The harsh surface upon which he was resting was not felt by Cutbastra. The pumice ground greeted his fursuit with all the care a volcanic stone could. An amaranth scent intruded his nostrils, unconsensually. His first thought was that, at least, it wasn’t a phallus. His second thought was that that wasn’t a first thought to be having, like, ever. He incorporated and looked at his paws, confused. What kind of sex party had he been in? Why was the sky wearing a pattern of commission prices? Why was he wearing a fursuit that felt… so real and cozy.
Most important, where was Oracle?
As if on command, Oracle popped out of the horse suit’s marsupium, looked at the blissfully nondescript knotowers extending towards the firmament at their left, and then at the massive statue of a shark-woman that covered the light from a green sun, flexing her muscles, and sporting an unnatural bulge in her shorts. He, as you know, couldn’t blink out of astonishment nor indignation.
“That’s absurd. Sharks have claspers. Claspers!” complained Oracle, seemingly ignoring the rest of the oddness around them.
“Ah, right, furry heaven. Considerably less degenerate than expected.”
Thunder moaned high above, in the pinkish clouds that reminded one of cotton sugar.
“Slightly less degenerate than expected,” he corrected himself.
A tumbleweed made wholly out of giant, three-flagellated spermatozoids twisting their tails around each other’s to interlock hopped by.
“As degenerate as expected,” Cutbastra had to accept, sourly. “How do we find our quarry, Oracle?”
“Beats me.”
A savage growl came from behind them, and made the earth shake. Cutbastra quickly leaped to his feet, getting into a fighting stance, with one leg preceding the other, with his fists ready to punch a hole through some anthropomorphic-whatever’s chest. It was an anthropomorphic vaquita, so swole and roided that one could see the kicks of the supposed unborn or perhaps flesh eating parasites trapped inside her magnificent, veiny biceps. Cutbastra’s thoughts weren’t about the fact the thing stood three meters tall or weighed slightly more than the fifty-kilogram estimate for his wild counterparts, but rather “Shit, I can’t kill him; his species is endangered.”
“Cutbastra, I am your friend since long ago, and I know what you are thinking. This isn’t the vaquita you lost. This is a degenerate that took the innocence of vaquitas and twisted it. And besides, everything here is already dead.”
The vaquita advanced by means of long strides, each one leaving tracks on the pumice stone. “Hey, handsome, want to help repopulate vaquitas?”
Cutbastra rushed with his fingers extended as claws. Using his full speed, he tried to hit every spiritual floodgate in his opponent’s upper body, hitting each with a finger far faster than the untrained eye could see. He thought, in a brief moment of serendipity, about the oddness of his horse suit having claw-like gloves instead of hooves.
The Vaquita weathered Cutbastr’as billions of strikes without losing its satisfied stoner grin. He wasn’t going to reject a massage.
“I shall kinkshame the dead!” The cultivator boldly declared, standing there, realizing they were, perhaps, not so different after all, but there was no other way for this to go. His fingers pumped against the Vaquita’s naked bicolor flesh, and he pumped more and more Vital energy in each strike.
The Vaquita yawned. He would tire out. They all did.
Cutbastra took out one of his suit’s gloves to use his bare hand with the fingers joined like a blade, and bury it into the Vaquita’s chest. Lube mixed with choccy milk stained the purple and green horse suit as the Cultivator pushed his hand further into the Vaquita’s immovable mountain of a body. He grabbed something throbbing inside the Vaquita’s wide chest, and yanked it straight out. The white-pink, spherical mass kept beating in his hand as he smiled under the suit’s head.
The Vaquita stood in place, slightly amused. “You are into BDSM, I take?”
Cutbastra’s eyes went wide. He had torn the heart from the vaquitas chest, he had… And then he let the mass of tissue he was holding in his hand fall upon the rocky ground, creating a disgusting sound as the giant testicle bounced on it.
Cutbastra attacked again, this time introducing his hand in the abdomen of his enemy, piercing through skin and flesh without difficulty. If he couldn’t tear out his heart, he would gut him. And with his hand found something long and seemingly filled with liquid. Intestines, he thought. He pulled. It was like a linked sausage, except it was made of condoms filled with the mixture of lube and chocolate milk. He pulled, and kept pulling, meter after meter of the thing, covered in the bodily fluids (That had no business being inside a body) of the vaquita. It was like a magician pulling a coil out of his mouth, except Cutbastra wasn’t amazed: he was desperate, his lips trembled and he felt his heart, or possibly a giant testicle, thumping against his ribcage.
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After about a kilometer of condom-guts had piled around them, Cutbastra looked up, into his enemy’s face, and, showing his teeth, spoke between tired breaths. “What… are you?”
The vaquita’s laugh boomed across the rocky wastelands. “A bottom, as you may have noticed.”
Oracle decided to chime in. “Sir, we are not down to yiff. We come from the other side—”
“Heterosexuality?”
Cutbastra was about to complain but, look at that, the monster had a point.
“Perhaps. What I meant is that my associate and I are allegedly alive.”
“Allegedly?” asked Cutbastra.
“We fell unconscious inside a fridge. Got to be a bit of a realist.”
