Author's Note: And this is where The Final Cut becomes its own identity. Readers under seventeen be warned; there is a moderately descriptive scene of masturbation at the beginning. If you are uncomfortable about reading that sort of thing, then please, skip it. Bitching about it will only piss me off, especially considering the fact that I was nice enough to warn you in advance.

Chapter 2: Enter - Reverend Galagos

Cooper Gang's HideoutParis, France, 7:09 pm

The Cooper Gang's trip back to the City of Lights left them jaded and miserable. Thereupon the endless stretch of strangely mesmeric asphalt and frosted green fields they sat, uncomfortably, huddled over cramped seats in a congested vehicle. They occasionally found warmth and solace among the rest stops, old-fashioned cafes, or at dumpy hotels out in the middle of nowhere; ones that sometimes came with blessings in the form of rusting heat registers… the kinds that were built into the hotel walls smelling horribly of mold.

At one point, they even slept beneath a cracked ceiling, hoping to be caressed by the faintest inkling of warmth. This peaceful time gave them all a moment to escape reality, and to dream undisturbed for once. It was the perfect sanctuary, they found, from what haunted them every second of every day... even from miles away; Inspector Scott, and his demented intention to murder. It was a ward on him metaphysically, even if he didn't always acknowledge it.

They soon arrived at the crepuscular hideout. No longer a tiny caboose, it was now a converted and rather respectable one-story building. The ever-surreptitious Sly Cooper snuck into the diminutive lavatory, closed the door, and began to remove and discard his dirty clothing in a hasty manner. When all that remained was his hat -- the memento of his most recent encounter -- he gave it a good, long stare before chucking it aside. He very well kept in mind that next time Scott's aim might not betray him, and though this new path he stumbled upon almost constantly put his life on the line, he couldn't help but find the downfalls of his rival somewhat …humorous.

With his sleek, effeminate grey body now completely bare, he approached the pearl Jacuzzi, one stolen from some rich, manufactured musician, and gave the knob a couple of turns. A warm, steady stream of water poured out from the shiny faucet, reminding him of his vulpine lust object in the filthiest ways possible. Yes, once more, it was all coming back to him: The distant, synced movements of both voyeur and dreamer, and the look on Carmelita's face when she exploded into a state of ecstasy. Nothing that night had escaped his binoc-u-com -- the whole scene was imprinted permanently in the raccoon's mind, and he could turn to it whenever he desired...

This sudden avalanche of perversion sent a flow of blood to his hidden treasure, causing it to reveal itself in an elongated state. Once the tub was filled half-way, Sly carefully submerged his lower half, watching his pinkish, bulging, streamlined manhood bob the glassy surface of water. Closing those mischievous eyes, he fiercely worked and manipulated his erection, defying silly mainstream teachings for an overwhelming pleasure like no other. Minutes flew by, and each time he squeezed and stroked, he edged closer and closer to the gold.

As much as he tried, Sly could no longer hold back the inevitable. Thus, the raccoon tore down his last resistance, and announced his orgasm with a series of loud, euphoric moans. His body spasmed and released until all remained still, and the seed that had erupted from him lingered only for mere seconds before dissolving from the gooey pearl nectar that coated his paw. He felt that now, with those aching urges fully extinguished, he could finally get to washing his fatigued body. Sadly, this wasn't the case.

To the ringtailed furre's surprise, the safe walls of the surrounding bathroom had disappeared completely, leaving only a pitch-black world of endless proportions. Then, an unsettling piece of flesh appeared out of nowhere, and it shuddered and twisted into shape, until the end result looked like some nightmarish version of Inspector Scott's face. The surreal image groaned as it opened its bloody maw, which in turn, made Sly's fur stand on end at the nape of his neck.

"You cannot hide from death forever, Cooper!" the abhorrent being screeched, fading back into the abyss just as the raccoon jumped clear out of the Jacuzzi. Sly found himself starting to look about frantically like some crazed paranoid. The surreal world all around had reverted back to something much more familiar, but it was clear that the world Sly had thought of as a playground was gone for eternity.

"I'm starting to see things now. Great..." he growled, very much vexed by the sudden intrusion of wicked, schizophrenic imagery, "Hey Scott, why don't you do me a favor, and stay out of my fucking mind!"

Sly received not a single answer, of course, as his tormenter was not even physically present. The normally sangfroid raccoon shook his head, once he realized how inane this whole situation was. "Who am I talking to...?"

