Fur-enzy

[firefox_b]

The Night The Reindeer Died
by ff_b


A lot goes into being one of Santa's reindeer.  You have to be at the top of your game in terms of fitness, so

there are the prolonged and intensive daily workouts.  Explosive strength is stressed as is endurance; lifting a

sleigh and pulling it all over the world ain't no piece of cake.  Then you also have to be open to magic, to be a

fit vessel to the kind of enchantment that enables a normally ground-dwelling species to fly...


This kind of daily training was reflected in the Reindeer Games,  a kind of "Unbeatable Banzuke" competition for

the four-legged held often by the reindeer in the off-season, just to stay in shape.--Believe me, you haven't lived

unless you've seen one of the boys on a unicycle, negotiating a wicked course of twists, turns, and jumps, with the

elves constantly re-designing the course just to make it harder!  Commentary on the competitors was rendered by an

elf, who was just as hyped-up and over-the-top as the Japanese guy who gave the color commentary on the TV show.


Well, Blitzen as usual had won several medals in the Reindeer Games, and not desiring to deprive the rest of the

reindeer of the fun and glory, he decided to take a powder, kind of let someone else win for a while...plus he

needed a smoke.  Trouble was, with the damned restrictive anti-smoking laws, no one could even smoke on Santa's

property, so Blitzen had to hike a good distance to the nearest glacier, what with Santa owning a lot of property

at the North Pole and all.  So off went Blitzen, in search of some peace and a nicotene fix.


About half an hour after his departure, a pair of eyes wearing designer glasses beheld the Reindeer Games from a

height, and regarded them as a target-rich environment.  She regarded the world as something to be harvested, a

gift from the divine creator with whom she had a personal relationship.  Having killed hundreds of wolves and not

just a few moose in her native Alaska, she had journeyed further north in search of other game.  Killing off these

reindeer might be just the ticket to loosen her up before another book-signing.  You'd better watch out,

reindeer...yes, Sarah Palin was coming to town!


She unpacked her weapon, musing as she did so how the death of the reindeer would all be part of God's Plan,

a plan in which she was just an instrument...with that thought in mind, Palin chambered a round, hoisted her

weapon, and blew a hole in the neck of Rudolph, who fell to the ground, his bright arterial blood jetting crimson

against the white snow.


Pandemonium ensued as the reindeer and elves sought shelter from the onslaught of steel-jacketed death which rained

down upon them from above...but toys aren't really designed to withstand bullets.  No effective defense could

really be mounted, despite a few model helicopters sent aloft by a few of the reindeer and elves before they too

fell prey to death from above.


She gutted the reindeer and left their steaming viscera in piles of the snow, dragging the carcasses to her private

plane.  Palin thought that she'd be ready for promoting her book now, the hunt having taken the edge off nicely. 

Her plane took off into the frigid arctic air...there would be fresh meat on the table tonight, and for some time

to come! -- Maybe she'd even have time to further petition the removal of polar bears from the "endangered species"

list!  Sarah Palin, you see, was Going Rogue!


Hearing the distant gunfire, Blitzen had rushed back to the Games from the glacier, but had arrived back too

late...bodies of elves and gut piles, along with a few mangled unicycles and model helicopters were all that he

beheld..."NOOOOOO!!!!," screamed Blitzen, his anguished cries echoing into the cold night air.  Everywhere he saw death and

destruction.  Blizen wandered silently throughout the field of death, seeing nothing but horror.  First there was

shock, but then Blitzen was filled with a terrible resolve...


"I shall avenge my brethren!," declared Blitzen before the Northern Lights.  "I shall go on a slay ride the likes

of which has never been seen by the ex-governor!  And unlike those caught unawares tonight, I shall fight back!" 

Blitzen pounded one hoof against the other, his eyes blazing in the darkness and terrible to behold...   