“Oh, you got brought here by Don Horancio!” said the presumably-mortally-wounded vaquita, hands on his knees as he leaned forward to be at the height of Cutbastra’s eyes. “I hate that guy. But you have been rather excellent guests so far.”
“I… tried to tear your heart off your chest,” Cutbastra informed, shyly raising a finger.
“Your point? I am not decapitated or obliterated yet. That’s kindness.” The vaquita poked Cutbastraa’s forehead with a burly chorizo of a finger. “Why are you here?”
“I am Cutbastra, follower of the Road of the Homewrecker, and a widow is hunting me. I must fuck her husband to destroy even the smallest chance of losing a battle against her and dying.”
“That’s a sentence alright.”
“One would think you are used to that sorta thing around here,” Oracle sassed.
“Yes, it is. Do you know the name of this man you are looking for? I have been around. I have been topped by manifold phalli under this green sun. And talking about folds, mine have been—”
“Too much information!” Cutbastra instinctively punched a hole in the friendly face of the Vaquita, granting it an express passage to the world of two-dimensional vision. “Sorry,” he whispered, looking at the ocular testicle he had pulled from the Vaquita’s face.
“Ah, worry not. It will grow back. Do you have a name for this ‘prey’ of yours?”
Oracle hummed. “His fursona is a hyena and he smells of licorice and exhaust smoke.”
“Ah, Furtherknot! He gives over yonder, past the statue of Our Lady of the ToothScales.”
Cutbastra carefully examined the face of his interlocutor. Then he lifted Oracle next to his face and whispered in the lizard’s ear “Is that English?”
“It ought to be.”
“I can give you a lift there,” the gentle giant offered.
“I appreciate it, but…” And cutbastra couldn’t finish his sentence before getting picked up and flung over the statue like he was a ball of crumpled paper flying across a classroom. Oracle watched with a light on his eyes.
“In here we cannot die, right?”
“Nope.” The Vaquita confirmed, before grabbing the lizard by the tail, swinging —action that he had mastered since long ago — him around like a pair of bolas, and sending him the way of Cutbastra.
----------------------------------------
Through green skies filled with clouds of bong smoke and with the melodious chants of kittens singing jingles resounding on their ears they soared across the furry afterlife. They were going too fast to appreciate the forests of bodily hair, or the plains of sweat glands where drops the size of mastiffs grazed on to tender dead skin, or Those Steppes, whose description would earn this work fifty newfangled trigger warnings.
Eventually, and with their noses clogged by the dead marihuana smoke on the atmosphere, they landed into what Cutbastra wished would be merely a pool of mud. Oracle, blessed with visions from heaven, knew better.
They left a mark onto the malleable substance as Cutbastra crawled out of it, his hands and knees sinking into the brown mass with each step. “Ah, finally, a swimming poo.”
Cutbastra let out a whine worthy of a whistling kettle.
When he arrived to the concrete border and climbed on it, taking off the head of his horse fursuit, he found an anthropomorphic, green hyena staring down at him. “Aren’t you the guy my wife wants to kill?”
“I am the guy who killed your daughter,” Cutbastra confirmed.
A smaller, female, orange hyena approached and looked down on him too. She was wearing a dress with a pattern of catapults. “Oi cunt, happy to see me?”
Cutbastra smiled. “Ah, the other killed you. I am sorry. I am not in control once he comes out. Happy to see you made it into the afterlife.”
Furtherknot closed his eyes and showed his palms to heaven “I did her paperwork as you were killing her. Got her furry citizenship.”
“And I am ugly now.” Crusadina lamented. “But at least mom doesn’t know I am here. Don’t tell her.”
“Are you doing your wife’s paperwork?”
Crusadina Limited Furry Edition and her father answered at once. “Hell no!”
“I am asking because I will probably have to kill her in self-defense.” He blinked twice and shuffled to his feet. “Do you still want to destroy the world, lass?”
“Cultivation is lost with death. My road is not mine to walk anymore.”
“But now you have the power granted by your horny!” her dad tried to comfort her.
“I am not horny!” Crusadina stomped the floor and stormed inside the wooden cabin mere meters away from the poo-l.
“Ah, little curiosity of mine: why the fuck do you have a whole pool of crap?”
Furtherknot raised his eyebrow. “Why do we have giant desert sandickworms with big tits?”
“You have wh… forget it, fetishes manifest physically here, I know, I know. By the way, I don’t want to but…” Cutbastra gestured helplessly with his hands as he held a disgusted expression in his face.
“Convince me, cute boy. Convince me to betray my wife and this hyena booty is yours.”
“I need an adult,” Cutbastra, the four centuries old monster, muttered. “Is it fine if I strip here? And then… do you have a shower?”
“Be my guest. And yes, but you won’t like it, Qt3.14159265…”
Cutbastra waited patiently, fidgeting with his fingers. He would soon fall to temptation
“…197169—”
“Nice!” he could help but exclaim, to the disgrace of Oracle, who only now noticed he had been bereft of his willy warmer. A sad day to be a skink.
Cutbastra began by unbuttoning his shirt and a moon so big it had an Inflation tag slapped on it appeared and drifted slowly, gradually covering the green sun.
“What’s happening?”
“Obligatory eclipse before an imminent sex scene. Continue.”
And as Cutbastra continued undressing, the world of the dead gradually faded to black.