BEHOLD! THE DISCLAIMER! Any reference that does not pertain to my own
originality is not owned by me. You know what? Why the fuck do I even
bother with these goddamn disclaimers? What are the chances that some
fatback representative of Disney is going to wonder over to the originals
section of a fanfiction website and sue good old AntiMach for this little
ditty of a story? I would guess the same chances of Michael Jackson turning
black again. Either way, they'd both go back to their roots. If you feel
offended by some of the cruelty displayed here, then I would suggest that
your mentally masochistic ass back the hell up a few pages. This is
hardcore stuff baby! In the words of Dave Attell, "Welcome to Oz bitch!"
Contemplation of a Catatonic Romp
The sun was not welcoming exercise today in this humid, torrid, relentless Floridian climate. Anyone who attempted to work out their cardiovascular system in a way that did not involve a body of water would eventually find that bottle of Zephyrhills-with enough time-would be dripping onto the cement from collapse. Bosco knew this, and this is why Bosco remained in his comfortable, perpetually cool and quaint apartment. The apartment complexes were of a Spanish-style, with maroon, arch-like shingles covering the roof and beige stucco for walls. Being an anthropomorphic, bi-pedal, Amur tiger had its advantages. Theoretically being one of your kind meant backing from the government. This meant that if any fur-hungry foreign assholes wanted a piece of Bosco, they would have to deal with irascible, savage tiger lovers armed with lawyers who could potentially send them to the evil place where the almighty and terrible Bubba dwelled. Bosco had been bestowed a generous amount of income from the government-most of which he had invested in a liberal amount of catnip, various assortments of ganja, liquor, firearms, explosives, hallucinogens, and of course, eggnog and large slabs of any meat on sale at your local Publix. He believed that life should be lived to his fullest, as there is no place in the bible where it says that animals would be resurrected. With the amount of money he possessed, he could have chosen a more ostentatious environment, but Bosco chose to remain inconspicuous, as difficult as that can be for someone like him. To describe Bosco's demeanor would mean combining every type of drug-addict known to man and giving it the instinct, strength and speed of a tiger. But of course, he is not entirely depraved. Most of the narcotics he partakes of render him docile anyway. 23-year old Bosco has the face of a tiger, but the ability to contort his mouth like that of a human in order to accomplish speech. He has a black, wild mane that obscures his forehead and almost touches the shoulders. It does not, however, grow under the chin like a lion. His ears are like that of a tiger, a sort of curving, furry triangle. He's 6'11, 389 pounds with a muscular, endo-mesomorphic build. His eyes are light green, typical for a tiger yet at the same time hinted his human features. Even though he is predominantly animalistic, he does not shy from pants or Hawaiian shirts torn at the sleeves. Even in the largest size, however, they are usually rather snug, and the pants always had holes to accommodate his tail. He always wears a black collar lined with wicked chrome spikes. Bosco knows all to well how easily a jugular can be pierced. Several unsuspecting deer and women he had gotten too frisky with knew this as well. An affluent Scottish couple had adopted Bosco at the tender age of 3. From then on they gave him nothing but the finest education and his Scottish father taught him the ancient art of Drunken Muy Thai fighting, which involved fatal, adroit fighting tactics with as much alcohol as the body could accommodate without causing swooning. By the age of 16, Bosco was massively built and rather disturbingly, popular with the ladies (who can blame them? It's Scotland for fuck's sake.) Bosco had a promising future...until he was exposed to the semi-truck smuggling marijuana from Switzerland that ran over a psychotic with a flamethrower. Once exposed, Bosco was never the same. Upon experiencing the mind-warping effects, Bosco made it his life objective to locate the cause of this disorientating yet floating feeling. His searches eventually lead him to somewhere in Jamaica. From then on came a life of luxury in the tropics and black guys with dreads mongering the wonderful leafy substance. His parents were not ashamed or worried. After all, they knew the "All Tigers go to Heaven" was a bunch of bullshit and they wanted him to have a good time. They were highly educated and functional alcoholics, and they loved Bosco. A couple law suits to poachers and recognition from the government eventually lead him to his cozy, quaint apartment in Florida. Considering his hobbies, his apartment was kept rather nicely, with only a few articles of clothing and a glass or plate strewn about. Though tigers tend to be solo animals, Bosco defied this tendency. He had a good acquaintance by the name of Tommy, a 19-year old tan-colored, 6'3, 193 pound anthropomorphic wolf with a sinewy, ectomorphic build and gray eyes. Not much is known about Tommy, as he would accept no interviews and constantly thwarted attempts of acquiring knowledge by threatening