FOXSYLVANIA

Furry Guns  (A Furry Mini-Western)

— The fox sat quietly in the bar nursing a root beer, since there wasn’t a heck of a lot else to do in the 1870’s.  ‘Bummer,” he thought, “the internet won’t even be invented yet for well over 100 years!’  Sighing at that thought, the fox lit up a cigarette.  Unfortunately since it was one of the chocolate variety, it ran down his fur.  The best things in life, like chocolate and sex, tended to be messy.

The Raccoon, however, wasn’t one of them.  He pushed through the swinging doors of the saloon, and fixed his eyes on the fox.  “I’ve come for ‘ya, Fox,” challenged the raccoon.  “I hear that you’re fast…REAL fast!”

“Back where I come from, we’d call that premature ejaculation,” chimed in Miss Kitty, proprietor of the upstairs rooms where fursons went to yiff.

“Leave my sex life OUT of this!,” warned the Fox.  Turning his attention to the raccoon, he admonished, “I have no quarrel with you.  No one needs to die today.- – Why don’t you just mosey on out of here?” (A mosey was the way one walked nonchalantly out in the Old West.)

“I’m callin’ you out, Fox,” pressed the Raccoon.  “Draw, or I’ll shoot you where you sit!”

“Let’s not go there,” implored the fox.  “You have no hope of defeating me.  Don’t make me destroy you!”

“I said DRAW, you yellow-bellied, lily-livered varmint!,” shouted the raccoon.  (This was a serious insult, on the same level as a triple-dog-dare.)  The racoon went for his weapon, but the fox was already moving, his foreleg a blur of motion.  A single shot rang out before the raccoon’s gun had cleared his holster.

The raccoon stared incredulously, looking first at the fox and then at the small hole which had appeared on his chest.  He touched his paw to it, as if in disbelief that it was there. His paw came back stained crimson.  “Impossible!,” said the raccoon weakly.  “No one could be that fast!”

“Believe it,” responded the fox.  “This is where you fall down and die.”

As if on cue, the raccoon did exactly that.

“I ain’t cleanin’ up that mess,” proclaimed Miss Kitty.  “That’s not my job!”  Miss Kitty was a good union shop furson.

Neither was it the fox’s.  He just plugged ’em, not planted them.  Moving past yet another challenger’s body and exiting by the saloon’s swinging double doors, he hit the streets, a loaded six-string on his back.  The curse of being the fastest was that there was always someone looking to challenge him, and sex was always over almost as soon as it started. The race was not always won by the swift, but gunfights were.  The fox might not be getting much satisfaction lately, but at least he wasn’t the one pushing up daisies..  He’d have to live with that for now, and there was always tomorrow…

(…and the prairie winds sang their sad, mournful dirge…)

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