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2 years later-

Skim unloaded all six shots from his revolver into the ceiling, shattering lightbulbs like fireworks above his head.

There was grunting too, ringing the thin metal on the side of the caravan. The kind that really heaves some breath as if that would fix the pain. Then there was another gunshot from outside, and just like that... the grunting stopped.

The raccoon's eye twitched a little bit as dug into his pockets for some more gun-candy.
"IF ANY OF YOU FUCKERS EVEN LAY A PAW ON MY METH," He licked his lips, getting creative. "I'LL KABAB YOU!"

There was silence from outside, and the corners of Skim's lips pulled down as he fed the bullets into his gun, ready for another round of fun.
Roy had predicted it, too: Skim had been growing a beard out by that pool from two years ago. Now it hung down, almost an inch off of his face, as if a furry could act a role in 'Castaway'.

A voice cleared its throat from outside, thick with some sort of accent that coated his words in syrup.
"The fuck does that mean?!"

Skim's blank eyes flicked onto the small slat-window on the door to his caravan. A shadow was there and then it disappeared. No less then half a second, but that was all Skim needed to know.
He slowly dropped down onto the ground. His leg poking at a dead-body behind him, all riddled with bullet-holes like a good cheddar-cheese. That dead bag of meat used to be one of Skim's friends. And Skim wasn't too happy with what happened to him, neither.
"It means I'll tie you up, drill a nice and slow hole through your forehead," He clicked his gun shut and aimed an angle up at the door. "and then fuck that hole until its big enough to see through."

No response other than the gentle swaying grass caught in the 3 am breeze outside.

"HOW DOES THAT SOUND?!" The racoon roared. He was smiling crookedly. Eyes lit up in their sockets like a madman. "YOU BOYS WANNA GET YOUR BRAIN'S FUCKED?!"

Silence. A Bunsen-burner lay unattended on the table behind the racoon, chewing through gas as it shot flame up the ass of a test-tube. The outside was black with ash and the inside was black with something else. Something boiling and brewing. Something unhealthy.
Skim heard the crackles and pops. More correctly, the sound caught his ear, holding him face down in the midst of an idea.
He pushed himself off the ground with one paw, like a fucked-up yoga move, and stretched his arm up and over the table.
The grabbed the burning test-tube and held it tight in a now singed paw.

BOOM!
The door had been kicked off of its hinges, falling rigid as an enraged Doberman fell with it. The fucker had tackled it, as if busting into Skim's meth-lab equated to making the grand-play in a rugby match.
The dog shook the feeling of blunt-force shock from his head and reached for his gun which lay prone beside the door's handle.

The Doberman was fast with it, a perfect snatch and a shot out arm, aiming for the racoon's head.
But Skim was faster.

Skim hurled the test-tube like a throwing knife over the Doberman and brought the same paw down onto the hammer of his revolver, sending a bullet in the same direction.
The test-tube missed the dog and completed an arc directly over his head. As if the Doberman was a cartoon character with a 'chemical idea'.
And before the dog's eyes could even adjust to the strange black tube hovering in slow-motion about his head,
Skim's bullet shattered right through it.

The tube filled with a deep blue-light as the black liquid ignited in almost molten-flame, raining down carnage on the dog's body.
The Doberman screamed, the blue flames dripping down onto his fur and clothes, melting through them, burning everything it touched.
Soon enough his entire body was hissing with almost supernatural flame.
Dead. Now just a sizzling drug-puppet, cut from its strings.

Furry High (furry 'coming of age' story) R18+Where stories live. Discover now