Quite abruptly, Murray broke down the door without even checking if it was unlocked. The locked bolt which held the door cracked with ease but held, causing the structure to splinter around its hinges. The door sprang free from its place and crashed to the floor. Almost instantly, the corpulent creature started to flail his arms all over the place in a manner that was quite prosaic. "SLY!"

"Whoa! Darn it, Murray!" the still naked raccoon scolded after being frightened once more. "Remember what I told you about barging in like that?"

Murray face faulted, lowering his eyes. "Sorry Sly, but Bentley wanted me to get you, and he said ASAP... whatever that means." His gaze lifted once more but stayed somewhat subverted from his friend to offer some measure of privacy.

"Well, tell her royal majesty that I'll be there in a moment." Cooper shook his head, glancing back to the tub. He then stole a glance at his paws to make sure that Murray hadn't seen the remnants of his earlier 'monologue' escapade with Carmelita Fox. His fur was matted down from water, making it impossible to tell; the sign of a true master thief: Leave no evidence…

Following the rotund pink burden's quick leave, Sly dedicated a moment to acclimate the "new changes" set in place. Once absolutely sure that all of those bothersome thoughts of losing the game of life were terminated, he grabbed an old towel, wrapped it around his slender waist, and then left the lavatory the way it was. Dripping wet, he entered the front room, where his two illuminated cohorts sat.

"What's up, Bent?" Sly pushed his thumb down into the fabric folded around his hips, tightening the cloth which clung to his lithe waistline.

"Thought you might want to take a look at this..." The tortoise's head swiveled slightly, and the flickering screen's reflection danced on his second set of eyes. Sly walked up to the dusty television set, and caught sight of something horrendous. Red banners and flags with white circles and black swastikas in the middle were being waved about by those who embraced them, while a pale man, scarred and completely bald, was pouring out his agenda and his venom...

"...Furres not only clutter up our once-clean lands, but they steal the hard-earned jobs of the white race as well!" spat the crazed man, strengthening his powerful manipulation with over-the-top hand movements. "And quite possibly the most vile aspect of these creatures, is that they dare infiltrate our bodies, and create monsters. Monsters like... I."

The malevolent expression the man wore twisted into a shammed mask of self-pity, and he clenched gruesome ugly face with his bony hands in an attempt to look pained. Though it surely wasn't enough to fool cynical viewers and the like, it was enough to cause a chain reaction of sympathetic murmurs within the gathering of skinheads and zealots.

Seeing that his lure did the job, and hooked the drones, he threw down his arms and continued his banter of ardor with a feverous contempt held in those whiskied tones of his voice. "It is most obvious that God is speaking his contempt through disgusting furre-and-human birthing. And he has very well spoken his contempt long enough. As the messenger of the night, I have shown you the correct path. And as the blade of God, I shall eradicate the core of our world's problems and unlock a new age for our perfect race! One without infidels and lesser beings! Will you rise up and join me, now, in my mission to find salvation for the human race?"

The crowd of faceless acolytes responded with a cacophony of discordant cheers, and then applause. It was like the reaction to the end of some musical concert, only staggeringly foreboding and dissonant, as the killing machines that slumbered inside of each attendee would soon be awakened to wreak havoc upon the world.

Truly surprised that the drones had accepted their new roles without any second thought, Bentley decided the circus' act was over, and so he shut the television off. But not before one last word boomed over the commotion;

"REVOLUTION!" The cry seemed guttural and atrociously horrific.

Cooper cocked a brow, playing it cool. "Who in the world was that?" he finally asked.

"That..." Bentley began, being the great edifier he was, "Is Hector Malvin Galagos. He's a corrupted evangelist who, as you may have already noticed, has something against the very existence of Furres. Not to mention he wants to annihilate homosexuals, bisexuals, and certain "imperfect" races of the human species as well. Yep. I think it's safe to say that we are officially doomed. Doomed! It's the second holocaust in the making, man!"

"Just what we need." the thief groaned, clearly unimpressed with this new addition, "Another crazy Christian extremist."

"Christian extremists." corrected the reptile, whose state of panic had instantly evaporated, "He isn't going to do this alone, after all. And that's what scares me..."

Le Police Station, I.E.E. #35Paris, France, 7:25 pm

Inspector Carmelita Montoya Fox had seen and heard many revolting things in her life, but none of them came close to what she was witnessing on the television screen. She took one last sip of her now cold espresso, and tossed the foamy cup aside with a moue of disgust nearly painted upon her stern feminine visage. This caught the attention of the obese black man sitting next to her. Zaire Kiss was his name, and he was the Chief of the Interpol station in France. The good Chief gave his shades a nudge, wiped his large nose with a pudgy hand, and patted the Latin vixen on the shoulder in a comforting manner. She gazed at him with her gentle, yet fiery amber eyes, and the corpulent cop cocked a Cheshire smile in her direction.

