The meeting of the minds.

Horatio Rascecieu, the gilded fox, sat sipping at his 1496 Cabernet.  He was one of the finest minds of his Generation and was well aware of it.  As he looked across the darken salon he saw the faces of what many considered his peers.  Amateurs, all of them.  When would it be that he would find a mind to match his own in debate.  The subject mattered not, he knew them all.

The heavy gilded red curtain swept open, almost silently, so that only Rascecieu noticed the slight figure slip into the gaping salon, as if awaiting him like a hot, wet, ready cunt. Projectors lit up like a starlit evening, revealing the glistening figure of the fox against the velvety background of the scene. This one had a much slender figure, a dancing crystal ballerina with a snow white tutu. The animal caught the attention of our furred friend, for it was much unusual for male dancers to appear in this cabaret.

The music started from the orchestra pit, a sublime rendition of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake floated out as if the notes had a life of their own, making sweet love to Rascecieu's ears as he dipped his head back like the hips of a young fawn, eagerly expecting her first cock.  Images played through his mind of a beautiful swan dipping its head into the water, its life ending by its own idiocy, its heart sputtering its last attempts to pump its imbecilic blood in a cretinic body unworthy of continuation.  The arresting image of life and death makes him cringe in awkwardness, the fragile thread of music brought to a stop and nearly broken, when a crescendo sprouts him back to life like a shitty orgasm.  His inner turmoil masqueraded by the foxen dancer, he feels the deepest of inner realisations; that he is in a matter of fact enjoying himself through that little soireé.

Et Violà!, the beauty, the innate gracefulness of the fox's dancing, the slithe tutu-wearing figure had insufflated much needed life into the evening and brought Rascecieu back to the fullness of his senses. "I must know this man; this Character; this God of Dance!" Exclaimed Rascecieu with adoration.

As the orchestra subsided, so did the artistry of the vulpine man; and just as surrepticiously as he had snuck onto the stage, he disappeared most clandesteneously. The 1496 Cabernet forgotten, RAscecieu rose from his seat pushing the linen clothes aside, and while a certain majority of the audience was still sitting in a dazed stupor from the boringness of the orchestra, started walking amidst the drifting peasants regrouping after the orchestra's broken continuation. He shoved aside furre and scale, without consideration for any of the general public regrouped there; his mind's only focus was being on the tutu dancer's unrequited attention.

He penetrated into the scene's backstage with a spurt, as little grace as a whale forcefully expelling a firstborn from the cetacean uterus. A seedy, glomy ambiance of Spectacle filled the backstage, where feathers rubbed with the silk of costumes. A titanic prop elephant head rested on series of painted plywood, decors for a show, and the colossal item was looking at actors and performers with a disdainous look of misgrace, like a drunken transient lifting his cup at nobody in particular. Torches still burning danced dangerously near blowing drapes of cloth, and the orchestra moved with agitation, readying the next rehearsal. However, the graceful dancer was nowhere to be seen.

"How can this be!" Exclaimed Rascecieu with gloom. The unrequited frustration filled his mind and routed his synapses, allied with the Cabernet which disoriented his senses nicely. The wine, while not of a particular strength, had hallicinogenic properties and made Horation Racescieu quickly collapse onto the hard ground, his fall deftly broken by the velvety carpets. He nonetheless damaged forcefully his gilded figure, and would only wake up several hours after with a slight dull pain on the back of the head.

While he slept in unconscsiousness from having fallen to the ground, Racescieu dreamt;



He was the Elephant prop head; Three shadowy figure were hunting him, hitmen hired to ensure his demise. Why, he did not know, he only knew that the hooded shadows were dangerous and meant certain death if they achieved to reach Racescieu somehow. Unarranged thoughts slipped through his mind, merging onto the freeway of his neurons in a confused amalgam of thoughts: "Oh God Racescieu why did I drink this wine." he thought with a mix of disdain and fear. Radical mind training allowed him to remain perfectly consious in his dreams, however he remained a slave to the cruel masters of the dream world. He looked back at the hooded figures, there cony heads shadowed by black robes, and the  semi-automatic Beretta 92 Parabellum in their hands loaded and ready for a much unrequited bear. The cold steel rested firmly in their hands, locked in a masturbatory ritual of the gun-addled plebeian.

Racescieu held his breath and imagined the ecstasy of death, the inert embrace of the Grim, the old ferry man who would have his way with him as they crossed the lonely river styx, the violation of his soul in eveery manner brought a strange comfort to Racescieu in the face of oblivion.  His soul longed to continue, like a child slowly playing with his penis in the bath.  SUddenly he felt the guns fire and he turned into a GIraffe.  THe bullets whizzed by his patterened neck as he saw across the theatre beams into the room of the long sought for fox.

`Hello, oh african queen, ye who seeks my company.  As was jsut in the times of Plato and Aristophenes, you must remove your pubic hair before ye enter the temple of hephaestus"

Things had become clear.  That which seemed mythic was jsut that.  Or was this still a dream.  He reached out his long neck between his legs and grazed on his african bush loins like a heated female in on the longest day of the dry season.  At once the walls peeled away revealing their inner nature, the flesh of the sweetest indian fruits, dragonfruit and papaya.  He stepped throught the gushing nectared walls and transformed back into a gilded fox with each step.

He heard three voices at once "WELCOME WOULD YOU LIKE SOME NUTS?" the shadowy figures cried out in the distance. The once again gilded fox pressed ears with a twich against the fruity barrier, but retracted with haste upon the realization that the delicious wall was about to give in. As he backed up, iron phalluses started making their way through the fruit, and he realized with horror that these manhoods belonged to the shadows, and were in fact the barrel of the M92 Berettas. He lauded: "By the Maker's Mark, stop following me, what has happened to make me deserve such fate?" as the figures drew closer and ever closer.

The resounding click of metal cocked became the death knell he long expected, the flash of the barrel realeased metallic mechanical bulls with eyes of fire and cocks of red hot lead.  As the mating bulls charged, Rascescieu covered his face and genitals hoping the sanctity of flesh would save him.  He braced for the phallic burn of impact, but instead felt cold.  The crack of his eye came open and he saw the erect bulls tangled, their cocks jammed in the body of his sought vulpine.  He had sacrificed his life to save rascescieu, and at once he felt unworthy.  He melted into mercury, slipping between the cracks of the floor and pooling in darkness.

Then he awoke.

No one around, the darkness of the theater basement.

With a red bull penis drawn on his arm.

FIN