The sweet smell of a great sorrow lies over the land Plumes of smoke rise and merge into the leaden sky A man lies and dreams of green fields and rivers But awakes to a morning with no reason for waking He's haunted by the memory of a lost paradise In his youth or a dream he can't be precise He's chained forever to a world that's departed It's not enough it's not enough His blood had frozen & curdled with fright His knees have trembled & given way in the night His hand has weakened at the moment of truth His step had faltered One world one soul Time pass the river roll And he talks to the river of lost love and dedication And silent replies that swirl invitation Flow dark and troubled to an oily sea A grim intimation of what is to be There's an unceasing wind that blows through this night And there's dust in my eyes that blinds my sight And silence that speaks so much louder than words Of promises broken -David Gilmour, "Sorrow" "Oh good! Then it printed out OK?" "Hey, don't worry about it-- it happens to the best of us." "Well, I'm sorry the salesman told you it was an infrared model-- Just so you know: All the infrared models are labeled with that 'IR Away' icon on the box. All the printers without that label have to have an actual physical connection to the computer." "Yes, with a cable." "Well, when you tell the computer to print something, then it wants to relay that information to the printer. If there's no connection between them, be it IR or cable, then the printer has no way of knowing what to do. Sort of a 'spirit is willing but the flesh is clueless' kind of deal." "No, ma'am. I just have a little bit of a cold-- our company is strictly a humans-only employer." "Yes, that's right-- 'We're doing our part to ensure the survival of humanity' as well." "No SCABS. Not even the janitors." "Yes, we're also very proud of our track record." "No problem, ma'am. That's why we're here." "Thank you. Merry Christmas to you, too." SR hung up the phone gently, pressing the 'make busy' button to be sure that he didn't get any more calls. He leaned back into his chair, letting out a long breath and removing the specially-adapted headphones from the pointed ears on the top of his head. "Damn." He muttered to himself. "And I liked this job." Turning off the computer, he stood and to shake the kink out of his tail. It hadn't actually been a long day yet-- it was only ten o'clock in the morning-- but for SR, it was over. He paused to glance over the sea of cubicles that made up the customer support section of Brink-Goddard Technologies before walking to one of the wall-spanning windows of the third floor. Leaning heavily on the sill, he drummed the claws on the tips of the fingers of one black-furred paw as he waited for the verdict. BGT didn't hire SCABS. At least, not officially. SR had been lucky enough, two months previously, to get caught helping a cashier in a local supermarket get her register to function correctly. His soon-to-be supervisor, a Ms. Esther Georgia Nourse, had been in the check-out line directly after SR and had witnessed the whole event. BGT was in a bind for more support consultants on the voice-only lines, and Ms. Nourse had been impressed with SR's customer service skills. SR's mediocre knowledge of BGT's personal-computing products had convinced Ms. Nourse to offer a job to the unemployed red fox morph. Both parties walked out of the Safeway with smiles on their faces. Of course, the fact that SR was willing to work for much less than the minimum wage probably helped keep him on longer than a week. He figured that Ms. Nourse probably pocketed the difference between his earnings and those of the rest of the support staff, but didn't really care that much about it-- in other places, he'd been paid less to do twice the work. No, it was not a bad deal at all-- for a SCAB. All SR needed to do was work without breaks, and make sure to lock himself inside the custodial closet whenever the department head was around. Larry Wilson-- Now there was a man that made the Human Firsters' statutes his religion! Throughout the office were posted flowery, "inspiring" posters designed to drive the human soul into the worst kind of intolerance. "SCAB," to Larry, was the worst of the four-letter words-- and he used it enough to make a truck driver blush. Ms. Nourse was usually good at giving SR plenty of advanced warning to skedadle to his hole in the wall before the wicked warlock of the west came by. But as the rumors began to fly that there was "a fox in our midst," Larry began to make more random and frequent visits to the third floor, and SR was forced to live even more like a Gattacan Degenerate. On this particular Friday, because it was Christmas Eve, the third-floor staff was reduced