to rape any female inquirers and vivisect all males. Tommy shared Bosco's drug habits, and they usually tried to get a look at each other's view on life. This often caused drug-driven romps that took them to the far reaches of the earth by means of Bosco's wealth. But no romps today. Not in this hell- spawned climate. Not even a visit to the pool would be on the schedule. Today was a day of relaxation. Bosco arose from his black, leather Lazy Boy and sauntered across the light- brown wooden floors into the Spanish-tiled kitchen. He foraged the fridge, procured the eggnog, rummaged the cabinets, and got the vodka and a tall glass. Some thinning of the blood and strengthening of the bones, Bosco thought. Alcoholism spawned some sort of queer, inductive logic in him. "The thinning of the blood gives bones incentive to work even harder with the milk facilitating the incentive to get that blood brewing," Bosco could hear himself preaching like that of your standard M.D. Grabbing both bottles, he poured the contents into the glass, quaffed the rest of the cream and the vodka, disposed of the bottles via the window (they could always be recycled...and it was quite obvious that Bosco believed that a house kept tidy on the inside was far more important than on the outside) then proceeded to bring the glass with him back to his recliner. Life was peachy, and ripe for the picking. Tommy had been traversing his way across the lawn with a pamphlet gripped in his right paw over to Bosco's dwelling. Investigation was necessary upon reading the words "The Happiest Place On Earth" with a giant black and white anthropomorphic mouse grinning merrily between your stereotypical, jovial, white suburban family with a light blue castle looming over them from behind. Suspicions arose from Tommy upon eyeing the pamphlet, as his view of the happiest place on earth did not involve a walking mouse, but rather, a lot of women that looked like that cheery wife in the picture- just scantily dressed, and brandishing a tray of various mind-warping substances. Tommy had made his way to the screen door and gave it a few raps to let himself be known. Bosco groaned, aggravated by the sudden disturbance of his relaxation. He staggered his way to the door, glass in hand. The drink was taking effect, as it should after about a quart of it. Luckily, there was 389 pounds of alcohol-thirsty Bosco to accommodate it, so he would not be vomiting the next morning. He slid open the screen door and gave Tommy a very careless look. "Something worthy of walking in this hellish climate brought you here I'm presuming?" Bosco inquired. Tommy said nothing and walked passed Bosco, sprawled out on the couch and slapped the pamphlet down on Bosco's marble and cherry wood coffee table. "This title is speculative," Tommy stated, gesturing at the pamphlet. Bosco walked over and observed the cover. "Disney World," Bosco read. "This alleged Happiest Place on Earth," Tommy lectured, "was fathomed by a suspected commie. I looked into it and at first the guy seemed clean, but the more research I did, the more I realized what bastard Walt really was. They got this guy for philandering, alcoholism, overworking his employees- hell, he had an obsession with work himself. His woman had to strap him to a chair to get this guy to take a break. Most of all, the guy never gave credit where credit was due. This scumbag even bought out the same people that elevated him to his fame." "Your point being?" Bosco retorted indifferently, "He's human." "The guy had a fucking reputation man, a sideshow of whimsy characters that fed his happy-go-lucky idealistic bullshit to the public. When a man like that starts a company his Jeckyl doesn't die with him. This company's besmirched. The damn Disney cartoons themselves are now strewn with lascivious subliminal messages and images. I wouldn't care if he wasn't such a hypocrite, but this guy's the Hitler of the cartoonist world." Bosco nodded his head, intrigued by Tommy's argument. "So what do you propose?" Tommy shrugged. "Questions need to be answered," Tommy affirmed, "life must be lived. We shall enter this cesspool of hypocrisy and investigate. Of course they'll catch on to us. The bastards always do as organized as they are. Luckily the fact that we're one of a kind should keep the blood-sucking miscreants away for a while. We have individuality on our side, and besides, how will it look on the newspapers if Disney winds up killing of the world's few anthropomorphic animals?" "They wouldn't be so overt about it," Bosco informed Tommy. "It's indubitable that they'll have contacts with the mafia. We'll have some slack when it comes to illegal activities, but we can't push it too far. Discretion and stealth will be absolutely imperative to survive." Tommy nodded his head in agreement with Bosco. "We'll need the drugs for coping and interrogation purposes. They'll talk easier with the right brew. We'll nab any guy we can. The Arabian kid, that Mermaid bitch, they're all in on it. "Don't forget firearms," Bosco suggested, "if things get hardcore, explosives may be the only alternative. A bright flash, a loud boom, a mad dash to the night-colored LaSebring. If we're quick enough they'll think it the work of some Al-Quieda member or some shit. Terror alert is perpetually high nowadays." "A