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The ape

Beginning of the 4th quarter of winter on this part of this planet.
Still a stretch from spring. Doesn't snow out here, but the tree is about as bare as a roundhead's ass on the day it's born.
Sun is in and out like an incel before he nuts in the sock he's wearing to the reddit con later while looking at pictures of dead and battered women. That is to say, quickly.

Barren desert.
Found refuge under a single barren tree, adjusting position for hours to stay under the shade.
It's been hours since arrival. Fatigue sets in. Not just physical, but mental. Fox fancies himself above that, however. And so do you.
Half a click down the way is backup. Falco. That means he's north of even Fox. Communication via military grade earpiece. The kind they use in the CIA, because that's badass.

Hunting.
10. 9. 8. and he's breaking away.
Fox is all dressed up and he's ready to play.
Stealth is the name of the game, so naturally Fox opted for the purple power armor. I know what you're thinking, purple isn't a good camouflage in the desert. However, Fox has Metal Gear Solid 4 technology - chameleon power armor. If he were to wear his helmet, he'd be completely invisible right now, but he doesn't think he looks cool enough with the helmet on, and his vanity wins out every single time, so he currently resembles a floating head next to a tree. The helmet would improve his vision, aiming, hand/eye coordination along with granting him thermal, night and infared vision capabilities. But Fox wants you to see his face. You. Want to see Fox's face.
Fox's fur mats with sweat underneath the tight, uncomfortable suit. He didn't even bother paying attention to how long it took him to put on, god only knows. Taking it off will be the most relief you or Fox has ever experienced.

Tools of the day; a bolt-action rifle with an old-fashioned model ocular enhancement, or scope, for the layman. A pistol chambered for ten-millimeter rounds, because ten is more than nine and that makes it more badass. Carbon fiber knife filled with mercury for balance dynamics - extra sharp. Could cut through the nuts of a dolemite lobster.

Fox lays on his belly, drumming on a root and staring off into space. He justifies his decisions in his head as he waits.
Helmets are for queers, he thinks to himself, licking his dried lips, chapping them further. Queers aren't good for nothin' but taking out yer insecurities on. At least that's what daddy always said. And if what daddy said was ever questioned, the belt would be got. And when the belt would be got, Fox's ass would be got. He can feel the sting as he considers it, and it makes him bite down on his lip as the meager beginnings of an erection surface within his loins.

This makes Fox uncomfortable. He tries to stop thinking about it.

To the north, a monstrosity. A city assimilated.
Woven together with flesh and blood. At the center of this horrible creation is a pulsating, beating heart. Pumping this city full of fuel automatically. Off limits to anyone and every thing that isn't assimilated.
You could call it a home, but it's really a prison. Impossible to break free from, it quite literally becomes a part of you, assimilates you. All thought redirected to the mastercomputer. You become it. Your thoughts, your decisions, your every-day life.
Theoretical immortality, but you become a slave.
A scream as you enter, and nothing more is heard of your existence as an individual.
Officers and mercenaries contracted to patrol the perimeters of the city to keep up appearances. And contracted means you can see the veins pulsating the meat strings attached to their very god if you get close enough.
Resistance was futile, and effortless indeed was the growth of its tendrils across the once thriving city.
The real beast is the city itself - but not the target.

Stars slapped across the sky like his father would his drunk mother, galaxies spilled like her drink when examined in slow motion.
A frozen display of true horror.
Fox loads and unloads his rifle. Fox reloads his rifle.
Fox blows a raspberry. He's bored.
Ninety caliber rounds, which means that sum'bitch can kill anything. Heavily armored and reinforced vehicles melt like Krystal's panties when I helicopter my dick by gyrating my hips like Elvis, only faster and more badass.
The magazine alone would be too heavy for most, despite the fact it only contains four rounds, but Fox fancies himself an elite soldier, and so do you. (consider him that [an elite soldier]).
"Falco how's our six?" My voice is only audible to one bird, one big bird named Falco, the Louise to my Thelma.

"Sixy."
Fox sighs a bunch of times, cartoonishly. He peers through the ocular enhancement on the rifle. Looks at the dirt and fantasizes about fisting an elephant.
Then he looks back through the ocular enhancement device.
Fox groans. "Nothing yet?"

Falco smirks, despite the physics of a beak. Fox drums on the root more, then he drums on his gun. Impatiently."
"I think I spotted a tumbleweed but it disappeared behind a rock." Falco says.
Did I mention this communication technology was used by the CIA? Because that's actually a lie, Fox himself designed this communications device off the kind the CIA used and made it even better than every radio or communication device in circulation, on or off the market.