"Don'chu be worryin', f'real." said the stout Chief, in exaggerated 'gangsta' talk, "I got dis on straight up lockdown, Inspecta' Fox. Whip out'cha high-9; we'll bus'sa cap up in dat ass, put deze Nazi mudda fucka's on lock down; you dig, playa? I'm all up on dat with th' straight dope, shawty."

"Yes well," The vixen face faulted, trying to maintain a professional atmosphere in the office. She glanced away for an instant then added, "we had better catch him fast then." She glanced back, following her polite retort and offered the previously pleasant gaze she had been sharing with the Chief up to this point. "This... Reverend Galagos definitely looks and acts like a genocidal psychopath. There's no telling how many he or his mindless henchmen will kill..."

"Oh, straight up; yo got no idea, girl. There's only... oh... t'ree-hundred murders dat we got th' straight dope about. Could be a lot mo'," he mused. Carmelita titled her head, raising her brow only to offer a double take at his numerical assessment.

Carmelita's black-tipped ears flattened against her wavy dark blue hair, amber oculars dilating; her jaw went slack for a moment then she found the breath to nearly gasp. The spitfire Latina blinked twice then exclaimed; "Three hundred!"

"Ain't no lyin', for real." Kiss spun around in his office chair and directed a pointed finger to a file cabinet, "Got all da cases and shit up'n there. Most of his victims, no foolin', were government officials hailin' from th' land o' th' free."

Carmelita's natural instinct as an inspector came back; her first duty was to herself: She had to ask questions. Her query was concise, simply asking, "America? But why from there?"

Kiss shrugged, lifting his arms, palms up to accent his ignorance in the matter. "Shit, dawg, I dunno why I ain't even got the mudda fuckin' answa' to dem junks, Inspecta'."

Carmelita was not satisfied in the least bit. "Well, have the Americans even come close to catching him? He can't possibly be very elusive, considering he's showing himself on live television."

"Hell no. And they got no damn leads, neither."

The discussion between both furre and man ended immediately when an enraged Inspector Scott slammed open the door with such ferocity, that the glass and sharply-designed insignia in the center shattered. "Motherfucking bastard!" he growled, "Why must he always escape my traps!" With his wrath controlling every movement, Scott subjected the Chief and his very own vulpine partner to another one of his draconian tantrums. Nothing in the office was left untouched; papers were effortlessly shredded, cabinets and desks were tipped over and pictures were torn from the walls. Not even the television was spared, as a couple of hits from a vacant office chair left it smashed and unidentifiable. Kiss, having experienced enough of these "moments" in the past, placidly got to his feet and asked;

"Scott, why E-visceratin' ma digs, son?" Kiss' choice of vocabulary showed that he wasn't as ignorant or unintelligent as he may have sounded.

The man in question managed to stifle his frenzied state suppressing his deep inner ire; The Inspector answered with a sharp, unintelligible grumble. Scott's acrimony was colossal, but Zaire kept his cool, for the moment being.

"Lemme guess... Sly Coopaa did bullet-time junks, dodged yo' shit, blocked all yo heat, den bounced like whut?"

"Yes!" Scott acknowledged.

Noticing the situation was highly reminiscent of past encounters with the master thief, Kiss could only really shrug. "Then, whut? Yo crack'a ass ran into a wall after he sped-all-up time, and he proceeded to ex-scape 'gain?"

"Yes!" Scott erupted almost without shame. He then continued, adding, "I need something that is..." He trailed off, but Kiss was almost right ontop of him with a suggestion on how to word his next statement.

"Coopaa-proof? Well, I might have da key, son! I might have th' muddafuckin answer to yo prayers, fo' ya, boy." Kiss offered a crafty smile.

Scott's fingertips curled tightly around the fabric collar of his superior. Short of hurting his employer, he simply lifted the man from his feet until the man's shoes levitated, ascending from the floor. "Tell me!" He bellowed in a gutteral tone. His chest heaved, his neck straining and his forehead tightening. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, short of a vein being visable.

Kiss furrowed a brow, speaking as though he was unfazed, regardless of what he felt; "You frontin' nigga? You needs ta be puttin' a nigga down, straight up, playa'. Hate da fuckin' game son, not th' playas, now putta nigga down'n chill the fuck out, cracker."

