Furry High (furry 'coming of age' story) R18+

19

I had been keeping up my 'facade' pretty well, until I had needed to vomit. The urge probably came from the sheer boredom of this horse.

Blabbing on about fucking some'ones' and some'things', drug terminology that made about as much as sense to me, as NASA's landing speeds would to a dyslexic eighth grader. 

Ah, that's what I'm thinking of. Filler's face: it looked like one of those carnival clowns you'd shove the balls into to win prizes. The prize here would be some quiet seconds. The balls would be my own, lodged into his mouth. 

Heh, how's that? You beat your girlfriend, you fuckin' horse; you host drug parties, now get a taste of these masky-nuts as you gargle them like mouthwash.

I quickly noticed that he was waiting for my response.

"Um..." Don't you stutter, you little fucker. Don't you - "Yeah, tuh...t-t-" don't. "Tuh-t-totally."

"I know right," He says, staring at the ceiling. "Hey, Cliff-dog, what's with all this stuttering."

"C-Cold."

"You're cold? Mate, I thought you maskers were used to that. Being mostly homeless and all."

"N-No, I have a c-cold."

"Ah, okay."

Its just me and this horse up here in his bedroom. Missing out on the party for some quality catch up time, that's neither quality nor catching up.

Maybe he's just too stoned to notice? Who knows; maybe this 'Cliff' racoon also had a stutter, and was fifteen years old.

"So I figured, since its just the two of us, and I've got... a personal little stash of my own little goodies in the pillow-case you're leaning on-"

My phone rang.

The horses head cocked onto its side, staring straight at me. I'm not laying next to him, I'm over in the corner of the room, hanging in a hipster, floating chair thing. His eyebrows arched in such an annoyance that I wasn't sure whether he wanted me to answer it, or smash it against my own skull.

"Hello?" I say quietly, doing the first.

The phone is cold against my ear. The voice is colder. "Skim, the fuck. I'm a minute away, have you got the goods?"

I had such a temptation to start screaming into the phone that I actually bit my lip. "No."

"No?! What the fuck are you doing?!"

I watched Filler carefully. "I don't even know what I'm looking for." Ah I can't help it: "You fuh-fucking cunt."

"..."

"..."

"Skim-"

"N-nuh-no, y-you listen to me. I don't even know what I'm luh, l-looking for. I don't even have the buh-bag."

"The bag? What? Oh christ, Southy, are you already high?'

My eye twitched. "The buh-bag that the otter guh-gave you." Then I whispered: "the s-sample."

"Oh..."

"... oh?"

"..."

I sigh. "You smoked it, didn't you."

He hangs up.

"G-great." I say.

The horse stares at me still. He seemed to just have this one static expression with a whole lot of power strapped onto it. He was just an uncomfortable guy to look at. Not in the ugly sense, more of the 'crackhead-stagger' glance.