"Each guest room will come fully equipped…"
Mike, A-Kon Organizer
A gust of wind swept languidly around an eerily empty jogging track, cold sunlight streaming in unanimously and defining the lanes in which the benign air traveled. The polyurethane surface seemed to tremble under the absence of rubber sneakers pounding softly in a cyclic motion, the space instead occupied by synthetic crinkling caused by an empty chip bag.
Stale coffee bubbled boredly behind an unoccupied counter in the café counter to the gymnasium area, unattended by the employees usually robustly serving an imported brew to cheery business-like passerby as they trod out nobly to start their days. Around noon, they would begin to serve a slew of authentic Latin meat dishes with rice and beans. Renowned for their simple yet delicious food, quick service, and friendly staff, the family-run venue would normally be gathering a rather long line during any normal lunch rush. Yet, the crowd today was anything but normal. Unique was not the right word. Quirky? Different? John Moreno didn't exactly think so. Him and his family were surrounded by the most weird, ridiculous, outlandish group of people he had ever had the displeasure of witnessing.
Once word got out that their traditional Columbian catering service did not offer American delicacies such as hot pockets, party burritos, or Mountain Dew, the current occupants of the Hilton Anatole's lobby began to avoid the homely little stand like the plague, creating an oasis of calm among the ensuing chaos simmering menacingly around it.
John was begrudgingly stuck on server duty while his mother absconded to the quiet kitchen to 'heat up the empanadas.' He had long ago muted all of the background noise with a live taping of Fascination Street by The Cure, which was currently playing on loop. The calm lyricism was occasionally disrupted by a muffled yip or whinny, but otherwise transported its listener, who leaned up against the wall sleepily mouthing along with the words, to a hazy half-consciousness. So let's cut the conversation and get out for a bit, because I feel it all fading and paling and —
A full-grown person in a giant, horrific fursuit hurtled through no man's land and crashed directly into the Moreno's cart.
The ensuing crash that echoed throughout the convention center, overpowering the wail of karaoke upstairs and the general din of the room, was somehow not the noise that most startled John's extremely Catholic mother. Instead, she fought her way through the crowd, all elbows, to smack him over the head for his blasphemous Spanish expletive. His typically peaceful nature and quiet intonation, often evoking requests for repetition from anyone who spoke with him, was traded for an eruption of "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!"
The sight of a giant, writhing mass of soft synthetic material soaked in frijoles con garra would have been almost vomit inducing if it were not even more hilarious. Maritza arrived to the wreckage as an obnoxious chorus of nasally laughter erupted behind her. The recently microwaved plate of empanadas fell from her limp hand; she found John had already received far more brain damage than she had planned to deliver.
"John?"
Was it his mother? Was it God? Was it Colonel Sanders? John didn't know. The impact of the heavyset furry had cracked John's head hard against the stained tiles, ripping Robert Smith's comforting lyrics from his ears and any remaining appreciation of the human race out of his very being. The furry stood up proudly: his suit may have been stained, but his pride was squeaky clean. He raised his massive arms like an Olympic gold medalist on the victors stand and let out the most horrific noise John had possibly ever heard from the gaping hole in his snout that was probably supposed to be a mouth. Meanwhile, John lay listless on the ground, a thrumming migraine overwhelming his senses. The pain was consequently multiplied by a myriad of animalistic replies from the companions of his cobalt blue assailant.
Without an apology or an offered paw, the wolf sprinted back to his buddies and dove headfirst into his pack, swallowed up into a maw of man-made fibers composing the outfits John would come to hate.