More awkward sighing from Fox as he taps the butt of his gun for seemingly no reason, tapping speed gaining momentum.
Another raspberry from Fox's fleshy and furry lips.

"How professional," Falco says. Quietly yawning as his beak parts like a trembling pair of scissors. "Your childish whining isn't bringing us any closer to the target, nor the target any closer to us."

"Blow me." A joke to infuriate Falco, because both he and I and Fox know that oral sex from a bird is like having your genitals mashed up against a gigantic hollow pair of scissors, and having your genitals poked by a woefully enlarged pipecleaner. "I'm starting to feel as though this contract is a joke."

"Quit being such a bitchgirlwoman," he says, so groggy from his early morning arrival that he can't even hammer his sexism down. Like every baby who isn't as cool as me, he's cranky "Cunt," he says, arbitrarily. "You're delusional like a womangirl. A female lady without any boyparts. Per usual. Freaking out all the time about her nails and the blood leaking from her vagina. Like she could ever know what getting kicked in the balls is like. Just be glad everybody hates Big, and he isn't part of our canon, so they won't bitch about it in the reviews."

Big.
The target is a fat cat fatcat from Mobius named Big.
Rich beyond his own overweight imagination. Small time Mobian gangster edging his way into the galactic big time. A fool, setting himself up for assimilation. He doesn't even know it.
Big probably doesn't know understand the nightmare he's meant to stroll blindly into. Fox is here to prevent his eventual assimilation. Tipped off by a source who personally wanted his head,
He's from way outside the system, which means Fox doesn't like him already. He'd probably still want him dead if he wasn't getting paid for it.

Opening up the Lylation boarders is what lets filth like the aparoids exist. Some people consider their previous, canon victory over them a success. Victory.
Fox won't consider it a victory until their very species has been genocided off the face of the universe. Not just his system - everywhere.

But because he's on Cerinia and nobody gives a fuck about Cerinia, these filth have managed to colonize and build themselves into the system slowly and unnoticed over time.
"Right, sure," Fox says, tracing circles around his vacuum packed cock with his right hand after rolling over to his back. His left hand stroking the rifle in a similar, sexual fashion. "But you picked this job," he jabs, a jab which he hopes will land, and does, because he's just the badass we dream he is. "Since you suck, your jobs also suck. Everything about you sucks."

He's nibbling on my cock like a fish nibbles on a worm attached to a big fucking hook, ready to rip him out of his universe and serve his innards to ignorant children.
My whipcrack wit is enough to send him spiraling into mentally challenged mode.
He grunts, beak mashing the filter of his cigarette into forthspilling tobacco doth of the other side. "I wouldn't suck your dick for a million credits," Falco says.
Ha. Fox zing'd him, he thinks to himself. He'll remember this the next time he's jacking off, for sure.

Fox doesn't wanna sound like a fucking roundhead or nothing, but he likes money.

He tries to start a conversation.
"How old were you when your father fingered your cloaca?" a simple question. One he should be able to answer if he aint some type of queer Fox doesn't like. Spoiler, Fox doesn't like queers, and neither should you, because it's gross and also because of political indoctrination. This shields me, the author, from my latent homophobia and defends my questionable heterosexuality like a rock monster defends lava, or jewels made from lava. They love those.

"Jesus Christ, Fox, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Unloading the magazine by two, and doing party tricks with the rounds.
Pussyass babydick,Fox would say, if it weren't for his lustful cloaca. Juggling rounds previously removed from the magazine because Fox is good at things like balance and precision. You are impressed. You like his muscles. You fantasize about your life being his, but it isn't.

Instead Fox says something like "Buhbuhbuhbuhbuh. Haha! Cry, whine! That's what you sound like, you SJW trash."

"Will you please shut the fuck up?" Falco sighs, tiredly rubbing the bridge of his beak. "I'm trying to concentrate."

"On what? Yer tumbleweed?"
Ouch, Fox thinks to himself. Zing'd and zap'd him.
Boredom temporarily satiated.

Falco sighs, but realistically this time, unlike Fox, who does it like he's scatting ghost music into the butthole of a Djinn.
"On the job we're getting paid to do, you idiot." Falco blinks. He can't believe Fox is this stupid, but he is.

Negative energies rumble from within via flashbacks and thinkthoughts.
"Don't call me an idiot you whore," Fox mumbles without really thinking about it.

