Murder Feels Crazy

by Bill Alive

  Gwen slammed the brakes and jabbed a finger in Mark’s face. “Do you think there is one minute when I forget that I wear this uniform?”

  Mark turned toward his window and said, “No.”

  Still fuming, Gwen wrenched the car rattling back down the mountain. We jostled the rest of the way in hard silence.

  When we finally pulled in at GORP’s, the light and warmth through the restaurant windows looked like a cozy paradise compared to our dark tight car.

  I yanked the door handle, thrilled to be finally free… but nothing happened. The door stayed shut.

  A panic stab clenched my chest. Gwen and Mark were already escaping through their open doors.

  “Guys?” I squeaked. “My door—”

  “Courage, Pete,” Gwen said. She clicked open my door from the outside. “We prefer our usual backseat passengers stay put.”

  “Oh. Right,” I said, as I stumbled out. My embarrassment puffed away in the outside breeze; the cool night air smelled like sweet freedom.

  But Gwen was scowling at Mark. I decided to lighten the mood before we went in. “How’s Ceci?” I said. “Can we drop by and see her later?”

  “Later,” she snapped, without even looking at me.

  Though she’s never come out and said it, Gwen has high expectations for her sister, and she’s never quite decided that I deserve to be such a close friend.

  Actually, she pretty much says this all the time.

  Gwen strode to the door of the restaurant. A sheet of paper was taped to the glass, with big bold letters: “CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT.”

  She yanked open the door.

  “Ready, Mr. Falcon?” she said. “I hope it’s not asking too much?”

  “Asking too much?” Mark said mildly. “I’m not sure that’s a concept you grasp.”

  She stiffened, and he sauntered past.

  I didn’t expect her to keep holding the door for me, but when she laser-glared me, I scuttled through. Apprehension was spider-prickling down the back of my neck… their mutual peevage boded ill for the evening.

  Then I forgot Mark and Gwen existed.

  I beheld the furries.

  Chapter 7

  Imagine a horde of adult-size Muppets taking over a restaurant.

  Except that half of them are crawling around and making animal noises.

  Total sensory overload. My brain jolted back to six-year-old Pete freaking out at a parade when a bunch of these possibly well-intentioned giant lion suits saw me and decided to swarm. (Thanks, brain.)

  Nothing had changed in fifteen years — the wrong way they moved, the gigantic glaring cartoon eyes, even the plastic smell of the fake fur.

  One big difference: the roar. This crowd had smashed the ancient Furry Code of Silence to kibbles and bits, unleashing a howl of humans trying to sound like dogs, cats, horses, cows, pigs, dragons, and creatures I didn’t even recognize… all competing with other giant stuffed animals trying to sound like normal humans.

  Mark was taking slow, deliberate breaths.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I said.

  “Sure,” he said, with a shrug that seemed forced. “They’re having a good time. I’ll definitely take this over a funeral.”

  But before he even finished the sentence, a roly-poly puppy pounced.

  The creature flapped its furry arms around Mark in a surprise, massive hug. When Mark finally extricated himself, the puppy eagerly wagged his two-foot tail and sniffed Mark’s armpits.

  In case you hadn’t guessed… Mark’s not super touchy-feely.

  I’ve never seen him punch anyone, but both his fists were clenched. Then his face cleared with surprise… and recognition.

  “You know who this is?” I said.

  Gwen cut in. “I don’t. Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to remove that mask.”

  The puppy drew back with a sudden lurch, and I got the distinct impression that it was only now realizing the presence of a cop. But it cocked its head like it didn’t speak English.

  “Now,” Gwen said.

  The puppy gently shook its head.

  Gwen’s eyes narrowed.

  That is never, ever good.

  “EXCUSE ME!” she bellowed, a sonic boom that ruptured through the roar and blasted the entire room silent.

  Every pair of eyes, plastic or otherwise, jolted toward her.

  “I need everyone to take off their masks,” she said. “Now.”

  The furries froze.

  Then a lean raccoon spoke up in an angry, piercing squawk. “There’s no law against costumes!” he said. He sounded like a kid who’d been picked on in school until he got old enough to buy assault weapons, and then he got picked on by cops.

