Difference between revisions of "The Fool in the Fox"

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The washroom was varied, to say the least. Roughly a third the size of the bar itself, it had at least a dozen different types of facilities to accommodate, among other things (and without getting unpleasantly specific), various sitting methods. I navigated my way towards a series of sinks in the back and climbed inside a large one situated at ground level that, judging by the shower head and plug, seemed to double as a bathtub. After taking off my clothes and putting them aside, I tapped a button with my cream-covered paw and was soon being rinsed by a shower of warm water.
 
The washroom was varied, to say the least. Roughly a third the size of the bar itself, it had at least a dozen different types of facilities to accommodate, among other things (and without getting unpleasantly specific), various sitting methods. I navigated my way towards a series of sinks in the back and climbed inside a large one situated at ground level that, judging by the shower head and plug, seemed to double as a bathtub. After taking off my clothes and putting them aside, I tapped a button with my cream-covered paw and was soon being rinsed by a shower of warm water.
  
As the icing hadn’t had time to dry, it didn’t take longer than two minutes to wash it all out of my fur. I stepped out of the sink/tub and moved under an adjacent dryer, again button operated. This was the part I always hated; as the hot air dried my fur it also puffed it up, which makes me look like a mutant stuffed animal. Putting my vest, shorts, and glasses back on, I made a futile attempt to press my fur back down before heading back to the bar.
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As the icing hadn’t had time to dry, it didn’t take longer than two minutes to wash it all out of my fur. I stepped out of the sink/tub and moved under an adjacent dryer, again button operated. This was the part I always hated; as the hot air dried my fur it also puffed it up, which makes me look like a mutant stuffed animal. Putting my vest, shorts, and glasses back on, I made a futile attempt to press my fur down before heading back to the bar.
  
 
==Note==
 
==Note==

Revision as of 10:58, 28 June 2009

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Pig and Whistle story universe
Author: Lloyd
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This story is a work in progress.

I poked my nose out of the mass of blankets that made up my makeshift den and took a cautious sniff. While this did nothing but find out what I already knew— that the only scents in the apartment were those of myself and my roommate, Flynn—it never hurts to be careful. After confirming that it was indeed safe, I crawled out of my den and gave a quick stretch to get some kinks out of my legs and tail. Yes, that’s right, tail.

Perhaps an explanation is in order. My name is Jonas Balfour and I’m a teefer, one of the thirty-percent or so of people who experienced the side effect known as Transformative Failure of… drat. I can never remember the full name of the acronym but I think the word “octoplasmic” fits in somewhere. Anyway, my case of TFOR was a bit high degree compared to most; I’m what’s known as a fullmorph, someone who has been changed almost completely into an animal. In my case I’m now a member of vulpes vulpes, or red fox for the layman. Sure I’ve got some lingering pieces of human in me, mostly in my throat, letting me talk (albeit with a much higher voice) but for the most part I’m a fox, complete with fur, tail, muzzle… you get the idea.

Once I finished stretching I opened the trunk I kept near the entrance to my den and picked out what I was going to wear for the day. While my fur covered me enough to make modesty a moot issue, I still didn’t like the idea of going uncovered in public. While most fullmorphs who could wore a pair of pants or shorts in public, I preferred to go for a complete outfit. I decided on a pair of light shorts and a vest with a paw print design on it, my favored clothing motif. I also put on my collar, but not for appearances, it was a legitimate necessity. While the front of the bone-shaped tag attached to the nylon collar was blank, on the back was my emergency contact information and name in case something ever happened. This was the only way to ensure I had the info on me at all times since I didn’t always have access to pockets and, when I did, wallets and ID cards tended to fall out. It took me a minute to put the thing on though, while TFOR had left me with forepaws just dexterous enough to be used as hands, it didn’t leave me any thumbs. Fortunately, I didn’t have any problems with my glasses; I just slipped the custom frames over my peaked ears and headed for the kitchen.

Flynn wasn’t in the kitchen when I entered, but there was a plate on the table at my normal spot. I hopped up and took a look; there was a sandwich on the plate and next to it a note which read:

Took you long enough to wake up, I could swear TFOR left some cat in you.

I rolled my eyes at the familiar joke before continuing to read.

I’ve left you a turkey sandwich since I doubt you’ll have time to get your own breakfast. You’re late for work by the way. ~Flynn

Late for work? I glanced over at the clock and gave an alarmed yelp when I saw the time; it was almost 9:30! I scooped up the sandwich in my muzzle before hopping off the table and dashing out the door.

