, now the numbers were crisp, even more so than when I had my contacts in. I wasn’t going to miss having glasses and contact lenses.

[[Category:Story]][[Category:MintzBuck]]

User:MintzBuck

2007-12-08T21:41:58Z

MintzBuck: New page: Primarily I was an artist since I came into the fold or Furry and TF in late 1999. I've kicked around the idea of writing many times, but never did much with it because I didn't want to ju...