Furry Art Pile

The Undesireable Labors of Hans Korner

This work is © Roland Guiscard (rolandb@gmail.com) 2007 and should not be reposted in part or in whole without explicit written permission.

This work depicts acts of extreme fictionalized violence. Viewer discretion is advised. Do not do this at home.

“You didn't wash your hands...”

My wire goes around his neck in a flash and I pull back hard, his stinking, unwashed body now firm up against my own. I'm glad I wear a gas mask. Not only is it a convenient and removable disguise (looking for a man in a mask? But I have no mask. Looking for me? Do you know what I look like?) it serves to insulate me from the unpleasant smell of my victims, and the unpleasant smell of death. Anyone who knows anything knows that one shits oneself when the lights go out upstairs. Even if you just finished taking a shit.

I quickly drag him back into the handicapped stall and close the door. I like to leave them here, since it gives me lots of room to move around. A necessity, when you're planting a body. I heft him up onto the toilet and position him there, his arms and head slouched. There's no point in trying to make it look like he died shitting, since any forensics investigator worth a shit will notice the big mark on his neck. I pulled so hard it broke the skin in several places, and he's bleeding all over himself.

I lock the door shut and listen for a moment. No footsteps. Quickly I slide under the door on my back and head out. I need to move confidently but quietly, and put as much distance between myself and the body as possible. I shouldn't need an alibi, but it would be nice to develop one which couldn't be confirmed should the situation arise. No one saw me come in, no one saw me come out, so putting myself someplace where I can clearly be observed but may not have been noticed arriving would be to my advantage.

Seeing as I just came from the game room I decide to return there. While I hate to conduct hits at cons (the ensuing police investigation always ruins the fun for others) the fact that there are huge hoards of unobservant freaks for me to hide in provides excellent cover. Plus, it means I can get around in the open with my mask and helmet on, since crazy costumes don't stand out. Just another freak in the freak kingdom, as the master said. And you'd be surprised to find out how much those freaks pay to have one another rubbed out.

I sit down and watch some spectacularly thin homosexual dance like a nut on whatever the latest edition of DDR is. I've always hated the game, but it's very popular with everyone else, so there's always a crowd of spectators to hide in. Also, the foul-tasting energy drinks chugged by the players to keep up their stamina are great for hiding drugs in, and no one will bother to investigate too closely if some kid dances himself to death in a four-hour marathon. They'll just chalk it up to ambition and stupidity and never bother to find out exactly WHY he had so much energy and was sweating out more water than he could replace. I consider bumping this guy off just for practice, knowing I could get away with it, but decide against such. After all, there's going to be a whole horde of cops coming by once the body in the handicapped stall is discovered. The more bodies they've got to find, the more likely they are to use desperate measures to find the killer. The dancer has no idea how close he came to dying, but I still kind of wish I could get him to thank me, to show appreciation for my quiet decision to let him live.

I figure it's time to go launder some money while the opportunity persists, so I mosey over to where they've set up free Internet and start logging in to things. My client has paid through PayPal, a service which vehemently examines all potentially pornographic transactions, but is alarmingly lax with criminal activity. You would think they'd get suspicious about multiple large payments from a single person, but I guess they feel that since they have “my” personal information they can prosecute me at their leisure. Which, as long as they keep collecting hundreds of dollars per transfer, is never.

The money flows from PayPal to several banks before finally dumping itself in a little Internet-only bank in the Carribean. Thank God for the Republicans, for crafting a legal system where one can create a business just by renting a PO box and declaring it your headquarters. Not only am I effectively laundering my money by declaring it to be corporate profits of Blackfox Incorporated, but I don't even have to explain what it is Blackfox does (problem solving, pharmaceuticals and personal security, as it states on my card) or even pay taxes on it. If I stack up enough dough I might even go “straight” and start killing people the old fashioned way, by cutting off their livelihoods and health insurance and letting them go straight to Hell.

I've got two more contracts to execute before the con is over. It's very frustrating to have to eliminate three targets in a single con, especially when I know that the police will be everywhere soon, but it can't be helped and what with the amount of money I charge I think I should offer a high level of customer service. After all, they paid their money, and I want them to recommend me to others. Word of mouth is the best form of advertising.

I haven't even seen the other two targets yet, so I start walking around. I'm not dumb enough to ask for them, of course. Last thing I need is people wondering why someone they certainly do not know asking for a friend who later turns up dead. So I walk around, doing my best to keep moving, on the off chance I'll see a moment of opportunity.