Partially satisfied, Scott narrowed those sunswept obsidian oculars for a moment. The momentary frenzy began to pass to some extent and his arms loosened, returning his senior officer to the floor. Kiss grinned just slightly, reaching up to tug at his shirt, freeing his threads of unslightly wrinkles. Matching white tennis shoes, completely clean and untouched by even a single molicule of dirt touched the ground completely once more and he said, "Da's what I mutha' fuckin' thought. Shit, nigga. Now..."

"A'ite, scope out deeze shits: our scientists over at da Special Weapons Division have spawned a straight up gangsta' lethal, next-generation snipin' rifle called da' INTERPOL LEVIATHAN-171," His Brooklyn gangster dialect seemed to vanish instantly, pronouncing the words with proper enunciation. The Chief simply continued his explanation. "…or INLEV fo short. It gots sixteen titanium-coated rounds able ta tear t'rew flesh, muddafuckin' bone, any kin'na armor yo' can think of; all dem junks. It come in'a compact state, since the barrel's like, shit dawg... nine feet long'n junk… so yo' can exten'it when yo' please with da press of a button. Ain't dem shits be straight up crazy trippin'?"

"I want it!" Scott's eyes widened and a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, almost leering in a yearning state of need.

"Now hold th' phone, dawg. They still testin' it out--"

"NOW!"

"A'ite, a'ite nigga; chill! Mo' fuckin' Christ you'se trippin' buu!"

As soon as the Chief took leave from the "barren wasteland", Scott was suddenly reduced to cowering down beside his partner, and unlocking his concealed gates, letting whatever was left inside pour out. Carmelita's own bleeding heart of empathy gave her the power to understand his problems entirely, and so she wasn't flummoxed or even embarrassed by his violent actions. How many times had she pounded her fist on the ground after Cooper eluded her? How many criminals did she nearly eviscerate in anger when she was frustrated in the past? If anything, she was one of the very few people who could empathize best with Scott right now.

She merely ran her those sandy colored digits of fur through his silky black hair and quietly repeated foreign words of comfort, like a mother would to her distressed child. Yes, that's all he was; a pitiful little child, seeking solace and revenge in a world that rejected him. As Carmelita was the only one who welcomed his presence, and accepted his very existence, he in turn, developed heavily-enforced selfishness, and if any slithered past the barricades he built, he would ruthlessly slaughter them. This hurt in his heart began to erode just slightly, nuzzling into her comforting embrace to some degree before turning away once more. They weren't the most romantic couple, but their trust and ability to empathize with one another helped get them through tough times together.

The thing was, they were partners and both put their work first in their lives. The sun set with practiced bravado and the wings of night had arrived on schedule. The ruined office fell into darkness as the illumination dimmed in the windows. Sinister scarlet irises provided Scott's visage with an unnatural glow. A lifeless sea that threatened to swallow his soul, those reflective orbs came to rest upon Carmelita, beholding her exploited radiance. His jaw trembled and his lower lip quivered just slightly; only Carmelita was allowed to see even a hint of weakness in him… He couldn't help but stammer, telling her, "I … I wa… I want to k-kill him. I w-want t-t-o kill him; I need… I need t-to kill him… I m-must… I..."

She placed a padded fingertip against his cold lips. "Hush now. Your moment of judgment will come." He was pensive, frustrated and his heart was pounding with a bundle of mixed emotions.

Scott took a slow breath and tightened his jaw then said, "No... it won't. Nothing has ever gone right…! Cooper will keep defeating me... INLEV or no. It's an endless cycle... a fucking endless cycle that I wish would break!"

Carmelita opened her mouth to scold but instead, her tone came out to sooth. "Calm down..."

Scott threw his arms upwards. "Why does this piece of shit world exist! Why does he exist!" He closed his hands into fists, clinching until his knuckles turned white, just channeling his anger.

The lovely Latin vixen's answer was an impending one. "Para crear y destruir. Vida... y sino."

"I just, I mean, I," Scott glanced back at her; their eyes locked.

Carmelita leaned forward, brushing her lips against his, simply to quiet him. His heart seemed to pause and his knotted chest uncoiled for a moment. This was the one thing that gave him a massive one up over Sly Cooper. He couldn't bring himself to smile into the kiss but it did relieve his frenzy and pent up rage for at least another night. At least for one more night, he could keep the beast, coiled in his heart, a bit more… docile.

"Mother, who are they? Those people in the old photographs?"

"They are people who were once apart of your past, but no longer, as they will soon be non-existent."

"What do you mean?"

"Their time has come to an end. Now you must simply forget them."

"But mother--"

"Forget them."