by half. Ms. Nourse was forced to spend more time working the phones. Consequently, she was entrenched in a conversation when Larry decided to make one of his irregular visits. SR had just gotten done cheerily greeting the customer on the phone with, "Thanks for calling BG Technologies Customer Support! How can I help you?" when Larry's balding and plump melon poked its way over the cubicle's wall. His eyes widened upon seeing the fox on the phone. Making a stiff about-face, he marched angrily into Ms. Nourse's office. It couldn't have been helped-- not really. SR had known all along that this game of cat-and-mouse would eventually end in the termination of his employment. At this point, though, as SR gazed dejectedly at the rows of grey buildings lined up neatly in what constituted the inner city, he hoped that Ms. Nourse wouldn't also be joining the ranks of the unemployed. As Norms sometimes do, both Larry and Ms. Nourse had forgotten that SCABS often have more acute senses than their more human cousins. As it was, SR was intently listening to the conversation taking place on the other side of the door numbered 304. "...know that this company has a strict policy against the hiring of any of those damned SCABS!" "Yes-- but you should know that our company never actually hired him." It was foggy outside, and threatened to snow again... "WHAT?!? Are you trying to tell me that the rumors I've been hearing for the past month are actually about some fucking SCAB that you just happen to let into the building every morning to sit at one of our terminals and have conversations on our phones with the rest of his diseased kind? What, is he on some kind of extended tour of the facility? Are we suddenly allowing all the vermin off the street come in here and spend their days surfing the web at computers that we obviously don't need for our legitimate employees to get two ounces of work done around here? As if that thing could actually do the kind of work we do here!" ...They'd really done a good job decorating the city this year. Every other street light had a large, green-tinsel Christmas tree hanging off the pole. In the light of the foggy morning, it made the streets look like infinitely long corridors of pale green and grey.... "I never hired him." ...A few people could be seen walking on the sidewalks of the dreamy-white outside.... "Then just what, for the love of Mary, is that damned SCAB doing here?" ...SR saw a Taxi quickly make its way past the front of the building. It was being driven by a bald-eagle morph. SR began humming to himself.... "He works for AT&T." ...SR smiled. If anything, this job taught you how to be quick on your feet-- to make the customer feel like you're in complete control, even though you're talking out of your rear-end half of the time. Ms. Nourse was the best.... "What? Why do we have a SCAB from AT&T here?" "Do you remember the trouble we were having with the static and disconnections on the voice lines last month? Well-- AT&T sent this guy." ...Smiling, SR walked up to the outside of the door, waiting for his cue.... "Well, why didn't you tell them to send someone normal? And why on earth has he been here for an entire month?" "I did tell them to send a Norm, but they said he was the only one available at the time. And once a technician gets into a job, they like to have the same guy finish it. They said he had to do some major re-working of the wires." "Oh gee, I wonder why! Damned SCAB probably fucked up everything so bad in the first place that it's taken him this long just to get it right!" SR opened the door. Ms. Nourse was seated more-or-less comfortably behind her desk. Larry was leaning heavily on it. His scent and face were changing from the red of angry to the red of embarrassed. "Well, that was the last of them," began SR. "You had some ROUS's in the CGI's that mangled the MP3's pretty badly. I had to completely RTFM the LCD's. Of course, that also meant that your ISDN had to have its CRT replaced before the CRC fried the ENIAC. You were lucky-- if the TLA had gotten to the CAT-5, then I would have had to USB the UPS. As it was, IMAPing the IRQ's did the trick." Larry suddenly looked pale. "Oh... um... good. Then it's fixed? How much is it going to cost us?" SR smiled smugly. If nothing else, at least Larry lived up to his reputation as a complete idiot! "Naw-- it was our fault. We should have made sure the PCI had a properly tuned IDE. You won't be billed. Sorry about the inconvenience." Larry smiled weakly. Ms. Nourse carried a shocked, although certainly entertained look on her face. SR turned to her, heart pounding, lips turned upward in a smile. "I found which connection I should cut; Today, I won't need a replacement." She looked justifiably