Unfortunately, none come along. The cops show up eventually and a lot of questions are asked, and of course it gets out. How the hell the truth manages to always get out at a fur con is beyond me. I'd be much happier with a rumor due to improved deniability, but no such luck. Soon everyone knows that someone was strangled to death in the bathroom next to the con floor, and my remaining two targets appear to have become very lucky men indeed. It's going to be very hard to get the job done.

As always I eschew the panels and entertainment excepting a quick look-see for targets, I soon found myself aimlessly wandering the hotel halls. I went up and down the stairs (elevators are for those who do not need to be in shape) and took a few peeks into the bar. I don't drink, and shouldn't, considering it might let my guard down, but bars are a fun place to score kills. Not as good as night clubs, where the noise and confusion ensure that dead bodies aren't found until closing time, but still relatively painless. If some drunken lout falls off his bar stool, he's more likely to be tossed out than sent to the hospital. Gives me lots of time to put some distance between me and them.

I confess, considering the nature of my occupation, there is a distinct temptation to go after targets of opportunity. I am a short tempered man, and earned many enemies before picking up this line of work. Also, being quite familiar with the fandom in which I “arrange accidents,” I know of a number of people who should do the world a favor and go die. And who am I not to help them?

There he was, hanging off a balcony all by himself with no one around. He either had previously hurled, or was about to, or both. I couldn't believe my luck. Easy, clean kill with no witnesses. If I hurried, anyway. I could just only hope that there would be no one down below for him to land on. Unless it happened to be my target, of course. I've never gotten a double-kill before.

It takes decisive action to do this sort of thing. You've got to be quick, and you can't worry about who sees you. If you're seen, run for it, if not, then good. Getting caught is inevitable after all, the point is that you should get as much work done before that happens.

I grab his ankles, lift up, and let go. He doesn't make a sound until he hits the floor below. I don't bother to watch. After all, he is a target of opportunity, I don't need to know if he's dead, and I don't even care. If he survived a forty foot fall, well, maybe he'll drink responsibly from his wheelchair. I move. Fast. I don't know or care where I'm going, but I need to get as far away from there as possible. I can hear someone screaming down below. Let's hope she's just freaked out about some punk-turned-street-pizza and isn't screaming because she saw someone hurl another someone over a damned ledge.

I probably shouldn't have done that. While I'm sure it'll be written off as a fortunate accident for the most part (maybe even a suicide) there's always the chance that they'll find some white fur or bits of leather glove on him and start to ask questions. Especially considering that there has already been a murder and will (I hope) be two more.

I like to take comfort in the fact that most the people I rub out have a very good reason for being killed. That's one of the consequences of the high price tag. For what I charge, most people are not going to have someone killed because they want to climb up some sort of advancement ladder or out of some small injustice. You really have to fuck up to get someone to hate you bad enough to put a large sum of money on the line. Especially since I demand full payment up front and offer no guarantees or returns.

The guy sitting across from me, chatting, is a known art pirate. Big fat dog fella, black fur, brown ears, looks like a German Shepherd gone horribly wrong. He's been embroiled in a number of cases, and someone finally had the balls to ask for a punishment stronger than a fine. I listen to him brag and nod politely, trying to figure out how I can arrange to make this one look like an accident. In retrospect I should have slashed the first one and left the knife in his hands in an attempt to make it look like a suicide. Dammit. Much too late to do that now. Still, if I can make the rest look like accidents, all the better. I'd hate to have the con canceled on account of a serial murderer.

The guy likes to drink, which is lucky. Drinkers are easy kills, just put something in the booze or wait until they pass out and you're good to go. I need to make this look like an accident, though. So I get him walking. It's not easy, he's constantly falling one way or another, and I need to hold (and drink) booze of my own for appearance's sake. I fucking hate alcohol, but a job's a job.

There's a pedestrian bridge and a river near the hotel, so after about half an hour of fall-walking I manage to get him onto it. From there, it's just like my target of opportunity, only this time there's a big splash instead of a thud, and no one screams. In fact, since it's 2 AM, I doubt anyone even sees. It is rather dark, after all. I look down and see his big bloated body bobbing up and down in the water as it slowly drifts downstream. I wait. It was a pretty good fall and he did fall head first, hopefully his fat ass broke something when it hit the water. Barring that, he had the good sense to float face-down. I'm tempted to pull out my pistol and plug him a few times to make sure, but this needs to look like an accident. The excuse “He fell down onto some bullets” only works in the movies.

That leaves one target, and what with three bottles in or near the con, I need to get this over with fucking pronto. I get back to the hotel and check the bulletin board, scanning wildly for the name of the last one I need to kill. I'm in luck, and I go right at it. There are cops milling here and there in the lobby now, congregated around where my moment of opportunity went splat. I move quickly, before they get a good look at the suspicious, well-dressed gentleman wearing a helmet and a mask. I think all they caught was a blur of my white fox tail as I went by. I hope so.