"What the fuck did you just say?"
You could say Fox is bamboozled, but I'd tell you not to say that in my fic, as I only respectable English.

"Falco," Fox grins like a Jack-O-Lantern cut with an extra wide grin and no regard for discriminatory behavior, "do you have to be so FOWL?"

"You think you're funny but you aren't." Falco's face is like the wrinkles on the middle finger joint digit after the fist has punched a brink wall.
Open. Confused.

Fox narrows and eyes and licks his consistently chapping lips.
"I'll leave that for the review boards to decide. You reading this shit? Please leave a review and favorite and subscribe and tell me how funny I am."
The author of this story would like to apologize for the pandering of the protagonist.

"Don't talk to the audience, you sound like an asshole."
If you could turn UGH! into an expression, that would be the way Falco's beak is formating in tandem with the formation of his eyes and lack of chin. That is to say a facial expression. An annoyed and confused one.

"I'll tell you what sounds like an asshole, Bigbird." Fox says, completely serious and meaning every word he says. Saying every word he means.
Meaning his feelings and feeling his means.

"Don't call me Bigbird."
The compound word that shouldn't be a compound word makes him angry, like a particular grouch named Oscar. Now, if Fox would to be to where he were to says uch a thing to Falco's body, it would lift, and lift it would indeed to the power status of lifting capabilities, to throw Fox from a window that t'were not currently present in this here now, quite rather, to be sure.

"Farts. Farts is the answer as to what sounds like an asshole." Fox bellychuckles and yuks his way through his own words like a barbarian through a hapless wench. "I'll take chuckles and belly-yuks for three hundo, Alex."

"Have you been smoking opium?" The canned laughter of a thousand dead audience participants echoes throughout your own ears as you ask yourself in shock and wonder how I just did that. I did it with my words, bitch. How do you like the taste of that?

"I wish," Fox said, drooling and meaning every word, even though their were only two before this sentence. He means those two extra hard before he moves onto the next one. "Would make this waiting so much easier. This is excruciating."

Falco cringes but you can't tell because of his beak and his soulless eyes.
"It's part of the job, Fox."
Falco makes another expression with his face that you won't be able to understand, but this time I'm not going to bother describing it because none of you assholes are paying me enough.

"Killing people," Fox says. "That should be the whole job."
He tries to hide his premature ejaculation within his power armor from nobody while he thinks about what he did to that punk's teeth in the alley.
Fox hides this from exactly nobody, which is exactly who is present, so you can't exactly say this effort was a failure, could you?

Falco, however, is a more logical sentient being. He thinks about things before he says them. He considers the why, the who, the what, the where and the when. And sometimes the boobies, because boobies keep you reading right? Later there will be more boobies. Krystal's boobies.
"Well, it isn't. Sometimes you gotta wait for the right time to kill someone. It's not like you could do your job even if that's all it was."

"Please," Fox scoffs. "Can you beat my high score of 2,049?"
It was all he had to say to bring an avalanche of turds down on Falco's stupid, dumb head.

"What does that even mean?" Falco blinks like a lighthouse light blinks from the distance when you're out to sea, only that isn't the lighthouse blinking per se, just a change in perspective from the light's point of view, facing one way and then facing that way. Not the way it faced before, a new one. Makes it look like it isn't blinking, like Falco. But it isn't. Like Falco.

"Yeah, bitch. Didn't think so."
Fox is sexually satisfied and it's obvious. He didn't think about a single thing while he was cumming into his skintight power armor.

"What the fuck does that even mean?"
Falco's eyes, specifically his irises, are like camera shutters. They expand and contract seemingly arbitrarily to the layman.

"Semper Fidelis, Bigbird." Fox's god sings more freedom upon his silver platter. "Semper Fidelis."

"Ugh," Falco says, deciding not to properly respond. Fox doesn't deserve the sustenance.
This is the nature of communication.
"Oh shit," Falco says, cutting off his own queen drama. "Target approaching from south road. Can you hit 'em like you quit 'em?"

"Negatory, slybeak, or any other codenames your cloaca gets wet for. I don't think about filling it with my knot, because I'm a heterosexual foxbeast with a crystalized love interest in Krystal. Hope I can white knight her out of this shit before she even realizes she's not involved in it, baby."

And before Falco can rationally respond to that, Fox's ambiguously floating head is bouncing along the horizon.
"Useless," Falco says. "Just as fucking useless as you always are."

Patience wears thin on the Big partyvan.