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  * * * * * * * *

[firefox_b]

Wrath of the Antlered
by ff_b

Jason the buck hadn't anticipated seeing a hunter lurking around the bend in the woods early that frosty morning; he had quite forgotten about the opening of deer season.  The rifle slug tore into Jason, its impact knocking the Starbucks coffee from his hoof as he backpedaled desperately, adrenaline giving him strength despite his mortal wound.  Leading the hunter, Jason was able to find a concealing thicket and evade the man even as his life leaked from the gaping hole torn into his chest.  He peered from the underbrush, watching as the hunter plodded resolutely by; the bozo appeared to be a cross between Elmer Fudd and Sarah Palin, and reeked of beer, body odor, and arrogance.

Weakening rapidly, Jason rested on his side as he raked mud from the damp earth and fashioned a crude figure from the clay soil, praying as he did so that there would be time to complete his task.  His breath growing raspy, Jason chanted phrases from a strange language not spoken in hundreds of years as his work was finished.  He held the golem in his hooves, breathed upon it, and smeared the clay with his spittle and blood. Jason looked upon the figure with satisfaction as several blue motes of light seemed to trace its outline and fill it with an otherworldly energy.  The golem, an animate creature made of inanimate material, would carry on the fight for Jason despite his death.

"Avenge me!," gasped Jason to the small figure, and he died.

The small clay figure fell from the lifeless hooves, and began to move on the ground by its dead creator, at first almost imperceptibly and then in writhing, twisting motions.  It seemed to draw additional substance from the earth itself, adding mass and size as it did so.  Within an hour the golem stood erect, fully the size of a regular buck, and opened his black, bottomless eyes upon the world. There was a slight sucking sound as the golem pulled free of the clay soil and began to move forward, awkwardly at first and then with increasing fluidity. 

The hunter did not see the deer golem approaching from behind, and the large clay animal grabbed him roughly, breaking his neck in the commando fashion. Stooping to retrieve the slain hunter's weapon, the animated deer of earth regarded the rifle, turning it about in his clay hoof and then firing it experimentally into the air. The sharp retort of the gun seemed to please the golem; instinctively he knew that this artifact of man would make his work much easier.

There were many hunters in Pennsylvania's woods that day of buck season, but the indestructible deer golem knew that it would be a target-rich environment.  The golem strode purposefully and powerfully forward on hooves of clay as he moved resolutely to continue the grim harvest...   

 

[firefox_b]

The Augment
 by ff_b

The lithe figure moved with athletic grace and speed almost silently through the woods, keeping comfortably ahead of his pursuers from the secret government installation called only, "the Shop."  Their scent signatures were readily discernible to him, each one unique and distinctive.  Although he had been running for hours, he could have easily continued to do so for an indeterminate period of time, indeed all night if he needed to.   As darkness spread, his eyes adjusted readily to the gloom, for he could see well in minimal light.   The humanoid sniffed the air as he ran, rejoicing in its heady aroma and the wealth of information each breath brought him.  A genetically augmented human, the fugitive was well-equipped to use his heritage to escape those sought him.

As he maintained a powerful stride, the man-thing pondered his origins in the laboratory where as a human embryo his genes were spliced with those of a variety of animals and even plants, rendering him into something humanoid but quite extraordinary.   They had called him "Adam" in honor of the supposed original man, but his hot blood coursed to rhythms other than those of a single species.  His innate hatred of captivity had led Adam to escape the prison that had birthed him when the time was right, the scientists caught off guard and security personnel no match for his preternatural reflexes and strength.  He had left them bloodied and broken in the hallways, and feeling strangely exhilarated by the combat.

So Adam ran through the night, feeling at one with it.  When day broke, he effortlessly climbed a tree from which he could see for miles, exposing as he did so chloroplasts in his skin which enabled the conversion of sunlight into energy.  Indeed, Adam could survive without food if in the sun for at least twelve hours a day, although he most often used solar exposure to enhance his bodily reserves.  As he sunned himself, Adam's skin also assumed a protective camouflage pattern, matching that of the leaves and tree bark that surrounded him and rendering him indistinguishable from it.   