I am an angry man, but I am generally not an easily squicked man. After tossing bodies into woodchippers or gutting someone in a bathroom so I can chop them up and flush them down the toilet, it's pretty difficult to turn my stomach. Nonetheless, there are some things.

Right in front of the fucking door is the fucking target with a goddamn kid. And not his kid. I research my targets, and this guy is a fucking pedophile. That's why I'm here to hit him. He touched the wrong girl, and someone is uninterested in traditional means of justice. And here the sick stupid fuck is about to do it right in front of me.

I sprint. I pull out my gun. The silenced pistol coughs one, two, three times, and the bullets sink deep into his flesh. The girl screams and runs away, letting me know I am totally fucked. That's gratitude for you. As my victim falls on the door he causes it to open, his hand gripping and pulling the unlocked handle as his slumped body falls inside. Knowing that this is my last chance to tango, I kick the door open and look inside.

For those of you who've had the misfortune of seeing the inside of a babyfur's playroom, you will be well familiar with the horrible stink of shit, along with the confused and immature adults making a mess of things on the floor. Oh and more often than not, they're fucking too. Big, fat guys fucking and shitting and pissing all over while making baby noises and crying. It's something no one should do, and certainly no one should see, but there you go. I'm not much of a man. After all, I'm busting in this room to blow away a bunch of unarmed victims I don't know to sate my own desire to “trim the hedges.” Everything that grows out too far must be cut down.

My gun starts coughing like a sixty-year-old smoker in an asbestos factory. They scream, they yell, they die, and I just keep on firing. The first clip empties, as does the second, then the third. By this point there's nothing left alive but me, and yet I just can't stop firing. I'm filled with anger, with disgust, with an unreasoning hatred. There is blood and bodies and piss and shit everywhere. One of them groans reflexively and I start pumping shots into it, my body filled some some sort of desperate panic, as if I am scared that these things aren't dead.

If there is a hell, it looks like this. Red and yellow and brown and dark. It stinks. It's so quiet you can hear the fear run around screaming inside your skull. There's death everywhere, and yet, everything seems to be alive, to be angry, to be screaming out for revenge and coming at you with all it's got.

I drop the pistol and run. The cops from the lobby have got to be coming up the stairs and elevator like a fucking blue-uniform tidal wave. I jump into the stairs and run, full tilt, towards my room. Lucky for me the damn thing's only a few floors up. I can hear the tramp of boots coming up the stairs. Shit, did they send SWATs, or am I just being chased by jack-booted Nazi furs? I don't care. Either way, this is the end, and I intend to make it as messy as fucking possible. Something for the news readers and viewing public to jack off to all evening. I just hope they have the balls to show the good bits during dinner time.

Door is unlocked, I get in. Fuck the clothes, I open my suitcase and throw out everything, then grab the AK 47 stored underneath the false bottom. Thank god for lead-lined X-ray suits to cut up and wrap the thing in, my baby's arrived safe and sound.

The damn thing is an artifact of a dirty deal in Romania, and by far my favorite gun. A Spetsnatz special, there's no stock and the barrel is much reduced in size. It's surprisingly accurate considering these modifications, but you don't haul this for accuracy. You haul it because it's a fully automatic rifle you can cram in a suitcase with enough room left over for a bunch of clips. I have five, and start jamming two into each pocket.

On my way out I grab my ticket home. I have no idea why. Maybe I've got some sort of crazy belief that I'm actually going to get out of this alive. Maybe I'm just a stupid fuck. In any event, it's in the breast pocket of my jacket, and it bangs against my shirt as I dash out into the hallway. The big clips in my front pockets dig into my thighs, and the AK makes a fucking lot of noise even when not being fired, but the time for noise is gone. It's time to die.

The only way out is unbridled aggression. A suicidal charge of brute force so overwhelming that I manage to rout these guys. They're not SWATs, they're just average guys with average training and a wife and kids at home. They don't want to die, and I don't want to kill them, but this is what it's come down to so I guess I've got to go with it.

They're blocking me from the elevator, which is stupid, because I really want to take the damn stairs. Stairs have a fire exit, while a ride down the elevator means getting stuck in a crowded, cop-filled lobby with the potential for some dumb fuck trying to be a hero getting in my way. I flick the AK to automatic and let them know I mean business with a few quick bursts of fire, all the while retreating to the doors behind me and hoping to all fuck that there's no cops coming up the stairs. The cops all duck for it when the full auto rolls out, but one of the poor fuckers takes a round right in the goddamn head. Considering I wasn't even aiming it was a pretty good shot, but to be honest killing cops is the LAST thing I want to do right now. Kill a cop and they'll hunt you forever. Which, in my case, appears to be a few more minutes.