Creeps like a highschool loser on the prowl for a date. Not like me, the author, I got plenty of dates in highschool, and am currently studying to be a game designer, so all you barely-of-age bitches should want my nuts.
Study our mark through ocular enhancement. It is what it is. Blurring fur and ass blotting its way across the frame like an oddly shaped Rorschach.

Big is a big cat, a tall cat and a fat cat fatcat.
He appears as though he would tower above Fox, and he would. His body looks like a pile of steaks wrapped in the sheets of god. Shaved head, a pink spot of scalp beckoning the worst of humanity through the top of his head.
He's completely oblivious to his impending doom either way, like some kind of gay turtle baby on his way back to the ocean. I've never sucked dick and I'm not a fan of it, I promise. I mean, uh, Fox has never sucked dick and he isn't a fan of it, either. I read this in the official nintendo Star Fox 64 forum.

The familiar cock of a weapon enthralls my ear canal like the tease of a penis against the cloaca of one familiar bird all of us are familiar with.
A shiver delivers a disruption down Fox's spine as he lines up his shot and fires.

A sad and gradient net fizzles out with bad writing and so does another bullet against the badguy's invisible shield.
Fox hears the familiar sound of a round getting locked into a barrel by his partner as his partner Falco pretends he can do what Fox couldn't.
Fox already knows he'll fail. It's how he's wired to know things. That makes him really badass, and you grow even fonder of him because of this.
"Ready, aim," and his radio cuts off.

Two seconds. Gunfire. The boom strikes the hills like lightning followed by thunder. It edges to the outskirts of the galaxy.
Two heads explode. One from his, one from his. Despite his reported miss earlier, his advancement in your likeability is considerably well taken care of. His knowledge not to end a sentence in a preposition because I'm a goddamn writer, come look at my 3D models and listen to Linkin Park with me.

Nothing. God has abandoned this murder, and it's left to me and the world's smelliest cloaca to clean up after that.
Magic net. Go fuck yourself.
Radio static, despite this being the best communicator known to sentient beings ever. Must knot know how to use it. ;O
"Fire!" he exclaims, unceremoniously inside of my own method of being.

Fire. Eject empty cartridge. Cock.
Almost like we're twinkies, or even Ding Dongs. Two similar pastries wrapped in a plastic container together. Almost.
He's off time, which makes him weaker.
Again my slug is slugged before it should be slugged. Like god is hugging this chump. I shoot Froggy off his shoulder to prove my dominance over Falco, but I can't seem to get my 360noscopeheadshot. So I pee in my powerarmor pee reserves underpants and question my influence on these chumps.

Child's play.
Stand up and he spots my floating head and leaking pee immediately.
Scoff. He's about a hundred miles ahead and he's only spotting me secondarily, not like me on him with my military advantage.
Fox's options are kill him with the sniper rifle, or be way more badass and charge him with the knife.

So he do that. Think about his options. Think about his options with him, why don't you? I mean you, the reader. Wouldn't it be like, way more badass if he charged him with a knife than it would if he shot him from a distance? Think about it.
He's gonna do that.

So Fox changes the settings in his start menu and he makes his way for that fatcat fat cat and it turns out he's even bigger than he could have ever imagined.

7. 6. 5. 4. and I'm all over you.

A spring in Fox's step as he leaps his way towards reinforcement of public badassery. Think about it. Fox stabbing this chump with a knife a bunch of times is way cooler than sniping him, don't you think? I'd imagine you'd think, but you're a fan of Star Fox fanfiction, so I'll explain this to you very carefully.

The mercury in his knife make it cooler in several ways, and more deadly. The shape of his knife means death, despite the fact that most knives do that, the weight distribution plus the shape of it means immediate death, and permanently.

Fox crouches while he's running, which is bizarre looking, and doesn't do anything for his attack.

Counting three, two, one, Fox is having fun.

Big is probably masturbating, because there's no other way he was this clueless that he was about to die unless the person attacking him was Fox McCloud.
Which it was.

His eye catches the glinting knife drawn from Fox's boot in the early morning sunrise.

Enclosing.

Unsure of what to do next. Eyes meeting eyes, groins flexing unimaginably.

Enclosing.

Death is coming and all he can do is react to that like a man and not a woman baby child girl which Fox as a protagonist holds beneath him on the evolutionary line.

Enclosing.

Fox gets a good look into the whites of his eyes, which turns him on, because he's pretty sure this person will be dead soon and the whites of a dead person's eyes turn him on arbitrarily!