confused. "Hey," he said, "you can keep my things, they've come to take me home." He turned and closed the door quickly before sprinting down the hall, eager to get out of earshot before they had time to react. Donning his navy-blue woolen jacket, he pause to take one more look at the the expanse of movable walls and listen to the ambient murmur of the consultants working the phones before turning and walking down the stairs and out the front door. Of course, it wasn't the first time he'd lost a job-- and also not the first time he'd lost one because he was a SCAB. Still, despite the fact that he knew that his boss's boss would eventually catch on and fire him, SR had allowed himself to become attached to that place of employment. For the first time in months, other people had treated him just like any other human being. That civility alone almost let him forget what he'd lost. "Stein's Chronic Accelerated Bio-morphic Syndrome"-- SCABS. It was never easy to deal with-- for victims and victims' acquaintances alike. It was as if the world was being forced to act out some cheap science fiction movie: In the first years of the twenty-first century an exploratory mission to Mars brought back several samples of Martian soil and rocks-- and a virus that would change the face of humanity forever. The Martian Flu, as it came to be known and feared, became sort of a post-pubescent chicken pox, except that there were no pox and the side-effects were gravely worse: Just about everyone got it at some point in their lives, after which they needn't fear contracting it again. It was a severe virus-- depending on the living conditions and medical facilities where one lived, between six and thirty percent of those who contracted it died as a direct result of the strains on their bodies. Most everyone else survived unscathed, the Flu becoming just another forty-eight hour cold to them. For an unfortunate one-out-of-twelve, however, the Flu developed into the curse of SCABS: Shortly after the symptoms of the Flu ceased, the bodies of the sufferers of this syndrome would begin to mutate. It seemed that all laws of science and sensibility were repealed when it came to what this virus could do! Most SCABS ended up becoming part-human, part-animal things. Some completely became animals, their human minds and consciousness falling prey to the scourge as well. Some changed gender. Some changed age. Some became inanimate objects. A very few were burdened with the ability to control their forms. Even fewer still could temporarily affect any number of the above mentioned mutations on other people. It seemed that the virus was blind to barriers of nationality, race, gender, or social status, transforming whoever it desired. Of course, not everyone believed these changes occurred out of mere chance... SR waited patiently at the bus stop for the fifty-occupant Mercedes that would take him back to his little apartment on Gnade Street. When the vehicle came, however, he found himself still standing on the curb, paws in his pockets, considering what he should do. He wasn't ready to come home yet. It was a Friday, and Friday was the day of the week that he got his letter returned. Ever since arriving in this city and obtaining his lower-class- but-not-yet-poverty-level apartment in the complex at 46 Gnade Street, SR had been diligent in sending off a letter every Saturday to the residence of his parents, over a thousand miles away. His mail-carrier, a stout full-morph blood hound SCAB named Sam, was just as diligent at bringing that same letter back every Friday with "Address not found-- return to addressee" displayed prominently on the outside in large, glaringly red, rubber-stamped letters. It was too early in the day to return home and find that waiting for him in his mailbox. Instead, SR spontaneously decided to wander the city. After all, it was Christmas, and with his job, he hadn't taken the time to see any of the festivities. Turning, he began to meander his way along the streets. After about an hour of aimless wandering, SR found himself in a narrow alleyway between two major avenues. He was humming "Greensleeves" to himself and walking past an over-full dumpster when something on the ground caught his eye. Without thinking, he bent down and picked up the mangled magazine. He turned it over and read the title: Pethouse Magazine: Hot and Hairy Erotica! SR smirked. When humanity was irrevocably altered, it adapted accordingly-- even down to the nuances of adult entertainment. He was about to toss it on top of the pile of refuse next to him when he got a better look at the scantily-clad female crocodile-morph on the cover. He recognized her from somewhere. Instinctively, he checked the date. This edition was ancient-- nearly