Luckily for me, one of the advantages to being a fox was a top land speed of around 30mp/h. While this isn’t an amazing speed by any means, it certainly meant that I could get somewhere quickly if I needed to. Since it was still early in the morning the sidewalks only had a few people on them. This made my race to work easier since I not only didn’t have to avoid people’s legs, but I wasn’t in danger of being stepped on either. As foxes aren’t exactly known for their size, I tended to be below most people’s field of vision, and someone in a crowd trodding on my tail is a very real hazard which, in the past, has led to some unpleasant incidents. My tail still curls in fright at the very mention of stiletto heels.

I managed to arrive at work only thirty minutes late, bursting through the pet door at the front of the Twin Bells Bakery and practically skidding to a halt in front of Melanie Dia, my boss. Still panting from the run, I tried to apologize for being late but all that came out was a series of low barks and growls.

Ms. Dia looked down at me and raised an eyebrow. “I take it that means ‘I’m sorry and it won’t happen again’?”

I nodded eagerly, trying to calm myself down. It was one of the more unusual quirks of my change, but because of the way my vocal chords are set up it becomes impossible for me to talk whenever I’m in a heightened emotional state, including raised/lowered heartbeats or an adrenaline rush.

It was at this point a customer entered the store and so Ms. Dia went behind the counter to tend to him as I moved to the side and finished regaining my voice. Once that had been accomplished, I quickly fell into my normal work routine.

Most of the time I simply sat in a corner by the counter with my hind foot positioned over a silent alarm trigger in case someone attempted to rob the store, which was something Ms. Dia was quite strict about even though in the three years I’d worked at the Twin Bells I haven’t even come close to having to press it. If children came in, I would play the part of a friendly pet while their parents made their purchases free of distraction, and in the event that someone had to wait while their order was made I would strike up a conversation to keep their minds off the time. Occasionally a customer would leave behind their wallet or a credit card, and it would be my job to run after them, and at lunch I dropped by the deli down the street and brought back sandwiches for Ms. Dia and the bakers. In other words, the work was repetitive enough to be routine, but varied enough so that I didn’t go stir crazy.

When 5PM rolled around I was about to head home when Ms. Dia stepped between me and the door.

“Hold on a sec, Jonas. Can I get you to do something for me?”

“It depends on whether or not it’s work-related.” I replied, looking up at her.

Ms. Dia smiled and tapped the box she was holding. “Fortunately it is. I need you to deliver this to the Pig and Whistle on your way home?”

“That name sounds familiar.”

“It should. It’s a teefer bar attached to that old hotel near the downtown area. Someone ordered this cake for a” – she checked the label on the box – “Mr. Allan Wilson. The bar should be near your apartment building, do you mind?”

Although she phrased it as a request, I knew an order when I heard it. “Yea, I don’t mind. I can do it.”

“Good.”

Ms. Dia leaned down so that I could take the box’s handle in my muzzle. After doing so I gave a quick “b’ai” before leaving.

While I did know about the Pig and Whistle, it’s impossible to be a teefer living in Polyton without hearing about it, I had never been there. Bars weren’t really my thing, partly because I’m uncomfortable in crowds, and partly because I just don’t care for the taste of alcohol. The sidewalks were more crowded in the afternoon than in the morning, so I had to be more careful as I weaved through the mass of legs on my way to the bar. I got some glances from passers-by due to the box in my mouth, but I just ignored them. Although technically I could hold the handle in a forepaw, walking tripod-style was not something I was skilled in.

The good thing about looking for a building that’s attached to a hotel is that hotels tend to be highly visible, so finding the Pig and Whistle wasn’t a problem. Neither was finding an entrance either, there was a pet door like the one at the Twin Bells out front, which actually shouldn’t have came as a surprise. After all, it's hard to be a successful teefer bar if you can’t even have the appropriate entrances.

When I entered, the scent of fur, feathers, and alcohol, previously concealed by the car exhaust and people on the streets, jumped into prominence and I noted sawdust crunching beneath my paws. I stood in front of the door taking in my surroundings. It was unmistakably a bar, but had a rustic-medieval style to it. I had to hand it to the designer actually, the place was littered with furniture designed to accommodate every imaginable body type but none of it interfered with the Old West-theme that was going on.