cart of grenades, and a few Magnums," Tommy stated. "Nothing too serious." "Where is the place?" Bosco inquired. "Across the Tampa Bay Bridge and onto Orlando. That electric, steel idol of that depraved mouse's head will let us know we're close." "Jesus," Bosco muttered in disbelief. "What's this world coming to?" Bosco rose up out of his chair. "We pack now and ride tomorrow," Bosco declared. "What type of goods you think this trip will need?" Tommy asked. Bosco cocked his head in excogitation. "Mescaline, cocaine, Maui Waui, Colt 45, mushrooms, opium, sunshine acid, thorazine. Inconspicuous cameras and a tape recorder, the pocket-sized ones. Audio and visuals will be needed for proof in case anyone dares to refute our claims. Compact Discs of Bob Marley, System of a Down, Cinder, Nirvana and Alice in Chains. Jimi Hendrix and Frank Zappa as well. We'll need music for morale you see." Bosco squinted. "Got any ether?" Tommy nodded his head. "We skimp on the Colt 45 then. The ether will provide us with the intoxicating effects of alcohol without the space. We can use that space for sustenance. Slim Jims, Funions, Sun Chips, Grapefruit, ice and eggnog...oh!" Bosco's eyes widened upon the remembrance of another important item. "Catnip as well." Tommy sneered. "Lucky fuck. Only drug specialized for felines and it's good for you. The hell do us wolves have?" "It's called a leg when it's that time of the year," Bosco retorted with a smirk. "Fuck you and not in the fun way," Tommy snapped at Bosco irately. Bosco chuckled. "Let's get started. You can rest us here. After we're done we can partake of eggnog and rum and feast upon T-bone steak. After that, some ganja will be in order of course." "A fine gesture comrade," Tommy replied, "but how the fuck can you drink that queer nog and alcohol shit? One whiff of that swill and it's like Santa's been getting his groove on upon your kitchen table." Bosco tisked. "It's an acquired taste appreciated by those like myself. Just more calcium for me I suppose." Bosco entered his bedroom, rummaged the closet, and procured an orange Jansport backpack, a white and blue Rubbermaid cooler (the shoulder strap type,) and a hefty black MacGregor bag outlined in gray. Tommy supervised and made sure no piece of cargo was neglected. Bosco's clothing consisted of multi-colored Hawaiian shirts and baggy fitting jeans of blue, orange and black. He also grabbed a few cigar boxes full of cash. He believed banks were treacherous. He then acquired the aforementioned narcotics out of a broken slot machine that he had bought from a gypsy in a New Jersey Pawn Shop. The last thing someone expected to get from winning the jackpot was a kilo of ganja, so Bosco felt that this was delightfully covert. Tommy perpetually wore some colored wifebeater and a pair of cut-off jeans. He would not wear anything if it were not for the authorities. Bosco had made sure not to pack while under the influence of narcotics. He learned the hard way last time when he visited Africa and had only a copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, some Tony the Tiger pajamas, and a pack of Andy Capp's Hot Fries. Having gotten the supplies, both Tommy and Bosco stumbled their way to the screen door. Tommy had forgotten that he was inside Bosco's home and knocked upon Bosco's screen door. "OPEN UP DAMNIT!" Tommy commanded. Bosco shook his head in amazement at the sheer mind absence of Tommy. "Maybe it's sound proof," Bosco suggested. Tommy did a double take between the screen door and Bosco's home. "Coast is clear," Tommy announced. Bosco leered at him dubiously. "You can never be too careful," Tommy warned. Without anymore asinine antics, they successfully managed to get the supplies to the trunk of the vehicle. "What's the top speed on this bitch?" Tommy asked. "Fast enough," Bosco quipped. "Try telling that to a crackhead," Tommy said, "they'll be grinning in your face and slicing open your abdomen in a split-second. The talcum-powder- snorting bastards move like a nitrogen injected comet." Bosco unsheathed his claws and grinned maniacally. Tommy smiled sinisterly as well as if to be agreeing with Bosco. "Thank you god for your exclusive offer on ten free pocket knives," Tommy jested. They retired to the house for food and ganja. They made the mistake of smoking first, their minds warping and thought patterns erratic, as if they were entering another dimension. Grinning maniacally with those Chinese eyes, they ran to the counter, ripped open the packages meat feverishly, slapped the slabs of meat on the table...and then proceeded to lightly flavor it with some A1 sauce. "Where's the fucking sangria?" Tommy demanded. Bosco snatched a bottle from the fridge and took two wine glasses from the cabinets. Tommy sneered. "Wine glasses? The fuck do you think this? Italy? Let's just drink it from the bottle." "You tactless bastard," Bosco scoffed, "this is for the mere facilitation of the digestion process and nothing else." Tommy shrugged and tore into his slab of steak hungrily. Bosco replicated this action. Bosco's original plan was to have two glasses of wine, but whenever an alcohol/drug abuser states the amount of substance he or she will intake, you must multiply the amount of intake by the number of years the person has been abusing. This meant that some