seventeen years old! It bothered him that he could not place the memory of that woman's face. Flipping open the magazine, the center-fold fell out. And SR remembered.... "Are you sure you want that one?" SR grinned dazedly at the full-color picture of the rabbit-morph who was showing off much more than her digitigrade legs in the center-fold of the magazine. "Yeah. I like this one." Chad Beasly, SR's friend in since the first grade, and current companion in their fourth-grade mischievousness wrinkled his brow, frowning. "You know, I found a whole lot more of these other ones with normal people in them under my brother's bed." SR glanced at the pile of Playboys, Penthouses, and other pornographic magazines to which Chad was referring. When Chad had found his older brother's stash of yiff-material, he and SR made plans to share the bounty when neither of their brothers or mothers would be home. Among all the magazines, there was only one brand that featured SCABS. "I know. I just wanna look at this one." Chad shrugged, then grabbed the topmost piece of adult entertainment and began gawking. Both boys sat in SR's parents' garage for the next few minutes, the only sound being the rustling of pages and the occasional gasp from their shocked mouths as they explored newly-emerging hormones. After a while, Chad broke the silence. "Hey SR, are you sure that your parents are gonna be gone for a while?" "Huh? Oh... yeah, my dad's in the church, and my mom's at a singing lesson. She won't be back for an hour or so." On cue, both boys were started by the voice of SR's mother, coming from directly behind them: "Oh, I won't? Just what do you think you two are doing." In unison, the fourth-graders dropped the incriminating evidence and spun around. Chad spoke. "Oh, hi, Mrs. Foxley. We were just... um..." He broke off as he received the full blow of Janice Foxley's angry stare. "Chad, I want you to go home, right now!" Chad gulped, then bent to pick up the magazines. Mrs. Foxley interceded, "I'll get rid of those for you. Just go home." Chad gave SR a pitying glance before running quickly through the door behind SR's mother. SR cowered in his mother's presence. Mrs. Foxley stood there in the doorway, both hands on her hips and an eternal frown on her face, while she considered what to do. After letting SR contemplate his doom for a minute, she finally spoke. "SR, I want you to go and wait for your father in his office." Oh boy, he had really done it this time! Normally, when SR was caught doing something naughty, his mother would chasten him with a stern talking-to and sometimes a spanking. But whenever SR was caught doing something particularly heinous, she would reserve the duty of administering punishment for SR's father, one Doctor Pastor George Foxley of the Gnade Street Christian Church. George wasn't abusive to his son by any means (physically, emotionally, or psychologically). In fact, it could be said that George Foxley treated his son better than any father should. Perhaps it was because of this love that his punishments carried such a lasting impression on SR's heart and mind. In any case, however, these occasions were always far from pleasant for SR. Without a word, SR lowered his head and shuffled past his mother through the doorway. He heard her putting the magazines into the garbage can as he opened the door to his father's office. He didn't particularly dislike this section of the Foxleys' three-story residence, but he had few fond memories of it. George had had the walls covered with a wallpaper that was made of some kind of bleached, bristly grass. The carpeting was tightly packed, and of a rich green color. Opposite the door stood George's imposingly large desk. There was a window to the right of the desk, through which the ambient afternoon light shone dully. There were a few straight-backed velvet-covered chairs scattered around, facing the desk. On the wall opposite the window hung a grandmother clock that constantly and solitarily ticked. Poor ventilation made the room slightly stuffy. The whole effect, on SR's mind, was that he was entering a foreboding, warm, velvet box-- a place for confessions and trials. After closing the door, he selected one of the fuzz-covered chairs and sat upon it, feet dangling and head bowed, as he waited for his father. Outside the door, he heard his mother close the door to the garage, then walk to the door that adjoined the Foxley residence with the church proper. When George Foxley had had his house and the church built, he had had the architect design them to be on the same plot of land, and adjoin them with a single doorway. He reasoned that with this arrangement he'd be able to better handle church affairs and spend more time with his family. In