Monotony

It was just another day. The same bullshit as the day before. Up at seven to be at work by eight, the same kolache place for breakfast, last night’s leftovers for lunch, and whatever was for dinner. You come home to your barren apartment, the wallpaper was peeling sure, the kitchen has some roaches and the five pieces of furniture in the living area of the efficiency was a dresser to hold the T.V up and store clothes in, the same couch that had travelled with you from your old apartment in Lubbock, a cheap white folding table from wally world and two more white folding chairs from the same place. But hey rent is only 600 a month.
	You light up a cigarette and grab a beer from the fridge, you aren’t supposed to smoke inside as per the lease but your landlord couldn’t give less of a shit, you turn on the T.V as you let the pot of chili you made two nights ago warm up on the stove. The same political bullshit, the same cries of racism, the same. You lean back on the duct tape headdress of the couch looking up at the yellowed and cracked ceiling, the same thought as yesterday runs through your head “Is this hell?”.
You used to be happy to come home after a long day at the office, you used to go to the company night outs at Jeremy’s down on 7th and 10th, then a new hire accused the boss of sexual harassment after one. With one bold faced lie, some crocodile tears and the messing of some blonde hair she got the poor guy fired. Until they found out she lied, then she went too.
You take a drag off the cigarette letting the smoke sit in your lungs for a second before letting it out in a long deep puff. You pull out the flip-phone that your great-grandfather gave you on the last christmas you spent together, nearly 23 years ago. No messages as per usual, just the same unchanging Tracfone logo.
As you grow bored of the monotony of the 24 hour news cycle’s incessant ramblings you decide to go to your laptop on another white table, with another white chair in your bedroom. The wireless keyboard clacks pleasantly as you type in board.4chan.org/trash/catalog. The same cesspits of fur-centered depravity haven’t changed since yesterday. You click the search button and type the five letters of your guilty pleasure. h. m. o. f. a. The same five letters you type in every night. You run a hand along your cheek as you wait for the thread to load, the bristle-like hairs of your face needing to be shaved scratch at your hand.
You stopped outing editions after the history posts ended, no real point to keep track of them. With your left hand you crack open your beer, some local dark beer, and begin to read posts. The same shitposter bitching about Zoomers as there was back in the 2020’s, new writefags and drawfags keep a constant supply of new stuff to keep it from being as tedious as most of your monotonous existence, a few images of some worth show up. Someone with the only reply of “neck yourself zoomie” claims to have now have a  wolf daughterfu. You wonder if it’s the same Anon from ‘25 or ‘26 who said he started working on creating Anthros. Most people, yourself included, just thought it was a story prompt, maybe you were wrong, what did it matter it isn’t real.
Once you get to the point where some sperg and some shitposter have autism match you decide that it isn’t even the meaningless seconds of your free time to read it and decide to check on the chili. It’s warm enough to eat, not warm enough to enjoy so you decide to go back the thread. Some faggot is reminding everybody about a “new” discord and how it’ll destroy the general. It won’t, and like all that came before it and all that’ll come after it’ll be abandoned in three months.
You just close the laptop and grab one of the newer finished stories “A Night to Rememfur” by AnFan2009. The Sad part is that the kid is probably in his 20’s now. It’s a BHA fanfiction following some relatives of Anon and Ruby and the couple have to fight off 100% not Anna. Now bad, not good, just surprisingly mediocre. You decide to subjugate yourself to the favorite pastime of the now dead boomers once more “BREAKING NEWS; Good Evening America my name is irrelevant journo who deserves to hang 73, and tonight Senator Who gives a shit from Some Eastern seaboard shithole said that white people bad in a powerful statement about racism in the wake of a cop killing an innocent PCP addict who attacked him. It’s almost sickening that people actually take this shit for granted, but it isn’t your place to tell them they’re wrong, at least now with how HR has been breathing down your neck recently.
On Thursdays you go down to the range with the glock and AR under the bed, but today is Tuesday, so instead you just grind your teeth as your cigarette burns down between your lips. In the cabinets to your right is a storage of shame, books on how to become a better writer ,a n artist, and about a hundred unpainted minis you bought just before falling out of love with tabletop. When it came to hobbies only two constants were present, the first being the gym, the second was the toxic wastes of 4chan.
You long for the early 2020’s back when everything was new, back when it seemed so edgy and cool. When you were a young man, not whatever you are now. You press your back into the chair and stare up at the ceiling, the same cracked, yellowed paint. Perhaps you’ve lost the joy of discovery in the end. You click update. Some Anon has shared a photo of what appears to be what he claims is himself and fox anthro. Amazing photoshop if it is.
	You leave your room and go to check on the chili. It's ready. You take a ladle and a half's worth before killing the heat, you sprinkle some cheese on the top and decide to add in a spoonful of sour cream before sitting down on the couch again.
The same blonde anchor has more “breaking news” at first you think its just more hypersensualized politics but rather its something else entirely.
“Hacker 4chan has been sending out real life furries to random homes, the police have been dispatched but the recipients have held them at gunpoint. Some departments haven’t even bothered responding as the creatures have approached willingly and excited.” Just as she finishes her sentence you hear a knock on the door. Probably just the landlord wanting to talk over a drink and share a cigar.
You open the door. The first thing you see is a large toothy grin and a pair of yellow slit eyes staring at you. “My Anon!” She beams scooping you up. Her tail swinging side to side against the doorframe with meaty thwacks. “Papa showed me how you live. Tonight is chili night yes?” She speaks in a cajun accent.
You gotta be dead. This isn’t. No. Can’t. Exist. “Smells wonderful.” she declares after taking a deep breath.
She sets you down on the couch and helps herself to a bowl of chili letting you finally get a good look at her. She’s about seven and half feet tall and a busty gator.
What the hell. How? Why? Who?
The questions fade from your mind as she sits down on the couch making it groan under her size.
Something has changed on the day-to-day. For once, in almost twelve years.