I flip the gun to semi-auto and start clicking rounds as I head down the stairs, making sure everyone knows I am coming and that they need to flee. If anyone is on the stairs they certainly get the message, since I don't see anyone. I pull off my current clip and toss it aside. There are a few rounds, but right now I don't need “a few,” and stopping to reload in plain sight is a death sentence. I take a deep breath and kick the emergency exit open, and my ears are instantly deafened by the loud, painful ringing of the fire alarm.

Simply put, I am fucked. Someone smart must have let the police department know I was headed towards the stairs, because they were waiting for me at the bottom. They even had time to roll a cop car over, which they are crouched behind for cover.

This isn't the movies and I've already shot some poor cop in the head, so they don't bother to ask me to put my hands over my head or any sort of bullshit like that. Their guns roar at me from all directions. I feel one of the shots bounce off my helmet, ad another one bangs off my AK. There's a sharp burning in my left leg and my right shoulder, but they haven't hit my vitals yet. Why? I'm fucking right in front of you. Are you trying to take me alive, to parade me around as some sort of war trophy? Congratulations, twenty of you took down one of me, one guy who's never fought a fair fight in his life, who's been sneaking up on and doing in the weak and pathetic.

I fire my gun at random, letting the heavy thing leap and bounce in my arms. It's damaged but still kicking, and it's waited all its life for a chance like this. It pours out a stream of lead, smashing and pinging and killing with wild abandon. My gun is a wild animal, killing and mauling at random like some tiny angry god.

I hobble away, my gun still firing. It clicks, letting me know the clip is empty, so I replace it and keep firing. I don't even know, or care, if I'm hitting anything. Slowly I move towards the river. More shots. More shots. More shots. I'm losing so much blood...Having trouble seeing. I move to my second to last clip and just fire into the fucking air, waiting for them to finish me. I can't even see a damn thing at this point, as it's dark and my mask has fogged up completely. I switch to the last clip and begin to spin, allowing myself to shoot, allowing myself to fall. I fall so, so far, and then nothing.

I wake up sopping wet and being pushed against a muddy bank, the brown stuff mixing in with my bright white fur and black suit. My shoulder and leg hurt like all fuck, but I appear to be surprisingly fine, considering the circumstances. I hauled myself onto the bank and pulled off my helmet and mask. The mask is fucked, bent and clogged with sediment, and my helmet has a few big dents in it, but all things considered I am surprisingly well for the wear.

I haul myself up against the bank and push the mask and helmet into the river, trying to not put too much weight on my leg. I look up at the bright, bright sun and let it sink into my skin. I expect to hear cops, or noise, or feel a bullet sink into my chest now that I am clearly visible and out in the open and without arms or armor, but nothing comes. Other than the sound of the river and of cars going down a nearby overpass, I hear nothing.

I scramble up the bank slowly, trying not to exert myself too much. I'm very, very tired at this point, and ready to surrender to whomever is after me. But it appears that, for the time being at least, no one is after me.

Someone's thrown out a bag of old clothes, and they've been sitting out in the sun for a few weeks, so although shitty they are quite dry. I tear open the bag and start to change myself. The clothes are too big for my small frame, but dry jeans and a t-shirt is better than a wet, bloody, bullet-holed suit. I try not to look at the wounds, which, for gunshot wounds, are surprisingly clean. I do not look forward to pulling those lead slugs out of myself, though. Last thing I need is for some snooty doctor handing my name over to the police while I'm under the knife.

After getting all the cash out of my wallet I toss the leather thing, along with my suit, out into the river. It sinks quickly, since a number of my other tools are in it, and I watch it go down. I get up slowly and begin to hobble towards the nearest set of buildings. I've got plenty of cash, but no ID and no way home. But seeing as this is America, I'm already half way to getting away. All it'll take is a little ingenuity and luck.

Then I realize that being alive means one of two things. Either I've got to give up my purpose in life and let them win and persist in being, or I may dance with the devil again, only this time with a new name, a new identity, and a new set of tools. I pause to think, leaning on my good leg as I mull over the choices given to me by this narrow escape.

I grin, and begin to finger the bills in my pocket. I'm a man of expensive tastes. Surely I can't give this up and go straight, not when there's cashed to be earned and bodies to drop. I love it too much, and while the cops have granted these bastards a reprieve, there's no way they're getting away from me. All I need is a car, a gun, and just a little more time.

And for someone to call and ask for the services of Hans Korner.