retrospect, however, he had opened the door for various church activities to occur, sometimes without his permission or approval, inside his own house. Despite this, however, his initial objective was obtained. A few minutes after Janice Foxley went through the door to the church, SR heard his father's distinct gait coming through the same door, toward the office. Seconds later, the door to the office opened, and George walked wordlessly in. Still not talking, he sat in the large leather chair behind the desk and stared, concerned, at SR. SR did not return the gaze. After several minutes, George finally spoke. "Your mother told me what you were doing with Chad in the garage." SR did not respond. George continued, "I hope you're proud of yourself." SR felt like dirt. Tears were forming in his eyes. "SR, I know that you know it's wrong to look at filthy pictures." A tear rolled down SR's face. But the next question caught SR off-guard: "But I want to know something: When you had the choice, why did you choose to look at the magazine with SCABS in it instead of the magazine with normal people?" SR looked up into his father's eyes. "I don't know," he croaked. And he didn't. George frowned. After a moment, he reached over to one of the drawers in the desk. SR knew this drawer well: It was in the top, right section of the desk. It had no rollers, but was made of finely crafted mahogany, and its opening and closing were accompanied by the smooth sound of wood sliding on wood. But most importantly, it was the drawer in which George kept his Bible. Retrieving the dog-eared and highly-marked tome, he turned to the first part of the book and began reading: And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and God saw that it was good. And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. George paused for a moment to give the words their deserved respect. He said, "SR, do you know why God made humans last of all, instead of the animals last of all?" "'Cause we're different than the animals?" "Yes, that's right. Does that mean that we're better than the animals?" "Um... I don't know." "No, SR, we're not." George could see the confused expression on his son's face. He sighed. "SR, we were made to rule over them. But this doesn't mean that we're better than them." SR nodded his head, sniffing. George continued, "But God never wanted us to be like the animals. So, SR, is it right to look at filthy pictures of animals?" SR bowed his head again, and almost inaudibly said, "No." George kept at it, "Do you know why it's wrong?" Even quieter, "No." George took a deep breath, then released it. "SR, it's wrong because when people look at pictures like that, they lust after the animals, and want to be like them. And it's wrong to want to be an animal." SR didn't understand the word 'lust,' but the meaning of what George had said was completely clear: SR had done something wrong-- even more wrong that just looking at dirty pictures. He began to cry. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry." George walked around his desk, shushing his son and hugging him tightly. "Ssh... ssh... I know. It's all right." After SR was under control of himself again, George held him by both shoulders and looked into his eyes. "Are you going to do it again?" SR wiped a tear from his eye, and replied, "No, Dad. Never again." George smiled. "Good. Now go help your mother make dinner." SR turned and walked out the door, George staying behind in the office. In the kitchen, SR could hear his mother cooking something on the stove. His little brother William was sitting in front of the television, watching a rerun of some ancient cartoon. "Hey Mom!" cried William, "My teacher, Ms. Meyer, looks a lot like one of these turtles, except she doesn't have a head-band, or use a bo or sai, and she wears a dress." "Mmm-Hmm. That's because she's a SCAB and your pre-school teacher, and not a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle." William was fascinated by the cartoon. "She can't talk like these guys neither. She has to use this little box thingy." "That's a Vodor, dear." There was a pause, then, "Hey Mom! How come she has to use a voder? Why can't she talk like the rest of us?" SR heard the activity in the kitchen stop, followed by a lengthy pause. "Because God doesn't want her to talk, William." William pondered that for a moment, then rose to turn off the T.V. Entering the kitchen, SR heard that his mother had a UCD of Hymns playing quietly in the background. The current track was, "Our Father, by Whose Name" Copyright © 1998 by SR Foxley. All rights reserved. Please contact the author if you have questions regarding the publication of this document.
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