The turmoil of an approaching helicopter roused Adam from his brief rest; how had it tracked him?--Of course, the microchip that they had implanted in the lab, how could he have been so negligent as to have forgotten it?!--Adam clawed open the skin on his thigh, grimacing at the pain and smashing the chip on a tree branch.  The helicopter was closer now, its sound almost deafening.  Hurriedly, Adam reached to his lower ribs and pried off the symbiont, a disk-shaped, mollusk-like creature.  When the helicopter had closed to within a few dozen feet, Adam flung the symbiont at the small craft with strength and accuracy not humanly possible.  The symbiont thunked against the helicopter's metallic skin, attaching itself and exuding a molecular acid which swiftly burned through the hull.  Once inside, the symbiont scurried on crab-like legs towards the human inhabitants of the helicopter, flinging itself upon them.  They instinctively clawed at the horrid creature, but received only painful burns as the acid which coated the symbiont ate into their flesh.  Within moments, the chopper veered wildly off course, its pilot losing all control as he struggled to remove the symbiont from his face.  Careening about, the helicopter rotors sliced into nearby upper tree branches, causing it to flip sideways, impact with a tree, and explode.

Again alone, Adam mourned the loss of the symbiont, his chameleonic skin flushing with a variety of colors to register his distress.  He descended the tree, his clawed hands and feet easily finding purchase on the bark. Freed of the microchip but alarmed by how close his pursuers had come, Adam made his way to the sea, knowing that he could not  as easily be followed there.  The gill slits on his neck opened as he cast himself into the water, that ancient cradle of life which would now serve as his sanctuary until he and others like himself could inherit the world...     

[firefox_b]

Oh, What A Feeling!
by ff_b

On a bitterly cold winter evening while the "Wolf Moon" was full in the sky, groundhogs and other kinds of roadkilled-creatures were infused with a strange dark magic, and empowered to tear their frozen fur and flesh from the black macadam where they had met their violent ends.  Moving stiffly and dragging their torn and broken bodies, the furry zombies gathered slowly in an open field by the thousands.
  
"Alright, may I have your attention, please?," said a German Shepherd, his head hanging at an unnatural angle.  "We all know why we're here, right?," he inquired of the assembled multitude.

"We're here for...brains!," cried a flattened groundhog, as comrades around him chattered in excited agreement.

"No, no, that's a stereotype!," chided the German Shepherd, dark fluid running from a ruined eye.  "We've got something better to use against the naked apes, plus take revenge on their motorized vehicles that put us in this sad state!"

"Say what?," said the groundhog, a bit slow on the uptake in life and even more so in death.

"We're gonna screw with all of their vehicles," explained the Shepherd.  "Make it so they accelerate unpredictably,  causing the humans to go out of control, and wreck!"

The frigid night stillness was shattered with a variety of excited hoots, yaps, and chattering as the frozen zombie furs signaled their interest.  When it had subsided, the Shepherd continued...

"And we're gonna strike first at one of their most reliable, most trusted cars, the Toyotas, he advised.  "When they feel they can't trust even these cars, their economy will be shaken to the core!  Then we'll sabotage other types of cars, so the pink skins will be afraid to drive any kind of vehicle!  And when the humans take to walking, they'll be on an equal footing with US!- -And you know what will happen then, my furry fellows?"

The chanting began, softly at first, and then growing louder until it echoed against the dark hills and reached upwards to the enormous cold moon...

"Brains...Brains...BRAINS!," intoned the frozen dead as one, as those able to do so howled in delight to the Wolf Moon that hovered overhead in benediction.

"I like the way you're thinking," grinned the Shepherd, his one good eye filled with an otherworldly energy...    

[firefox_b]

Cellular Defense
by ff_b

Although the alien had cloaked himself with holographic normality, the illusion was transparent to paranormal agent James Takata of the Talamasca.  He pursued the alien invisibly, confronting the unknown creature at last in an alley, not wishing to jeopardize innocents.

"Where are you from?," challenged Takata, "And what is your purpose here?"

The alien regarded Takata quizzically.  "You are not like the others," he hissed.  "An anomaly!  We shall study you after you are dead."

"I don't think so," replied Takata, "but I've been dead before!"  His ears flattened as he drew his katana and assumed the position of Warrior Ready.

