Fur, Feathers, and Claws

Chapter 1-2

The park’s newest attraction, not yet seen by anyone who didn’t work there, was a rare and adorable cub born in captivity to Glory and her beau Gary White, a pair of majestic Bengal tigers. Tucker had given them the surname not just because of their pigment, but also because Gary’s growls and purrs were as tonal and soulful as the singer that the moniker harkened back to. Glory and Gary’s little feller would be making his public debut in about a week. There was a contest to name him. Tucker, not a fan of crowds, planned on being nowhere around when the big unveiling and the naming took place. He was hopeful, however, that interest in Glory’s babe would provide a big chunk of the money needed for the loan.

“Had she timed the delivery better,” Mack had recently said, “we could have had a bigger summer take. Hopefully an end-of-season rush will help some. Though most of the kids’ll be back in school by then,” he’d sighed.

“Something will work out,” Tucker had promised. Though he still had no idea what that something would be.

Tucker had been lingering a bit longer than normal under the falls when Sam had decided to join him. The park was closed because of the end-of-summer hurricane bearing down on the northeast, affecting even the inland areas. It had already been raining for twelve hours straight—pouring rain—and there were another twelve to go. Tucker didn’t mind the rain. In fact, he was glad for an extra day with no visitors. Normally, from April 1st through Halloween, Animalistic was open five days a week. They closed on Wednesdays and Thursdays, which, for that very reason, were Tucker’s favorite days of the week. This week he got Friday, and possibly Saturday. The storm wasn’t good for Animalistic’s bottom line—the last weekend of summer usually brought in good bank—but it was good for Tucker. Most other staff members had already evacuated, but a couple of people were on-call to make certain everything stayed secure. Tucker didn’t plan on abandoning the place, even if ordered. With nothing to go home to, most of the time he slept there anyway, which was, unfortunately and inconsequently, completely against the rules.

November through March, when Animalistic closed completely, was always a depressing time for Tucker. Though he got to spend all the time he wanted with some of his allegedly-less-evolved buddies, frolicking nude was at a minimum, or at least, outdoor frolicking was. The jungle section was shut down and some of its inhabitants were relocated south for the winter. Other creatures more or less hibernated in climate-controlled fortresses for months, so Tucker more or less did the same. He was a loner, with no more family and no lover to go home to, to cuddle with on a cold winter’s night. He hadn’t had one of those for a long time, and doubted he ever would again. That’s what he’d been thinking, almost ready to climax, when the eerie feeling of dread—of danger—had overtaken that of lust.

“I need your help, Sam,” Tucker said, pulling a pair of tattered shorts over sopping-wet legs. “Check on Olivia and the others, and then go see what you can find.”

Olivia was definitely a storyteller, though not in a gossipy kind of way. Tucker saw her more as the bible-keeper: the person in the family that kept all its history. Sam, he liked watching Tucker bathe and never even tried to feign otherwise. Any given morning, afternoon, or night, whenever Tucker was naked, two large, dark eyes were riveted. He’d watched Tucker rub up one long, sinewy leg with a balled-up bandanna, ankle to inner thigh. When Tucker had vigorously rubbed the makeshift washcloth over an even more-heavily-pelted section of his sculpted, manly physique, possibly more vigorously than necessary for only washing, Sam shuddered, and his mouth fell open. Down the other side with his tightly-grasped rag, all the way down, raising one foot, cleaning the underside, then doing the same with the second, Tucker turned his back to the voyeur. When he bent at the waist to repeat the entire process a second time, looking between his legs as he did, Sam was still staring and Tucker had winked, and that’s when Sam had joined him.

“Sam? You hear me?” But the fun was over now. With one last, illicit touch behind Tucker’s ear, Sam took off. Tucker managed to zip up his cutoffs, though not without a fair bit of trouble, due to the rather stiff state of his rather large appendage. He climbed the faux rocks behind the rushing water for a better look, flicked his long hair from in front of his face, looped a sopped section behind his ear, and like several of the creatures he held so dear were also no doubt doing, surveyed the park, relying on his sixth sense to tell him what was going on. He pulled the shorts from his rear end and then his crotch. He felt them clinging to every wet curve, so on-edge that he was hyper-aware with all the other five senses. He felt the goosebumps rise on every inch of exposed flesh. Every hair on his body bristled, even those between the lines of his pelvic region: the ones that made up the thick mass that spread from a slightly more organized line down his lower gut, all exposed because his shorts hung so low. Tucker yanked at them again where they pulled uncomfortably at the bulge behind the fly, way too tight, because of his erection.

“Son of a bitch.” He forgot all that at once, letting go of his pants as the intruder came into view. The guy—it was definitely a man—was currently on the right side of the fence, still outside, at one the park’s tallest back walls. He stood in one spot a good two minutes, obviously contemplating how to scale it to get in as he fought with a huge, heavy camera hanging too long from its tether at his neck, beneath a clear, sissy rain poncho that no manly man would wear. The guy moved carefully, deliberately, so the massive piece of equipment wouldn’t whack him in the nuts, Tucker figured. And then…

“f**k!”

No need to be a lip reader, as even at a pretty fair distance, the sentiment was obvious. The guy got slammed.

“Serves his ass right,” Tucker thought. He watched the uninvited guest attempt to scale the barricade, using its uneven façade as leverage and grips for his hands and feet. The flat, smooth soles of his expensive-looking dress shoes weren’t conducive to scrambling up damp, slippery masonry, which made it all almost comical, though Tucker was too anxious, and too pissed off to smile. Somehow, the jerk reached the apex. “Persistent motherfucker.” Tucker had to give him that, as the trespasser clung there for dear life, judging by his panicked expression. He grasped the wide shelf atop the wall with white knuckles, apparently unaware that he was being watched. He looked down, and swiped at his forehead, probably not just at rainwater, but also sweat from both exertion and fear. It was ten feet up to the top of that wall, which also meant it was ten feet back down. The trespasser’s look said he knew that, and Tucker considered pouncing, to scare the crap out of the i***t reporter, to make his descent a whole lot faster than his climb.