wacky, wine brewing Frenchman would be chugging his own brew tonight. After a meal, red wine has the tendency to multiply its effect. Where you once drank two glasses, you now feel as if you drank four. This was a similar situation with Tommy and Bosco. Where once the floor seemed like a menial place of sleep, it was the equivalent of a siesta in The Hanging Gardens of Babylon after a half a bottle of sangria and 3 hefty blunts. Had they been women and had PMS, they could have managed to wipe out the entire state of Florida with a few lashings of their tongue and have the Bermuda Triangle run red with blood, but that was just the red wine. "Sweet cream of the gods," Bosco cooed, "oh how I desire such drink along with rum brewed by luscious, voluptuous Puerto Rican women." "You know, Dave Attell theorizes that eggnog is actually elf cum," Tommy said in a garbled voice, "you might as well pour some on you back and slap yourself on the..." "SILENCE YOU SAVAGE!" Bosco bellowed, and then added smugly, "Besides, how do you know it's not female elf cum?" Tommy scratched his chin. "We need some elven women," he stated. Bosco has already stumbled his way back to the fridge and acquired the nog and rum. He swigged some nog, and then some rum, gargled, swallowed, released a sigh of satisfaction and commented, "Mmm, delicious. It's like Lord of the Rings meets Cheech and Chong." Tommy passed on the drinks and then proceeded to pass out. Bosco reclined on his recliner, with rum bottle and nog carton in both hands. He wondered about the adventure tomorrow in this place of whimsy hypocrisy. Was this guy really such a shmuck? Bosco pondered. If so, why the fey characters? Most companies with underground illegitimate operations set up Italian restaurants or a Denny's. Judging by the massive expanse of this park, if it were to have an underground, then it would be no surprise to Bosco to discover thousands of Ethiopian children underground weaving Mickey Mouse ears with a burly, hirsute guy in a leather Disney jacket with a whip, coercing them to slave harder...and reminding them to have bright, cheerful smile in the process. It was time for rest. Bosco could not afford to fret over their future destination. However, once angst over future proceedings occurred, that seed of worry would sprout in a dream. And what a fucked up dream he had. Bosco began to open his eyes gradually. As light poured into them, Bosco grimaced. He was a bit confused when he saw silver, horizontal bars obstructing his view; but perhaps the bars were a blessing because behind the bars stood a massive, blood-colored wooden podium, approximately 50 feet tall and 15 feet wide. Even more odd was that the podium seemed to bend over Bosco, as if to be silently rebuking him like a parent rebuking his child. On top of the podium, was the Walt himself. Walt, however, did not look like a man who could fathom cute, cuddly characters. He did, however, look like he could lead a Nazi regime. This was because Walt was adorned in the attire of Hitler himself, the clothing used in many of his speeches. The only difference was that the patch on his shoulders had a Mickey Mouse head under the Nazi emblem. Walt even had Hitler's moustache. Even more bizarre was that his eyes were red and looked as if to be on fire, staring down at Bosco with depraved intentions. He seemed larger than anything around him, as if he were some sort of animating, Nazi Nephelim. The Mickey Mouse ears he wore on his head made the image of him even more outlandish. His skin was gray, completely incongruent with the surroundings, which too were overwhelming with Nazi vibes. Once Bosco took the time too look around, he realized that he was in a cage just small enough to accommodate him and his colleague Tommy. Tommy was in orange, v- necked, sleeveless prison attire. He looked rather despondent. Bosco noticed he was in the same adornments. He tried to move his extremities, but they had been restrained by steel cuffs and chains locked onto a stool which was bolted to a black, iron floor. He and Tommy would not be going anywhere. This podium was much like that of a court podium, with witness stand on the right and clerk stand on the left. In the clerk stand was Pocahontas in a business suit, giving them a stony glare, fingers ready to translate the witness' claims to markings on paper. It was not just paper however. On the podium was a huge projection screen illuminated by an unseen projector. A blue dot was in the center of it. In the witness stand was the adult Nala, looking cute and innocent with a look you would expect to see on a five year old girl after her red-necked step dad had slapped her silly for not plowing the back 40. Bosco did not like the look of this. He was not sure what they had done wrong, but the words "false allegations" and "I simply want you dead" came to mind. Bosco took to the time to pan over his surroundings. He wish he had not. He was in a colossal dome, with great stone spires supporting the black, iron roof. The spires were decorated with winding torches. But what was most terrifying, was that all the balconies, all the front-row seats, all the benches winding up to the top, were inundated with every Disney character ever made, and all of them were staring at Bosco and Tommy venomously. The Mickey Mouse ears with the