You really screwed up, didn't you?

You are pathetic.

Oh sure, you made those criminals shit themselves. But they'd be scared of a falling feather, wouldn't they? You made them turn themselves in, but that means nothing. In Gotton, the cops are as corrupt as the criminals and the prisons may as well be made out of cardboard. You did hear that a helicopter just came in onto the yard and picked up some criminals, and nobody did anything to stop them?

And why Gotton? A city crawling with crime? You should have worked your way up. You're either very brave or very stupid.

Oh, who are we kidding? It's the latter? If you were really brave, why do you spend your days languishing in this little beachside cave? There's nothing here. No crime-stopping computers, no weaponry...

No Kat.

Yes, why don't you show her what you've become? She already has a low opinion of you, doesn't she? Her dear pet shark...

Look at you. Look at you in that little homemade costume. What did you make it from? A sail. Hah. You look ridiculous. You're a clown.

And what are you going to do when night falls? Just jump out and say boo to the mean men? You can't keep doing that forever...

Sharks don't sleep, but that doesn't mean they don't have nightmares.

Kenny lay in a cave near the beach – the 'bat cave' as he called it, still wearing that get-up. That's what the bat told him to wear. People were afraid of bats, and people were afraid of sharks, so put them both together and...

Yes, Kenny had spoke to a bat. Kenny was swimming about in the ocean, and the first creature to speak to him for years was a bat. The bat asked questions. The bat wanted to know why Kenny looked so sad.

Kenny said everything.

The bat had ideas.

The bat was a sign.

The bat was an omen.

The next few weeks were spent with the bat, talking over techniques, methods and what could be done. The bat had no real fingers and his legs were tiny, but he did know some fighting moves, ones that he had used on his own prey, no less.

It was the bat's suggestion that Kenny go to Gotton City, where animals needed someone to look up to. Kenny was but a pet, lower than the anthropomorphic creatures due to his lack of opposable thumbs and his inability to control some of his in...

No, he could control them, couldn't he? He wasn't a killer. He could be able to live in a house and raise a family and live like a human. If only he could had hands, or had proper vocal chords, or didn't have sharp teeth.

Oh, how he had wished those things when he was with Kat. Kat had adopted him not as a pet, but as a friend. A big brother. He was about twenty in shark years when Kat had taken him under her arm, but remembered salivating and leaping about like a small child upon being given the opportunity to learn more about the human world. There he learned about the wonders of television and its many brain-numbing fruit, and of the nightlife, and of computers and musical instruments and...

He couldn't go back there.

As the alarm buzzed away, Elliot sat bolt upright in his bed, having recalled an especially vivid nightmare. He knew full well that people in the real world didn't sit upright after a nightmare, but he, at times, believed life should mirror the movies more. Television shows, in spite of all their diversions and disbelief, did have more order to them than reality usually did.

Despite the volume of the clock from the moment it reached that certain hour to when Elliot slammed his hoof on it, Giselle still chose to sleep. Bless. She had tried so hard to find employment to support their future children, but alas, what a chore that was for a deer. Even more so than those she willingly undertook.

Elliot made his way to the sink, washing his face and making sure his fur looked as neat as possible. He had no work today and the big appointment he had wasn't until the evening, but he should keep a smart appearance throughout the day. He was an elk, a deer. King of the forest, the noblest of animals.

Those antlers need a good polish.

As he wiped his antlers - those which made him stand tall amongst his peers - he felt a little tap on his shoulder. He almost fell to the floor, until he saw it was his blushing bride, once again equipped with super speed. Maybe it was the way she liked to walk on all fours sometimes, like the other type of deer.

'You always jump when I do that,' Giselle chuckled, placing a hoof over her mouth. 'I thought you'd have gotten used to it by now.'

Elliot racked his brains for something to say, something to justify this little flaw of his, but only said in response, 'Yeah,' punctuating it with scratching his neck.

'So,' said Giselle, a suggestive smile crossing her face. 'Is my noble leader ready for his meeting tonight?'

'Sure!' said Elliot, attempting to replicate his wife's expression, 'Been practicing my speech all week! Got some great ideas for how to make the humans...'

Elliot hung his head, disturbing his neatly-combed fur slightly with his hoof. That was his role. The leader for the group he created himself, the AAR. Association of Animal Recognition. Anthropomorphic animals lived in houses, could walk and talk and perform tasks just as well as people. Yet they were less likely to get jobs. They were more likely to end up on the streets. They were more likely to be criminals. Elliot had a serviceable flat and a loving wife, but what of the others.

Giselle choosing not to further the conversation had her wash and soon the two deer were downstairs, munching away on cornflakes to the beat of the radio.

Then came the news. Child was attacked by two thugs. One man, one animal. Thing is, the criminals turned themselves in. Claimed a demon told them to do it.

'Not much of a demon if he's preventing crime,' Elliot said, taking another spoonful of cornflakes.

'Elliot.'

'What?' said Elliot. He would have said something more, but he couldn't.

'I really think you should be listening to this,' said Giselle, before sipping her coffee.

'I am.'

'It's sad, isn't it? Not only do animals have to take up crime, they have to take up bloody vigilantism too.'

'How do you know it's an animal?'

Placing down her coffee mug, Giselle arched an eyebrow in her husband's direction. 'You think he's actually a monster?'

'He could...you know...be a human in a really scary costume.'

'It's been described as having a large mouth with rows of jagged teeth. I don't think a human could pull that off.'