Dropping his holographic deception, the alien presented his true form to the vulpine, that of a hideous, gelatinous creature with flailing tentacles.  He advanced on Takata and was met with a powerful blow from a razor-sharp blade that cleaved the creature in half.  Retreating momentarily, each of the pieces re-organized itself to assume bilateral symmetry.  Both half the size of the original, the two segments advanced anew on Takata.

Again his blade flashed, lopping his two smaller assailants into several pieces, each of which reorganized into a yet smaller copy of the original to continue a relentless advance on Takata.  Recognizing their capacity for reproduction, Takata began deflecting the amoeboids with the flat sides of his blade, but several flung themselves in unison against his legs and his back, tearing away fur and skin with their abrasive tentacles.

Bleeding from several wounds, Takata was weakening but not without his resources.  "From hell's heart I stab at you; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at you, you damned thing!," he cried.  As Takata's blood flowed, the leukocytes in it floated out of the streaming crimson fluid, growing to macrocellular size and wafting through the air to attack the loathsome tentacled aliens.  Enveloping them as they would bacteria, the leukocytes began digesting the invading aliens, their high-pitched ultrasonic screams piercing the air.  Once the aliens had been dissolved, the leukocytes shrank in size, wafted back through the air, and re-integrated themselves into Takata's blood.

Possessed of accelerated healing mechanisms, Takata was able to assume an upright posture within minutes.  "What is evil," he mused , "but good that has been tormented by its own hunger and thirst?"  And feeling a mite peckish himself following his ordeal, Takata went in search of a good Chinese restaurant, walking among the world of men but forever apart from them...   

[firefox_b]

Compensatory Damages
by ff_b

Sylvia ran a  bit on the wild side, so it wasn't unusual for her parties to be the same.  By anyone's standards, one the other night was totally out of bounds when Rat the biker dude got liquored up so badly that he couldn't remember anything afterwards.  For Rat, sadly this wasn't unusual.

Now all bikers certainly aren't bad dudes, don't get me wrong...Rat was just one of the rotten apples, looking like the stereotype of the badass biker with a big hulking body and hair hanging down beyond his shoulders.  He wore a battered black leather bikers jacket one suspected even to bed.- -Well, when Rat got bombed out of his mind that evening, he picked up one of Sylvia's TV sets and chucked it at the wall.  Sylvia screamed at her party guest from hell, but that had the same effect on Rat as a feather duster might have.   Anyhow, Rat was on a roll, so he picked up another TV set, and repeated his performance, with the exception that this time the TV landed on Pringles the cat, who died instantly.

Sylvia took Rat to court, where Judge Rudely listened disdainfully to the case before assigning $1,200 in damages to Sylvia, the estimated cost of replacing the two televisions destroyed as well as the damaged drywall.  I observed the whole affair from the Visitor's Gallery.

"What about the cat?," I shouted out.  "What value do you assign to a life?  And how can you begin to compensate the woman for the loss of her cat's companionship?"  Judge Rudely was already exiting to her chambers, however, as the bailiff cleared the courtroom.
 
I decided to confront Rat on the issue, following him to outside a bar where he had just parked his bike.  I followed Rat into the bar, passing time there until he left much later after dark.  It was not until then that I walked up to the big biker as he prepared to leave.

"You killed a cat," I said quietly.  "How do you intend to make amends for that?- - How for that matter can you?," I asked.

Through his drunken haze, Rat looked at me as if I was from Mars, his breath rank and offensive to my heightened senses.  "Who the hell are you?," he slurred.  "I just killed a f***** animal, that's all!- -I don't even remember doing it"

"Animal?," I replied.  "Sir, I am one!"

Rat threw a beefy fist in my direction, but he appeared to me to be moving in slow motion.  I easily sidestepped the punch, batting Rat's arm out of the way and opening up multiple parallel cuts in his flesh as my claws, now exposed, passed over the arm.  I then grabbed the biker by the throat and with one arm lifted him with off the ground.  Rat tore at my fingers, but my claws were quite well anchored at that point.  His boots kicked in empty air, struggling in vain to find purchase.