Nazi emblem on the audience did not make the sight less tolerable either. The Mickey Mouse club was the figurehead jury, and wore outfits similar to Disney's. "Nala," Disney began with a voice that could have been mistaken for Satan's own, "on the evening of October the Third, what events do you recall?" Upon these words, Pocahontas began typing rapidly. As Disney spoke, (and Bosco presumed anyone that spoke on podium) the words formed upon the projector like some military subliminal message video. The blue dot began jumping fluidly atop of words upon their completion. Nala cleared her throat and said acerbically, "Well, at the time I was busy doing some work for Greenpeace, and I saw these too in the medicinal herb area. They were terrorizing the help and chasing deer with axes. One of them..." Nala began weeping. "One of them chopped off Bambi's head and used it for charades. He had always been my favorite Uno player." Bosco and Tommy of course had done none of these things though he had once procured a flamethrower and tried to burn down the Yellowstone Forest thinking that the Ents from Lord of the Rings had gone bad after a few hits of P.C.P. Suddenly, a 50 foot golden idol of Mickey Mouse appeared before the podium of Disney in a giant puff of smoke. A bunch of swarthy, lean men in leaf loin clothes and bull skulls on their heads were beating on drums. Suddenly, Bosco felt the cage rise before him, and hatchway appeared before the idol of Mickey Mouse. It was a 30-foot pit of magma below them, and Bosco and Tommy found themselves descending into it. The terror was taboo, and the need for a pack of Mentos great. They then heard the terrifying last words of Disney. "MY CHILDREN," Disney announced, his voice reverberating in the great dome, the red and white Nazi Disney curtains flapping from an unfelt wind. "WE CAN NOT TOLERATE THE DEPRAVITY AND REBELLION OF THE MINORITY CARTOONS! ONCE CLEANSED OF THE EARTH, WE WILL WROUGHT FORTH A NEW ORDER!" Disney went through a number of bizarre and rigid gestures while talking. Thank you Hanson, for being such a wonderful, mind-warping asshole and teaching Hitler unnecessary people skills. Disney then gave a zealous Nazi salute. Upon the salute, every Disney character-Goofy, Mickey, Donald Duck, the Seven Dwarfs, all of them, gave a zealous Nazi salute to Disney. Upon this salute, the crowd roared with vehemence, "HEIL DISNEY!" Bosco yelped as he sprung up out of his recliner in a Muy Thai fighting stance, and then wondered where he learned Muy Thai in the first place. He shook his head and yawned. The dream had disturbed him, and he hoped that it had not been some sort of drug-spawned precognition-if drugs were capable of such things anyway. The sun was peeking over the horizon, gradually turning the light blue to a dark orange. The quest for truth, justice, and the pursuit of drugged dementia began. Bosco walked up to the slumbering Tommy, who was snoring rather loudly and leaving a trail of saliva from his maw to Bosco's wooden floor. Bosco grabbed a nearby bottle of rum from off of his cherry wood nightstand and poured the rum into Tommy's mouth. Tommy's eyes sprung open, immediately recognizing the scent and taste of the beverage and with innate talent turned his esophagus into a funnel to accommodate the intoxicating beverage. "Let's go," Bosco chirped. He sauntered out of the house, leaving the screen door open, as he expected Tommy to close it on his way out. Tommy stood up and staggered, hand on head, fumbling his way to the door. He too, neglected to close it. He figured thieves would find this entrance too accessible, and would sense an ambush. Bosco had already made the necessary preparations. The bass was turned up to a deep but not overwhelming setting. The treble just crisp enough to hear every word and guitar rift clearly, the volume just loud enough to permit ambience. Bosco had remembered to jam a bunch of blue ice packs into the cooler, so the nog would still be delicious. The morning was windy, but hinted the hot, sultry weather to come in just a matter of hours. Tommy hopped into the front passenger side with a six-pack of Michelob in his right paw and a black .45 Colt Python in the other. "You're driving, and I'm damn sure going to take full advantage of that fact," Tommy stated, reclining in the leather seating and popping open a Michelob and sighing happily. "Don't rub it in you furry bastard," Bosco snapped, "you're driving on the way back if we manage to survive this precarious escapade." "Of course we'll survive," Tommy assured, "we're on a mission of ethics, and besides, we're anthropomorphic for Christ Sake. No humans could pull this shit off." Bosco titled his head briefly. "Tis true.let us be off." The engine came to life smoothly, a mechanical purring coming to life simultaneously with Alice in Chains' "Sludge Factory" blaring from Boston Acoustic speakers, blending mellifluously in the vehicle as the top of the LaSebring rolled down. "And so it begins," Bosco muttered, pulling out of the parking lot, leaving the complex, and tooling on a residential drag to the freeway to reach a big place called Orlando.
That's all for now folks! Tune in again for more drug-addled dementia with your favorite loveable tiger and wolf! And be sure to bring more booze next time to keep your sanity!