  Were you wondering whether I recognized his voice? I’m impressed, you get extra points. I did indeed. He didn’t have the bullhorn this time, but this was definitely the same raccoon who’d been leading the protest at the pain clinic.

  Not that Back Mosby is exactly brimming with talking raccoons.

  Gwen said, “Sir, you are misinformed. In Virginia, adult masks in public are actually illegal.”

  “I dispute that!” the raccoon said.

  “Ever heard of the Ku Klux Klan?” Gwen snapped. “They spoiled masks for the rest of us.”

  “You’re comparing us to the Ku Klux Klan?” The raccoon jostled out from the booth and leapt to his paws. Feet. The other furries hubbubbed with anger.

  Gwen’s jaw clenched. Her hand slipped to the cuffs on her belt.

  “Gwen, it’s cool,” Mark said quietly. “Just let me make the rounds.”

  “I’m not going to take any flack from an overgrown Halloween party,” she growled.

  The raccoon yelled, “We have the right to our fursonas! This is private property!”

  “It may be private property,” Gwen said, icy calm, “but to wear a mask, you still need written permission from the owner.”

  “Bullshit,” said the raccoon.

  Gwen clinked out the cuffs.

  “It’s his restaurant!” the raccoon said, and he pointed a paw at the puppy who’d attacked Mark.

  The puppy wilted a bit and crossed its arms, jabbing an ancient 3D map of the Blue Ridge mountains that was mounted on a nearby wall.

  “Go on, Chip,” Mark said.

  “Chip?!” I gasped.

  The puppy startled, then grudgingly yanked off its head. The man inside was flushed and sweaty but definitely Chip Chapman — owner of GORP Gourmet, attraction crystal enthusiast, and, for the moment, uncomfortably reminiscent of a Scooby Doo finale.

  Chip hunched a bit. “I’ve been in the fandom for awhile,” he said.

  Gwen was undeterred. “Are you the property owner, sir?”

  Chip squirmed. “Ah, no. We’re leasing.”

  Gwen raised her voice again. “You all hear that?” she said. “Masks off.”

  “I don’t believe you, Chip!” the raccoon said. “This is supposed to be a safe space!”

  “The mask law is to keep people safe,” Gwen snapped. “For instance, from assault.”

  “Oh, please—” the raccoon started.

  But Chip straightened up and said, “I’m sure this officer is only doing her job… Luther.”

  At the name, the raccoon stiffened, and the rest of the furries seemed to collectively exhale. One by one, they pulled off their masks. Luther was last, revealing a long thin face, long thin brown hair that poked his sharp shoulders, and eyes like a feral cat with a grudge.

  Gwen turned to Mark. “All right, Mr. Falcon,” she said, abruptly pleasant. “All clear for you to proceed.”

  The horde of sullen eyes shifted to bore into Mark. There were a lot more furries here than I remembered from that protest.

  “Thanks so much,” he muttered.

  I sidled close. “Are you vibing anything?” I asked, in a low tone.

  “Yes,” he said. “Now everyone’s pissed. Lovely.”

  Gwen is amazing and all, but one day her superiors are going
to figure out that she’s really not optimally suited for interaction with members of the public who aren’t actual felons. And already convicted. And possibly armed.

  “You can do this,” I said. “It’s for Ceci, right? Should I stay close by and try to… you know…”

  “Think happy thoughts?” He smirked, but not unkindly. Pretty sure I blushed anyway. “Thanks,” he said, “but it’s already signal overwhelm in here. It’s going to be hard enough as it is to pick out a particular vibe.” He sighed, then muttered, “Shields down.”

  He winced. But he smoothed his face and surveyed the room. “All right,” he said, sounding almost normal. “Let’s start with the — GYAH!”

  With a groan, he writhed and crumpled into a chair.

  “Mark?” I said. “Mark!”

  “Pete?” rumbled a huge goat.

  The goat furry loomed over us with a tray of drinks. A waiter? The waiter must have missed Gwen’s order back in the kitchen, because he was still fully masked; a massive white goat beard rippled over his belly.

  “Pete!” he said. “Wow! I didn’t know you were in the fandom!”