"You see, Rat," I explained as I effortlessly held the struggling man aloft, "if there are no laws on earth which can touch you, there is always a higher law which can!"  I twisted my paw slightly, reassured by the satisfying snap that a neck makes when it breaks.

(Tossing the lifeless body aside as if it were weightless, the feline in human form vaulted easily to the top of a nearby roof, and was soon invisible in the embrace of the night...)     

[firefox_b]

That Which Endures
 by ff_b

The blast came unexpectedly, and was severe.  Caught unawares, V'lah and her children found a crawlspace, and hunkered down. The building above them was splintered and swept away, disintegrating almost in the blink of an eye. The powerful nuclear winds swept over them, driving wood, concrete, and steel before the awesome force. Her children cowered beside her as V'lah pressed her body and theirs tightly against the concrete foundation.  At a depth of fifteen feet in the earth, they might survive this assault as their kind had survived the best efforts of man since the dawn of time. And if they did not survive, others of her kind would.

The blast passed, but they remained motionless for hours, pressed tightly against the cinder blocks and almost indistinguishable from them.  Discretion is the greater part of valor when you are an arthropod. At last V'lah extended her antennae, discerning that her brood was still present and that their immediate environment appeared intact. Cautiously she advanced further on multiple jointed legs, ascending the vertical cinderblock wall. She scurried to the top of it, advancing into the shrouded daylight.

There was little remaining of the human dwellings, those places that had afforded her kind sanctuary for countless years.  The sky was an unnatural angry gray, and radioactive particles descended like snow upon the blasted landscape. While not optimal, these conditions were not necessarily lethal to her kind, and they would survive them, enduring as they had for millions of years.  The homo sapiens, "wise men," had sought their extinction since they first walked upright, but could succeed only in smashing individuals, never in eradicating the race.  And now it appeared that the humans had exterminated themselves rather than a species that they despised.--So which species was really contemptible here?

V'lah, however, was merely a cockroach, and her rudimentary brain did not concern itself with irony or philosophy but rather survival, and that she was most adept at.  Indeed, her body would continue to exhibit responsiveness for some time even were she decapitated. Gathering her brood, V'lah moved her flat, oval body swiftly over the ruins of human civilization in search of a new location where they might continue to endure, her children scurrying behind her. She belonged to the night, and now the darkness was everywhere...                                   

[firefox_b]

The Last Piece of Yesterday
by firefox_b

Ray the fox blamed himself for not having seen the trapper's snare; he really should have, but traveling through

time and space as his friends the rods had enabled him to do subjected him to numerous distractions.  Now he

resided in the cage of some moron with a double-digit IQ who wanted his skin for his jacket!  The fact that he

could converse with the hunter hadn't seemed sufficient to deter him from his original purpose.


"Don't you think," suggested Ray, "that a talking fox might be of more value to you than just a fox you could

butcher to make your bloody jacket?  Have you considered that someone might offer you a considerable sum for me?"


"Nope," muttered Jim-Bob the hunter.  "A jacket is what you're gonna be!  A talkin' fox, hah!--'You aren't

altogether there' is what they'll say to me if I mention a talkin' fox!"


No, I'm not altogether here, thought Ray.  Parts of him were still in the past.  He sent his third eye

forwards and backwards through time and space to determine where the rest of his consciousness might be residing. 

He had spent last weekend lost in the fifties, quite literally.  There he had met the young Elvis Presley right

before his career was scheduled to take off, and had given him the idea and lyrics for a song called Hound Dog,

finding it amusing and appropriate that a furry like himself should do so.  Elvis had liked the song and asked

Ray to seek him out if he ever needed a little help.  Existing as he now did in the past, present, and future, Ray

decided to call in that favor from the then-future King of Rock-'n-Roll, and summoned Elvis to his aide in the

present time. 


Well, the hunter never expected to see the young Elvis Presley materialize right in front of him, and the southern

boy and future King threw an uppercut at the hunter that decked him quite well.


"You're caught in in trap," commented the young Elvis to me as he grinned and unlatched the cage bar.


"Remember those words as lyrics for future reference, my friend," I said exiting the cage and giving Elvis a big

hug.  "Thanks, my man!," I said shaking his hand.