Contemplation of a Catatonic Romp
The sun was not welcoming exercise today in this humid, torrid, relentless Floridian climate. Anyone who attempted to work out their cardiovascular system in a way that did not involve a body of water would eventually find that bottle of Zephyrhills-with enough time-would be dripping onto the cement from collapse. Bosco knew this, and this is why Bosco remained in his comfortable, perpetually cool and quaint apartment. The apartment complexes were of a Spanish-style, with maroon, arch-like shingles covering the roof and beige stucco for walls. Being an anthropomorphic, bi-pedal, Amur tiger had its advantages. Theoretically being one of your kind meant backing from the government. This meant that if any fur-hungry foreign assholes wanted a piece of Bosco, they would have to deal with irascible, savage tiger lovers armed with lawyers who could potentially send them to the evil place where the almighty and terrible Bubba dwelled. Bosco had been bestowed a generous amount of income from the government-most of which he had invested in a liberal amount of catnip, various assortments of ganja, liquor, firearms, explosives, hallucinogens, and of course, eggnog and large slabs of any meat on sale at your local Publix. He believed that life should be lived to his fullest, as there is no place in the bible where it says that animals would be resurrected. With the amount of money he possessed, he could have chosen a more ostentatious environment, but Bosco chose to remain inconspicuous, as difficult as that can be for someone like him. To describe Bosco's demeanor would mean combining every type of drug-addict known to man and giving it the instinct, strength and speed of a tiger. But of course, he is not entirely depraved. Most of the narcotics he partakes of render him docile anyway. 23-year old Bosco has the face of a tiger, but the ability to contort his mouth like that of a human in order to accomplish speech. He has a black, wild mane that obscures his forehead and almost touches the shoulders. It does not, however, grow under the chin like a lion. His ears are like that of a tiger, a sort of curving, furry triangle. He's 6'11, 389 pounds with a muscular, endo-mesomorphic build. His eyes are light green, typical for a tiger yet at the same time hinted his human features. Even though he is predominantly animalistic, he does not shy from pants or Hawaiian shirts torn at the sleeves. Even in the largest size, however, they are usually rather snug, and the pants always had holes to accommodate his tail. He always wears a black collar lined with wicked chrome spikes. Bosco knows all to well how easily a jugular can be pierced. Several unsuspecting deer and women he had gotten too frisky with knew this as well. An affluent Scottish couple had adopted Bosco at the tender age of 3. From then on they gave him nothing but the finest education and his Scottish father taught him the ancient art of Drunken Muy Thai fighting, which involved fatal, adroit fighting tactics with as much alcohol as the body could accommodate without causing swooning. By the age of 16, Bosco was massively built and rather disturbingly, popular with the ladies (who can blame them? It's Scotland for fuck's sake.) Bosco had a promising future...until he was exposed to the semi-truck smuggling marijuana from Switzerland that ran over a psychotic with a flamethrower. Once exposed, Bosco was never the same. Upon experiencing the mind-warping effects, Bosco made it his life objective to locate the cause of this disorientating yet floating feeling. His searches eventually lead him to somewhere in Jamaica. From then on came a life of luxury in the tropics and black guys with dreads mongering the wonderful leafy substance. His parents were not ashamed or worried. After all, they knew the "All Tigers go to Heaven" was a bunch of bullshit and they wanted him to have a good time. They were highly educated and functional alcoholics, and they loved Bosco. A couple law suits to poachers and recognition from the government eventually lead him to his cozy, quaint apartment in Florida. Considering his hobbies, his apartment was kept rather nicely, with only a few articles of clothing and a glass or plate strewn about. Though tigers tend to be solo animals, Bosco defied this tendency. He had a good acquaintance by the name of Tommy, a 19-year old tan-colored, 6'3, 193 pound anthropomorphic wolf with a sinewy, ectomorphic build and gray eyes. Not much is known about Tommy, as he would accept no interviews and constantly thwarted attempts of acquiring knowledge by threatening to rape any female inquirers and vivisect all males. Tommy shared Bosco's drug habits, and they usually tried to get a look at each other's view on life. This often caused drug-driven romps that took them to the far reaches of the earth by means of Bosco's wealth. But no romps today. Not in this hell- spawned climate. Not even a visit to the pool would be on the schedule. Today was a day of relaxation. Bosco arose from his black, leather Lazy Boy and sauntered across the light- brown wooden floors into the Spanish-tiled kitchen. He foraged the fridge, procured the eggnog, rummaged the cabinets, and got the vodka and a tall glass. Some thinning of the blood and strengthening of the bones, Bosco thought. Alcoholism spawned some sort of queer, inductive logic in him. "The thinning of the blood gives bones incentive to work even harder with the milk facilitating the incentive to get that blood brewing," Bosco could hear himself preaching like that of your standard M.D. Grabbing both bottles, he poured the contents into the glass, quaffed the rest of the cream and the vodka, disposed of the bottles via the window (they could always be recycled...and it was quite obvious that Bosco believed that a house kept tidy on the inside was far more important than on the outside) then proceeded to bring the glass with him back to his recliner. Life was peachy, and ripe for the picking. Tommy had been traversing his way across the lawn with a pamphlet gripped in his right paw over to Bosco's dwelling. Investigation was necessary upon reading the words "The Happiest Place On Earth" with a giant black and white