Big finally reacts, finally, by dual wielding machineguns he fires off into random directions. It's like a war dance, it's supposed to scare Fox.
But Fox isn't scared. He's just more and more pissed off as he somersaults through the air like a blur of death followed by a twitchy tail.

Enclosed.

Eye contact. Distance closes. His readiness meets Fox's pure abrupt protagonist power, and smacks him in the face with it.
Fox tumbles to a quiet place within his own mind and a crack cuts through the sky as a million caliber bullet fired by Falco tears his pathetic skull apart and rips his existence from this general plane.

There is no fear, Fox tells himself, gnawing on his own tongue. Only dicks and cloacas, and that's a battle Fox tells himself he will never lose.

Like an ant on a house, you could say to describe Fox climbing up Big. Monstrous in size, crushing just about everything in his path, including the car he rides.
The dimensions change, get bigger and bigger as Fox approaches.
Fox leaps past him and delivers the knife to his grandma - his grandma is dead which means he delivers his knife to a ghost that doesn't get cut, because ghosts don't get cut by regular every day ordinary blades despite the fact that Fox's blade was way more badass than ordinary.
Parry. Sparks fly, because that's good description. Both of us sent reeling. Do a barrel roll around to his other side.
Whoopsie.
Foot meets chest as Fox is sent flying across the map with little to no recourse.
Armor absorbing damage, but damage being absorbed by armor, if you know what I mean. Pussy stuff.

Fox bites his tongue. He's ready to fuck this fat bitch to death and not call it rape. It's his turn now - a windbag for punishment, a sigh escapes Fox. It's completely heterosexual and so am I and so are you, right? People aren't judging us, right?

Leap. Two kicks. Like drumming on a waterbed, Fox's attacks ripple throughout Big's body like nothing.
A whack, a crunch, a dodge and a handful of indecencies.
Big grabs Fox's leg and slams him back and forth into the ground.
Fox writhes around in pain and fires off a few warning shots.
The end swings through the avalanche of pain. Fox has choices, choices I'll not be assed to discuss but he makes the correct one and lights a fart into his gasp and sets his fucking head on fire.
It happens like an explosion that you're not expecting. Quick, dirty and to the point.

Fox rolls completely out of the way. It's all faster than Sonic the hedgehog, or even Jaleel White's career.
Fox gambles on his protagonisms and jabs the knife here and there. And Big squirts blood like a weak Mobian should. Fox maintains his grip on the knife and brings it down from the center of his throat to his sternum, cutting through his ribbed cage like a human car through an elaborate set of dominoes.
Fox's ribs break and he struggles to breathe when Big punches him in the sternum and he falls to the ground.

With Big upon him a thunderous roar cracks the dark skies and Big's head implodes like a watermelon at the mercy of Ghallagher's hammer. And that's how he dies. That's how Big dies. From one of Falco's stray bullets.
For the first and last time, Big falls forever, through his meat prison and into the infinite. And beyond that - forever.

All in a day's work.
Fox had to cut Big's head off to prove he did it, even though he didn't.
Many corpses were left, many dogtags were snagged. Warcrimes are cool. Fox is cool. You visualizing yourself in Fox's position is cool.

And the tale begins.

Fox's eyes rolled back in his head roll forward to focus on his investor.
"Fox I need you off the books," Pepper says to say and says.

Fox shakes off his fantasies and his accomplishments. "What you need boo?"

"The ape from Star Wolf," he says, chewing on chaw and spitting it. "I need you to fuck that asshole in his hindquarters and slap him permanently away from making progress in life. Then I need you to bring him to me."

"Sounds sketch," Fox says, examining the folds of his penis. "I'd like to lick this labia before tonguing the clitoris if you know what I mean."

The dog flashed his fang as his eyes sparkled. "You did a good job last time for me. But this is different. I need you to kill Andrew Oikonny, and I need you to prove it. This doesn't govern my nuggets, just my nuggets. It governs yours, and I need you to respect that, governor."

"You'd be remissed by a lack of consent if you weren't already being fucked," Fox says, busting his nut arbitrarily and with impunity.

"I'll see your nut and raise you a filthy awooooooooo," Pepper says and Fox knows he means Wolf information, or information on Star Wolf.

Suddenly it all made sense to Fox. If Andrew didn't dieA, he could be a facility for Andross to reincarnate.
Fox didn't believe in Andross or reincarnation, but he hated apes, and he liked to watch them suffer.

So he takes the job.

cornwallace - 2018