Counting the bartender and myself, there were only seven people in the Whistle, which I suppose made sense since at this time most people, like myself, were only just getting off work. No way to tell which one was Allan Wilson though. I growled indignantly to no one in particular; I mean, what kind of person uses a bar as their address?

The answer came to me almost immediately after I had asked: a regular, obviously! Which meant that the bartender should know who I was looking for. I made a beeline for the bar and hopped on to a stool, ignoring the tiny steps meant for smaller teefers, and set the cake box down on the counter.

“Uhh, excuse me?” I asked tenitavely as the bull-headed bartender came over to me, “I’m looking for an ‘Allan Wilson; do you know if he’s here or will be sometime this afternoon?”

The minotaur nodded towards someone over my shoulder. I turned around as followed his gaze and saw a rather spindly-looking human sitting at a booth finishing a drink.

“Ah, thanks.” I said before scooping the box handle back up and dropping down from the stool. I proceeded over to the booth and climbed onto the seat opposite the human, who looked up at me as I once again set the cake box down.

”Allan Wilson?” I asked. The human nodded. “I have a delivery for you from the Twin Bells bakery.”

“Oh?” He said as he pulled the box towards him. Allan looked it over curiously, which to me came as a surprise since he was giving off a strong scent of anxiety that had made me think he was waiting for this. After examining the box Allan began trying to pick off the tape holding it together, but wasn’t having much success.

“Here,” I offered, “let me.”

He slid the box back towards me and I extended my claws before ripping through the tape.

BOOM

The box exploded, and I had barely time to shut my eyes before getting splattered with cake. Raising a forepaw to wipe off my face, I opened my eyes to see the flattened remains of the box as well as the remnants of whatever cake had been inside it, though judging from the smell I would wager it involved strawberries. Looking myself over I found that most of my body was now covered in icing, whipped cream, and cake filling.

Allan, however, was a different story entirely. The human had somehow managed to avoid getting hit at all, even though there was frosting to both sides of him now dripping down the back of the seat. There was also the matter of part of him now being inside the seat. I watched in amazement as he extricated his arm from the cushion, revealing a watch that was now beeping lightly. Unfortunately, when I attempted to ask how he did it I realized that the explosion had shocked my voice away, as what I ended up saying came out as a blunt “Gerf?”

Allan raised an eyebrow and I looked away sheepishly, suddenly very grateful that I could no longer blush. After taking a few deep breathes to calm myself I asked, “How did you do that?”

”Oh, just one of TFOR’s little quirks.” Allan replied as he picked one of the cake fragments off the table and tasted it. “Good cake by the way, though next time I’d prefer it in one piece.”

My ears sank. “I’m real sorry about this, I had no idea it would do that. If I had known I would never-“

Allan held up a hand to stop me. “It’s all right; no harm, no fowl you know? Of course, Gordy might have a different opinion about it.”

He nodded towards the bartender, who was approaching us with a very unhappy look on his face.

“Oh bollocks…”

“Don’t worry.” Allan said, smiling, “I’ll explain it to him. You go wash up.” He pointed towards a door at the far end of the bar.

I didn’t need telling twice; I left the booth and headed for the washroom, trying my best not to drip icing on the floor as I passed the other patrons, each of whom was trying to hold in their laughter with varying degrees of success.

The washroom was varied, to say the least. Roughly a third the size of the bar itself, it had at least a dozen different types of facilities to accommodate, among other things (and without getting unpleasantly specific), various sitting methods. I navigated my way towards a series of sinks in the back and climbed inside a large one situated at ground level that, judging by the shower head and plug, seemed to double as a bathtub. After taking off my clothes and putting them aside, I tapped a button with my cream-covered paw and was soon being rinsed by a shower of warm water.

As the icing hadn’t had time to dry, it didn’t take longer than two minutes to wash it all out of my fur. I stepped out of the sink/tub and moved under an adjacent dryer, again button operated. This was the part I always hated; as the hot air dried my fur it also puffed it up, which makes me look like a mutant stuffed animal. Putting my vest, shorts, and glasses back on, I made a futile attempt to press my fur down before heading back to the bar.

Note

The main purpose of this story is to explain a bit about my avatar and introduce him to the Pig and Whistle Bar. This section will be removed when the story is finished, and please keep in mind that any name in this story is subject to change at any given time.