  Through grit teeth, Mark said, “Hello, Kalakos.”

  Chapter 8

  Kalakos, you recall, is this big bearded waiter with perennial back pain. Which somehow gets amplified for Mark. I mean, the way Mark reacts, I don’t know how Kalakos walks around upright.

  Kalakos, now also a goat, jumped back, perilously rattling the drinks. “Mr. Falcon! Sorry, didn’t see you down there, it’s tricky in these suits. Wow! So what’s your fursona?”

  Mark staggered to his feet, straining a ghastly grin. “Love to chat, but…” he nodded toward Gwen.

  Gwen, who didn’t seem to care about this mask, rolled her eyes. “Mr. Falcon, there’s no need to exaggerate your… ability.”

  “I… wish… I… were,” Mark growled.

  Gwen frowned. At me. “Pete?” she demanded.

  Great. I nudged Kalakos. “So!” I said brightly, then realized I had no idea what to talk about. “Um. How’s the back pain?”

  That actually worked. Kalakos swung away from his prey, and Mark rushed off with Gwen toward other furries. “Honestly?” Kalakos said, his gigantic glassy goat eyes staring like a dead fish. “I love this suit, but it hurts like a bitch. It’s like wearing a couch.”

  “I can imagine,” I said, flailing for where to take this conversation next. “That suit really looks… expensive.”

  It did look expensive, I realized with mild shock. Unlike, say, Chip’s old puppy suit, which suffered from a host of small indignities, from saggy bits to worn patches to indiscreet ketchup stains, this goat suit sparkled with fresh fabric and intricate detailing. It reminded me of those bright soft new puppets on gift store stands that had always been so much fun to play with, and so hideously overpriced.

  “Dude, this thing’s worth every penny,” Kalakos said. “And she’s letting me pay in installments.”

  “Installments?” I gasped. “How much is it?”

  “You want in?” he brayed. “Come on, you’ve got to meet her! Fursuit Ferrari, she’s here tonight!”

  “Um,” I said.

  But Mark, who was twenty feet away and interviewing an elderly Hispanic woman in a fox suit, snapped me a warning glare to get Kalakos out of there.

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  “Awesome!” Kalakos turned and led me toward the other end of the store, apparently forgetting all about the drinks on his tray.

  “Hey,” I said. “Is your goat tail real?”

  He jolted. “What?” he said. He glanced back toward Gwen. (Or at least, his stuffed head and shoulders twisted back in that general direction.) “Of course not. Why would it be real? That’s just weird. Who’d want real animal parts attached to their body?”

  “Me,” said a lone little man dressed as a platypus.

  Kalakos dropped his voice. “Okay, it’s not unheard of,” he said. “But it’s definitely not my thing. And anyway, what’s the difference with a leather jacket?”

  He had a point. I guess. Maybe. Except the thing about leather is that at least we try to forget it came off a cow. Which maybe makes it better? Ugh.

  Anyway, I couldn’t keep obsessing about that, because I was too busy anticipating my imminent encounter with the mysterious and soon-to-be-disappointed Fursuit Ferrari. As Kalakos led me past the tables, I also realized that 1) there was no way all these people were from Back Mosby, this had to be a Northern Virginia Symposium or something, and 2) not everyone was wearing a full fursuit. Some, maybe most, were rocking just animal ears, or face paint, or (hopefully artificial) tails.

  You would think that seeing more of people’s human parts would have been reassuring. For me, it was just the opposite. Everyone here might be in various stages of transition, but sooner or later, the transformation would be complete.

  At least no one was going for Pleasure Island Donkey.

  “Hey, Kalakos,” I said. “Why’d you choose a goat?”

  He stopped and turned back. “Are you kidding?” He pulled off his goat head, releasing the poof of his truly impressive facial hair. “BEARDS!”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right.”

  “Plus…” He smirked. “Goats are super randy.” He waggled his thick eyebrows.

  I hadn’t known eyebrows actually could waggle. I hoped I would never see the proof again.

  “All right, Pete!” he boomed. “You ready to meet the Ferrari?”