'I guess you're right.'

After breakfast was over, Elliot retired to his flat's sole bedroom, with its clunky computer and looming wardrobe. Time to practice. He had to be majestic, and that took work. And there was even time to indulge in that other hobby of his.

He stood in front of an imaginary mirror, reading out his lines and pretending to answer questions. In his mind's eye, the scene even tended to shift from the community centre to the White House, the United Nations, the top of the world.

Then he went on the computer.

His internet was extremely slow, but he still made sure to use it. Advertising his group on Facebook, tapping out his speeches, and of course, studying. Research, he called it.

A comic convention had ended last week. A website had a whole bunch of pictures. Comics were for kids, as Elliot had constantly been reminded in the past. So were dressing up in stupid costumes and toys and cartoons. Yet here were these grown men and woman, paying more money than Elliot had ever seen for some breakable action figure.

Fascinating.

He knew that what he did – trying to give animals the confidence to demand better treatment – demanded a mature mindset and outlook on life. Everything did, really. Yet he couldn't help but notice some people just didn't want to grow up. He had entertained the notion that there was some magic maturity fairy that sprinkled dust on you every birthday, but just missed a few people. How did maturity happen anyway? At what age did it occur?

He had lost track of the time thinking about those things, so, yet again, his wife seemed to appear out of nowhere. 'Oh, not again. You even have a notebook this time.'

'What?' Elliot shrugged. 'It's interesting to think of why they're this way.'

Rolling her eyes, Giselle replied, 'Look at them. Mostly humans. Privileged little twats.'

'Yeah,' said Elliot, 'I noted that a while ago. Some people just don't grow up because their parents won't let them. Parents have a need to keep coddling their child...'

'What I'm saying is,' said Giselle, twirling her hoof, 'that if you're going to try and make better lives for the animals, you shouldn't spend your time researching humans that don't need help.'

'Of course,' said Elliot, closing the window. 'Of course.' Once again, nothing better to say.

Bert had met a lot of strange people while working this job. Sure, working at the convenience store as a kid did ensure he saw sickos, druggies and alcoholics on a daily basis, but this line of work really took the cake – that cliché seemed strangely appropriate here, for some reason. Last guy he conducted business with had this tic in his eye, and muttered to himself about aliens or something of that nature.

And this guy...this guy looking to buy the run-down old amusement park. He wanted the rusted ferris wheel. He wanted the filthy booths with rigged games and no prizes. And look at his face. Two big scars on opposite sides of his mouth that made him look like he was permanently smiling. Poor guy. How'd he get them? They were underneath a pair of bright yellow John Lennon shades, which gleamed even on an overcast day like this. The smart navy suit the figure wore did nothing but make those facial flaws stand out more.

Still, had to be polite. Don't mention the scars. 'Have you had a chance to inspect the property and decide if it's what you're looking for?'

The figure scratched his back – despite his formal wear, he resembled the typical bum. 'Well, it's garish, ugly, and derelicts have used it for a toilet. The rides are dilapidated to the point of being lethal, and could easily maim or kill innocent little children.'

'Oh, so you don't like it?'

The figure turned to Bert. His facial scars stretched and his spectacles seemed to glow all the more. A wide grin crossed his face, revealing a gap in his teeth that made him resemble the Mad Magazine guy. He (the figure, not the Mad Magazine guy) clutched his gloved hands in delight and began pirouetting on the spot.

'Don't like it? My good man, I am simply crazy for it! It is, as you people say, a fixer-upper, and what a fixer-upper for someone of my creativity!'

Yup, takes the cake. The birthday cake. The birthday cake laced with various hallucinogens.

'You...you really want to buy it?'

'Well, is that not what I just said? I have taken the time to look around this place, and what an inspiration it has been! I mean, is life not an amusement park? Is the world not a labyrinth where choosing the right path can lead to wonder, but the wrong path can lead to unspeakable horrors? Ooh, I can tell which path you picked!'

Then the bugger went and wrapped his arm around Bert as if Bert was his lover. Bert was even sure the figure would add a kiss on top of all that too, but he didn't. Instead, he began that stupid little dance again.

'So...you're not too worried about the price.'

'Oh, money is no object, not when I'm willing to bring such a wonderful gift to the world!'

'Um, yeah.' Bert began to scratch the back of his neck. 'Well, I'm sure you'll like this place. Some of the rides are still pretty sturdy...'

'Oh, indeed they are, but that doesn't mean I won't be giving them my own personal touch. I'm skilled at this type of thing...let me show you something I created.'

From his pocket he pulled out something that couldn't possibly have fitted in his pocket. A large, spherical music box, which opened to reveal a twirling ballerina, complete with soppy twinkle tune.

The ballerina sprayed Bert right in the face.

Bert began to laugh.

'Oh, goody! I can tell you're just as excited about the deal as I am! Well then, you'll be happy to know that I had my associate persuade your partner to sign the necessary documents an hour ago.'

Bert continued to laugh.

'The property's mine already.'

Bert continued to laugh, with every 'Ha' feeling like a dagger in the stomach, a stab in the brain. He clutched his gut and fell over.

The figure adjusted his spectacles and took a look down at the ever-snickering Bert. 'Oh geez. You seem a little too happy. I'll have my associate escort you to somewhere quieter. You know, maybe the world isn't a funfair. Maybe it's a prison. And if that's so...'

Each laugh became more and more painful.

'Then I must be the Warden.'