The Sound and the Fur(r)y Part 7: Mission Accomplished
I won’t go into what happened at the end of the previous recording, as the details are still a little unclear. Needless to say, my ISIS comments did not go over too well. Words were exchanged, feelings were hurt, and lifetime bannings from FurCon were issued before we were ejected from the premises.
At least, I believe that we were both ejected—I can only speak for myself because in the ensuing melee, I became separated from Hayley, and while I tried my best to rescue her as she was descended upon by a pack of brightly colored furries, I ultimately found myself hauled away and tossed outside by two surprisingly strong furry Dalmatians. Unable to reenter the convention hall, I could only be grateful that I had made it out relatively unscathed.
I did, however, re-enter the hotel in search of Hayley, hoping to save my newfound friend from a lifetime of furry slavery, even if it was already too late to save her from a furry backroom beating.
I knew of only one place to look for her, and with lingering fear and trepidation, I boarded an elevator for the fourth floor.
The doors opened to the sound of nearby music and voices, and my first steps made a strange crinkling noise. I looked down to find the carpeting covered, as foretold, with a coating of plastic.
Past the bay of elevators, I saw a man in a mouse head pass on his way from one area of the floor to another. As I made my way farther onto the floor, I saw that the mirror near the elevators was festooned with notices advertising parties in various rooms and nearby bars.
As I stood reading these, I sensed something to my left and turned to see a six-foot-three-inch man dressed as a Klingon fast approaching. As he came upon me, he said something unintelligible before passing on toward a room to my right, and it took me a moment to realize that he must have spoken to me in Klingon. I wondered if perhaps he was upset, if his plans had been confused and he had arrived to the San Jose Marriott and Convention Center expecting a Star Trek convention and not the furry madhouse into which he had presently fallen.
In light of my surroundings, I confess that I was relieved to see a Klingon in that hallway, and you know you’re in dire straits when the middle-aged man dressed as a Klingon seems like a welcomed bridge back to reality.
The entrances to the party rooms—those whose doorways were opened—were managed by more badge-checkers, and so the only access I could get into them was what I could see from around their shoulders as I pressed them for any word of a girl dressed as a cat who was abducted earlier from the conference center by a band of malicious-looking foxes, deer, and owls.
At the mention of Hayley’s description, they seemed to tense and become agitated, and after I tried to push my way past one mouse-dressed badge-checker outside room 417, there ensued more shouting, shoving, and pushing, and I soon found myself ejected into a stairwell and told to leave before security was called.
Before the door shut, a pawed hand disdainfully flung my cat ear headband at my feet.
In the days since FurCon 2015, I’ve checked the local papers for any reports that may point to Hayley’s whereabouts, but to no avail.
On the one hand, the absence of information is a relief, since I’ve found no indication of foul play connected with her disappearance. But this provides little comfort. Furries have been known to disappear interlopers in the past, and there was palpable menace in the postures of those furries who came upon us in the convention center concourse following our last interview.
There is at least the possibility that Hayley yet survives, but one wonders whether her survival may constitute a worse sentence. It is possible, after all, that Hayley has been forced into a life of bonded furry servitude, forced to attend furry conventions whenever and wherever they may occur across the globe. It is possible that at this moment she is being forced to attend each and every furry dance competition from start until finish, including the hours of tryouts and including the after-parties that last until long after sunrise when, in a self-recriminating fog precipitated by handfuls of MDMA, gallons of Smirnoff and Red Bull, and mountains of bathroom-brewed methamphetamine, the furries arise to wipe away with Wet-Naps the various patches of blood and semen that have pooled among their costumes during the night and stand to face another glorious Furry Convention day filled with house music, glow sticks, and their parents’ shame.
And Hayley, my indispensable sidekick on this foray into the heart of furry darkness, might now be made a furry slave shuttled from conference to conference across this great land of ours, and all for the sake of our research.
I just hope they aren’t making her mop the fourth floor.