  “Actually…”

  “Here you go!” Kalakos stepped aside and waved me up to a booth. “Meet Rachel Ferrari, Fursuit Goddess.”

  Rachel smiled.

  I gasped.

  She was the hot pregnant lady from the emergency room.

  Still very pregnant. And very hot. Even though she was wearing whisker makeup and a headband with cat ears.

  Did I describe Rachel’s face yet? Now that I was seeing her relaxed and hanging out with friends, as opposed to abandoned in a hospital waiting room, it somehow felt slightly less morally reprehensible to succumb to a deeper study. She was so intense, with that short jet black hair and high cheekbone combo that was, oddly, a little like Cate Blanchett as the embarrassingly hot spy in that embarrassingly bad Indiana Jones movie. Except that Rachel’s eyes were wide and pretty and dark, and her smile was friendly and warm. Even with the whiskers.

  My stupid body instantly surged into Hotness Red Alert. I swear I had tunnel vision; beside me, both the beards of Kalakos went blurry.

  Rachel leaned across the narrow table of the booth and flicked some droopy lion dude. Even in my altered state, I had to note that, even though he was still wearing his lion mask, he was considerably less intimidating than the lions I remembered from age six. I savored this small consolation.

  “Make room,” Rachel told him, in a voice that was low and playful. The lion scrunched over, and Rachel nodded at the newly available foot of bench that faced her across the cramped booth.

  “What’s your name again? Pete?” she said. “What’s the deal, you want a fursuit?”

  She nodded again at the empty bench. Beneath the table, her black skirt was short, and her long lounging legs were very, very bare.

  Chapter 9

  I hesitated. For one thing, I did not want a fursuit, and so taking a spot in the booth felt like, at best, false pretense.

  There was also my lingering issue with lion proximity.

  But really, I thought of Ceci, ailing and alone in her hospital bed. Although our Official Status was still Extremely Uncertain, it just felt wrong to slide into this booth and wind up even accidentally playing footsie. Or kneesie. Whatever.

  Not that I seriously thought this goddess was at all into me. If we did touch, I’d be the only one to care.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I can stand.”

  “You sure?” She tucked up her legs to make more room. “You look uncomfortable.”

  “I’m really just walking around,” I said, choosing not to add th
at merely standing three feet from her was already maxing me out. For the first time ever, I wondered if this Hotness Alert System could ever malfunction, if it was the sort of thing you could go get looked at. What if it was like having a smoke alarm that shrieked in panic when you were only trying to light a birthday candle?

  I decided to make a witty exit while my prefrontal cortex was still online. “Nice to meet you,” I quipped.

  Rachel looked confused, but Kalakos intervened. “Bro! I thought you wanted a suit!”

  “Oh, that. Um. Well…”

  Rachel waved him aside. “You don’t have to start with a full suit,” she said. “Is this your first time at a meetup? What’s your fursona?”

  At this point, I reflected that perhaps it would have been a good idea to precede this visit with, say, an Internet search on the whole furry thing. My knowledge of this subculture extended pretty much to the word “furry”.

  The correct response, of course, would have been something along the lines of: I don’t actually have a fursona, whatever that is, because I’m here with the police.

  But that’s a lot easier to mention when you’re actually standing next to Gwen. Maybe slightly behind her.

  And when you don’t have someone like Rachel waiting right there, with polite, expectant interest, plus total eye contact, to hear you talk about yourself.

  Okay, fine. I’m not proud of what I said.

  Because… I didn’t say anything.

  Nothing. For like, ten seconds. I’m cringing just writing this.

  To my surprise, Rachel didn’t seem to mind. Apparently she was not unused to tongue-tied males. “No stress, it’s cool,” she said. “I didn’t mean you have to go all deep right out in public about your personal furry.”

  “What’s the big deal?” said Kalakos. “This is my personal furry.” He stroked his massive beard.

  Rachel ignored him. “I just mean, super general. Like, do you have a name yet? A preferred animal?”

  My brain, though reduced to the speed of lightly chilled molasses, was finally hazarding educated guesses as to what the heck she was talking about. For some reason, I felt an unusual reluctance to start lying in the course of duty. I tried to stick to the truth.