"Is there anything else I can do for you?," asked Elvis, looking about.


"Just sing, Hillbilly Cat!," I replied.  "Show the world your moves!--It's waiting for you back there!"  There was

a touch of sadness in my eyes, knowing as I did of the glorious but short career which awaited the young man.  I

thought about warning him about the dangers of drugs and carbohydrates, but the outline of Elvis was already fading

as he began to return to his own time.  The fox knew that to interfere with the past might change the time line and

present reality anyways.


Reunited with the last piece of yesterday, Ray turned his transdimensional consciousness towards the future.  Much

work lie ahead for him prior to December of 2012 if he was to avert an unfortunate outcome for the human race.  One

fur might make all of the difference in the world, and he intended to try.  The fox phased in and out of visible

sight as his burnt umber colored fur shimmered and he began to move ahead through time, his eyes filled with

resolve...   

[Simo]

Good writing, enjoyed 'em all.

[firefox_b]

Frequent Flyer
by ff_b

Gene's business required that he fly to various locations frequently, necessitating numerous contacts with airport security and passes through countless X-ray scanners.  After several years of being a frequent flyer, Gene found that his bodily hair was showing a dramatic increase to the point that he was drawing stares.  To investigate the cause of this, Gene went to visit his personal physician, Dr. Vindaloo.

"This is most remarkable, most remarkable indeed!," declared the small Indian physician with the bushy eyebrows and extravagant moustache as he licked on a lollipop.  "But by my extraordinary powers of deduction, I have determined that you are transforming into a red fox!"

"But how can this be?," marveled Gene.

"It would appear," speculated Dr. Vindaloo, "that your overexposure to X-ray scanners has triggered mutations on the cellular level. Your body is now reconfiguring itself!"

"Hmmm," pondered Gene.  "This could be interesting!" He examined his hands that were becoming more paw-like.

"If you would like," offered Dr. Vindaloo, "I could run experiments to see what might counter the effect.  For example, 'lousy stinking dog food' has shown promise in reversing invisibility!"

"No thanks, Doc," refused Gene politely.  "I rather think that I'll like being a red fox!" 

"As you wish," said Dr. Vindaloo, "although personally I would have preferred to become an anthropomorphic blue elephant!  By the way, my remarkable diagnostic powers have also determined that you are of the fire element.  You may find yourself able to combust objects with your mind!"  Dr. Vindaloo shaved his shin with an electric razor as Gene departed.

Although the transformation was not without pain as his facial bones cracked and elongated into a snout, Gene enjoyed his heightened senses and the world of scents that repidly opened to him.  Gene was also able to cook his dinners by focusing his attention on them.  As Gene boarded a flight the following week, the security agent screening him regarded him quizically.

"I'm a vulpine American, explained Gene with a smile to the agent, who waved him on board.

Seated on the jet in a front aisle seat, Gene identified hundreds of distinct scent signatures, and was troubled that something somehow wasn't quite right...there was a chemical aroma here, something that didn't belong among the human body odors and fragrances and diverse jet smells of fuels, electronics, and plastics.  Bewildered by the myriad of sensory inputs, Gene sat confused as the jet took off.

Into the flight, a swarthy and sweating man stood up, shouting in accented English that the flight would be diverted, and that everyone was to remain seated.  "I am assuming command of this plane on behalf of the People's Republic of Karastan!!," he declared.  The terrorist opened his shirt to  reveal packets strapped to his chest, an improvised bomb of some sort.

"Jesus tapdancing Christ!," muttered Gene as he slowly arose to his feet.

"Sit down, American dog--err, furry whatever you are!," demanded the terrorist, pointing to the explosives wired to him.

Gene continued to move slowly towards the terrorist.  "Time is the fire in which we burn," he said calmly to him.

"What do you mean, American infidel?," challenged the terrorist.

"Your time has run out," responded Gene as he focused the full power of his psychic energy on the Karastani.

What is remarkable about spontaneous human combustion is that it consumes a body in a fearsome intense heat that is tightly confined to the body itself, leaving surrounding areas unscathed.  The terrorist was utterly consumed in a conflagration that lasted only a matter of seconds, leaving only smoldering remnants of his feet in his shoes.