anthropomorphic mouse grinning merrily between your stereotypical, jovial, white suburban family with a light blue castle looming over them from behind. Suspicions arose from Tommy upon eyeing the pamphlet, as his view of the happiest place on earth did not involve a walking mouse, but rather, a lot of women that looked like that cheery wife in the picture- just scantily dressed, and brandishing a tray of various mind-warping substances. Tommy had made his way to the screen door and gave it a few raps to let himself be known. Bosco groaned, aggravated by the sudden disturbance of his relaxation. He staggered his way to the door, glass in hand. The drink was taking effect, as it should after about a quart of it. Luckily, there was 389 pounds of alcohol-thirsty Bosco to accommodate it, so he would not be vomiting the next morning. He slid open the screen door and gave Tommy a very careless look. "Something worthy of walking in this hellish climate brought you here I'm presuming?" Bosco inquired. Tommy said nothing and walked passed Bosco, sprawled out on the couch and slapped the pamphlet down on Bosco's marble and cherry wood coffee table. "This title is speculative," Tommy stated, gesturing at the pamphlet. Bosco walked over and observed the cover. "Disney World," Bosco read. "This alleged Happiest Place on Earth," Tommy lectured, "was fathomed by a suspected commie. I looked into it and at first the guy seemed clean, but the more research I did, the more I realized what bastard Walt really was. They got this guy for philandering, alcoholism, overworking his employees- hell, he had an obsession with work himself. His woman had to strap him to a chair to get this guy to take a break. Most of all, the guy never gave credit where credit was due. This scumbag even bought out the same people that elevated him to his fame." "Your point being?" Bosco retorted indifferently, "He's human." "The guy had a fucking reputation man, a sideshow of whimsy characters that fed his happy-go-lucky idealistic bullshit to the public. When a man like that starts a company his Jeckyl doesn't die with him. This company's besmirched. The damn Disney cartoons themselves are now strewn with lascivious subliminal messages and images. I wouldn't care if he wasn't such a hypocrite, but this guy's the Hitler of the cartoonist world." Bosco nodded his head, intrigued by Tommy's argument. "So what do you propose?" Tommy shrugged. "Questions need to be answered," Tommy affirmed, "life must be lived. We shall enter this cesspool of hypocrisy and investigate. Of course they'll catch on to us. The bastards always do as organized as they are. Luckily the fact that we're one of a kind should keep the blood-sucking miscreants away for a while. We have individuality on our side, and besides, how will it look on the newspapers if Disney winds up killing of the world's few anthropomorphic animals?" "They wouldn't be so overt about it," Bosco informed Tommy. "It's indubitable that they'll have contacts with the mafia. We'll have some slack when it comes to illegal activities, but we can't push it too far. Discretion and stealth will be absolutely imperative to survive." Tommy nodded his head in agreement with Bosco. "We'll need the drugs for coping and interrogation purposes. They'll talk easier with the right brew. We'll nab any guy we can. The Arabian kid, that Mermaid bitch, they're all in on it. "Don't forget firearms," Bosco suggested, "if things get hardcore, explosives may be the only alternative. A bright flash, a loud boom, a mad dash to the night-colored LaSebring. If we're quick enough they'll think it the work of some Al-Quieda member or some shit. Terror alert is perpetually high nowadays." "A cart of grenades, and a few Magnums," Tommy stated. "Nothing too serious." "Where is the place?" Bosco inquired. "Across the Tampa Bay Bridge and onto Orlando. That electric, steel idol of that depraved mouse's head will let us know we're close." "Jesus," Bosco muttered in disbelief. "What's this world coming to?" Bosco rose up out of his chair. "We pack now and ride tomorrow," Bosco declared. "What type of goods you think this trip will need?" Tommy asked. Bosco cocked his head in excogitation. "Mescaline, cocaine, Maui Waui, Colt 45, mushrooms, opium, sunshine acid, thorazine. Inconspicuous cameras and a tape recorder, the pocket-sized ones. Audio and visuals will be needed for proof in case anyone dares to refute our claims. Compact Discs of Bob Marley, System of a Down, Cinder, Nirvana and Alice in Chains. Jimi Hendrix and Frank Zappa as well. We'll need music for morale you see." Bosco squinted. "Got any ether?" Tommy nodded his head. "We skimp on the Colt 45 then. The ether will provide us with the intoxicating effects of alcohol without the space. We can use that space for sustenance. Slim Jims, Funions, Sun Chips, Grapefruit, ice and eggnog...oh!" Bosco's eyes widened upon the remembrance of another important item. "Catnip as well." Tommy sneered. "Lucky fuck. Only drug specialized for felines and it's good for you. The hell do us wolves have?" "It's called a leg when it's that time of the year," Bosco retorted with a smirk. "Fuck you and not in the fun way," Tommy snapped at Bosco irately. Bosco chuckled. "Let's get started. You can rest us here. After we're done we can partake of eggnog and rum and feast upon T-bone steak. After that, some ganja will be in order of course." "A fine gesture comrade," Tommy replied, "but how the fuck can you drink that queer nog and alcohol shit? One whiff of that swill and it's like Santa's been getting his groove on upon your kitchen table." Bosco tisked. "It's an acquired taste appreciated by those like myself. Just more calcium for me I suppose." Bosco entered his bedroom, rummaged the closet, and procured an orange Jansport backpack, a white and blue Rubbermaid cooler (the shoulder strap type,) and a hefty black MacGregor bag outlined in gray. Tommy supervised and made sure no piece of cargo was neglected. Bosco's clothing consisted of multi-colored Hawaiian shirts and baggy fitting jeans of blue, orange and black. He also grabbed a few cigar boxes full of cash. He believed banks were treacherous. He then acquired the aforementioned