He had to be a reporter—that made the most sense—probably after Glory’s cub. He peered over the level edge, rolling slightly forward, possibly for a better view, while planning his dismount. “How in hell am I going to get down there?” His mouthing was slow and deliberate, his thought process obvious. Tucker wondered the same. He wondered if he should let him. Sometimes toying with one’s prey was better than an outright kill: any animal knew that. It could be fun to play with the guy a little, and that’s what Tucker decided to do.

The prowler leaned over a little. “Son of a bitch.” And then a little further—a little too far.

“Caw!”

It wasn’t one of the birds, but a damned close imitation. Tucker shrieked, startling the reporter, who then rolled off the rim and plummeted. “Shiiiiiiit!” Though the moron had grappled for anything to break his fall, anything, no such luck—Splat!—over he’d gone, landing flat on his ass, first in a rather forgiving shrub that broke his fall, and then, with a splat, on soaked ground. He was in, and Tucker took off after him. He still wasn’t going to rush him, but rather stalk him instead…keep him in his sights…size him up…and then…pounce. Before the asshole could get whatever he’d come in for, he’d trap the sneaky f**k, and then plan his punishment. Like a jungle cat, he would have to decide if he’d play with him, torture him a while, then eventually let him go, or would he just end it all fast?

The guy looked pathetic close-up. He was drenched, despite his raingear, and was talking to himself by the time Tucker got within proximity to hear.

“f**k!” He looked at his shoes. “Three hundred dollars! Ruined!” He then said “f**k!” again. The sneaky newsy checked his camera, presumably for broken parts, then, secondly, he felt up his body. Everything must have passed inspection, because he then went back to his shoes, lifting and checking them one at a time. “s**t!” He put the second foot down and then turned in a circle, looking at his butt, like a dog after his tail. Sure enough, there was brown stuff there, too, and so the jerk repeated both of his two most favorite words. “f*****g s**t!” He touched the back of his trousers, then looked at his hand. “I hope this is mud,” he said aloud, but then he brought it to his nose. “Ewfuckingyuck!,” all one word, when he realized it wasn’t, and Tucker was pretty sure that the hunted also gagged.

He grinned, Tucker did, maybe because it was funny, but also with mortal intent. He would never harm another living being—ever—unless it was to protect those he loved.

Joe Reporter wiped his hand against the masonry. “Okay, RJ,” he said. “f*****g pull it together. Get the shot, and get out. It’ll be plastered all over the front page and your name’ll be on it.”

“RJ, huh?” Tucker thought. He looked like Clark Kent, though not the most current 1978 incarnation, at nearly one foot shorter than Christopher Reeve, but more like the comic book version, though maybe that was more in Tucker’s imagination. It was actually hard to tell what RJ looked like. All Tucker could see with the poncho and its hood was slicked back hair, fogged up glasses, two short legs, and a pair of alleged three-hundred-dollar shoes with s**t all over them.

“Okay.” RJ said, turning about once again. “Where’s that cub?”

Tucker had guessed right. “No f*****g way,” he muttered. “You’re not getting anywhere near him.”

But RJ thought he was. “You get that picture,” the sissy in the poncho said, touching his chest—maybe his shirt pocket—”then you can shove it in the faces of those assholes who think my journalism degree doesn’t make me a reporter. Stereotypical hardboiled, gruff-acting, cigar-chewing jerks want to call me greenhorn…I’ll show them!”

Tucker furrowed his brows. He could take down the reporter like a cat with a mouse, but now the guy sounded a little nuts, standing there talking to himself. One had to take precaution when dealing with nuts.

“Give me fluff and s**t? Stick me on the society page? No more!” The reporter continued stammering. “I get a photo of that lion…I’ll get real assignments. News!” He touched his pocket again, or maybe rubbed his n****e. Perhaps he was sexually stimulated by sneaking around, or breaking big news made him horny. “I’ll turn myself into something. Meet someone, settle down. Start my whole life over.”

Tucker rolled his eyes. He hated to spoil RJ’s plans. No. That wasn’t true. He was looking forward to it. “Glory and Gary are tigers, ya moron. And I’ll snap you in half before I’ll let you snap one photo,” he vowed with a whisper.

RJ Reporter kept talking as he slowly paced back and forth. “At age twenty-nine, after six years at a four-year college, after five years teaching…this is what I was meant to do. This is what’s going to put me on the map.”

Big dreams for a little man, Tucker thought. He decided the guy was just blathering and stalling. Forget nuts; he was terrified. Unless he had a tiny tape recorder in his pocket, recording his every thought for some grand documentary, except for what was on his pants and his shoes, the guy was scared shitless.

“My byline on the front page of the Northern Dutchess News…” RJ seemed to think better of that decree. “f**k local! I’ll scoop The New York Times on that cub! Too bad they don’t do a better job of scooping around here,” he grumbled, lifting the shoe again, wiping his hand down the wall one more time. “I wonder what kind of s**t it is,” he mused, as he walked along the wall. “Could be a turtle’s…a raccoon’s.” He actually shivered. “What if there are alligators?” He backed against the wall. “Or rats!” He swiped a hand up over his face, grimaced, and then smelled it. He retched again. Tucker was certain the guy was going to barf before all was said and done. “Okay, that’s a lot of s**t for a rat.” RJ paced. “Which doesn’t make me feel much better. A lot of s**t means big animals.”