"Enjoy your 72 virgins," said Gene to the remains with a dark smile.

"Well, I'm not gonna clean that up!,' said a flight attendant to Gene as she eyeballed a pile of ash surrounding the shoes. "Just what exactly are you, Mister?," she inquired.

"I'm furry for life," responded Gene as he kicked at the ashes, "but this poor bastard's made an ash of himself!" That drew applause and laughter as the flight attendant distributed free peanuts.

In the days to come, Gene's life changed dramatically as a result of his newfound celebrity and appearances on Leno and Letterman.  There would be talk still further in the future of Senator Gene and Governor Gene...

...and dare we hope, someday the first furry President?!      

 

 

[firefox_b]

Whats Goes Around
by ff_b

In agony, Hannibal the sea turtle pondered the cruel indignity of dying under a suffocating coat of oil in the Gulf of Mexico.  All about him, a multitude of finned and feathered fellow creatures suffered a similar fate.  In his last pained and flickering moments of consciousness, Hannibal reflected upon how he had lived before, as he would live again in the eternal cycle of death and rebirth.  With his dying breath, Hannibal cursed the oil company which had reduced him to this sad state, and swore that if BP struck him down, he would return the favor, returning more powerful than they could imagine.  With that thought, Hannibal the sea turtle breathed his last...

The enormous serpentine creature which later emerged shrieking from the Gulf had incorporated the individual consciousness of all of the Gulf animal victims, but was unlike any of them.  A natural leader and master tactician who had once humiliated the legions of the Roman Empire, Hannibal had even summoned into his juggernaut the long-departed spirits and energies of the prehistoric creatures whose countless remains had over the eons decomposed to form the very black oil itself...

Now the size of an island, the unnatural creation of a man-made event flailed tentacles hundreds of feet long and moved inexorably towards the corporate headquarters of British Petroleum to deliver the message, "Don't Spread On Me!"  The tentacles smashed like pile drivers through walls of concrete and steel as payback indeed proved to be hell...    

[firefox_b]

Spare Change
by ff_b

Terry was awakened from a sound sleep by the sound of hooves on the floor and snorting in the next room; a moment later, the floors shook as a stampede commenced.

"Oh no!," bemoaned Terry, "The buffalo are at it again!"  Whoever had wished in song for a home where the buffalo roamed either had not had the actual experience, or had chronically messy floors.

It was not that Terry actually wanted buffalo in his home...quite the contrary.  It was only that Terry had the misfortune of being under a curse cast upon him by a wizard called Dumbledoofus, or something of that sort.  Wizards, it would seem, didn't take kindly to being cut off in traffic, especially when given the one-fingered salute to add insult to injury.  Anyhow, ever since this unfortunate mishap, animals depicted on Terry's coins would unpredictably come to life, and wreck havoc on Terry's home life.  The buffalo had been generated by the reverse side of Terry's small collection of Indian head nickels, and on occasion they united to form their own herd.

As he rubbed his worn and weary face,  Terry flinched as an eagle screamed through his bedroom, spawned by the reverse image on his Washington quarters.

Worse yet, Terry couldn't simply spend the coins and be rid of the whole business; that bastard wizard had covered this possibility.  Every time that he spent the coins depicting animals, they would immediately be returned to him in change at his next transaction.- -Magic was such a bitch!

Terry cried aloud in pain as a beaver bit him on the ankle, a creature produced by a stray Canadian nickel Terry had come to possess. He kicked at it to drive it away, but had little doubt that it would return.

In his kitchen a low guteral growl emanated, the disgruntled moan of a bear generated by his Alaskan state quarter.  Dishes clattered to the floor as the ursine dismantled Terry's kitchen in search of food.

"I can't take this shit anymore!," cried Terry as a stray buffalo butted into his chair in search of the herd.

Not without his own resources, Terry morphed into his lupine form and vaulted out the window.  He already had the wizard's scent, and would track down and settle old Dumbledoofus' hash personally.  Werewolves, after all, don't get mad but even...