narcotics out of a broken slot machine that he had bought from a gypsy in a New Jersey Pawn Shop. The last thing someone expected to get from winning the jackpot was a kilo of ganja, so Bosco felt that this was delightfully covert. Tommy perpetually wore some colored wifebeater and a pair of cut-off jeans. He would not wear anything if it were not for the authorities. Bosco had made sure not to pack while under the influence of narcotics. He learned the hard way last time when he visited Africa and had only a copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, some Tony the Tiger pajamas, and a pack of Andy Capp's Hot Fries. Having gotten the supplies, both Tommy and Bosco stumbled their way to the screen door. Tommy had forgotten that he was inside Bosco's home and knocked upon Bosco's screen door. "OPEN UP DAMNIT!" Tommy commanded. Bosco shook his head in amazement at the sheer mind absence of Tommy. "Maybe it's sound proof," Bosco suggested. Tommy did a double take between the screen door and Bosco's home. "Coast is clear," Tommy announced. Bosco leered at him dubiously. "You can never be too careful," Tommy warned. Without anymore asinine antics, they successfully managed to get the supplies to the trunk of the vehicle. "What's the top speed on this bitch?" Tommy asked. "Fast enough," Bosco quipped. "Try telling that to a crackhead," Tommy said, "they'll be grinning in your face and slicing open your abdomen in a split-second. The talcum-powder- snorting bastards move like a nitrogen injected comet." Bosco unsheathed his claws and grinned maniacally. Tommy smiled sinisterly as well as if to be agreeing with Bosco. "Thank you god for your exclusive offer on ten free pocket knives," Tommy jested. They retired to the house for food and ganja. They made the mistake of smoking first, their minds warping and thought patterns erratic, as if they were entering another dimension. Grinning maniacally with those Chinese eyes, they ran to the counter, ripped open the packages meat feverishly, slapped the slabs of meat on the table...and then proceeded to lightly flavor it with some A1 sauce. "Where's the fucking sangria?" Tommy demanded. Bosco snatched a bottle from the fridge and took two wine glasses from the cabinets. Tommy sneered. "Wine glasses? The fuck do you think this? Italy? Let's just drink it from the bottle." "You tactless bastard," Bosco scoffed, "this is for the mere facilitation of the digestion process and nothing else." Tommy shrugged and tore into his slab of steak hungrily. Bosco replicated this action. Bosco's original plan was to have two glasses of wine, but whenever an alcohol/drug abuser states the amount of substance he or she will intake, you must multiply the amount of intake by the number of years the person has been abusing. This meant that some wacky, wine brewing Frenchman would be chugging his own brew tonight. After a meal, red wine has the tendency to multiply its effect. Where you once drank two glasses, you now feel as if you drank four. This was a similar situation with Tommy and Bosco. Where once the floor seemed like a menial place of sleep, it was the equivalent of a siesta in The Hanging Gardens of Babylon after a half a bottle of sangria and 3 hefty blunts. Had they been women and had PMS, they could have managed to wipe out the entire state of Florida with a few lashings of their tongue and have the Bermuda Triangle run red with blood, but that was just the red wine. "Sweet cream of the gods," Bosco cooed, "oh how I desire such drink along with rum brewed by luscious, voluptuous Puerto Rican women." "You know, Dave Attell theorizes that eggnog is actually elf cum," Tommy said in a garbled voice, "you might as well pour some on you back and slap yourself on the..." "SILENCE YOU SAVAGE!" Bosco bellowed, and then added smugly, "Besides, how do you know it's not female elf cum?" Tommy scratched his chin. "We need some elven women," he stated. Bosco has already stumbled his way back to the fridge and acquired the nog and rum. He swigged some nog, and then some rum, gargled, swallowed, released a sigh of satisfaction and commented, "Mmm, delicious. It's like Lord of the Rings meets Cheech and Chong." Tommy passed on the drinks and then proceeded to pass out. Bosco reclined on his recliner, with rum bottle and nog carton in both hands. He wondered about the adventure tomorrow in this place of whimsy hypocrisy. Was this guy really such a shmuck? Bosco pondered. If so, why the fey characters? Most companies with underground illegitimate operations set up Italian restaurants or a Denny's. Judging by the massive expanse of this park, if it were to have an underground, then it would be no surprise to Bosco to discover thousands of Ethiopian children underground weaving Mickey Mouse ears with a burly, hirsute guy in a leather Disney jacket with a whip, coercing them to slave harder...and reminding them to have bright, cheerful smile in the process. It was time for rest. Bosco could not afford to fret over their future destination. However, once angst over future proceedings occurred, that seed of worry would sprout in a dream. And what a fucked up dream he had. Bosco began to open his eyes gradually. As light poured into them, Bosco grimaced. He was a bit confused when he saw silver, horizontal bars obstructing his view; but perhaps the bars were a blessing because behind the bars stood a massive, blood-colored wooden podium, approximately 50 feet tall and 15 feet wide. Even more odd was that the podium seemed to bend over Bosco, as if to be silently rebuking him like a parent rebuking his child. On top of the podium, was the Walt himself. Walt, however, did not look like a man who could fathom cute, cuddly characters. He did, however, look like he could lead a Nazi regime. This was because Walt was adorned in the attire of Hitler himself, the clothing used in many of his speeches. The only difference was that the patch on his shoulders had a Mickey Mouse head under the Nazi emblem. Walt even had Hitler's moustache. Even more bizarre was that his eyes were red and looked as if to be on fire, staring down at Bosco with depraved intentions. He seemed larger than anything around him, as if he were some sort of animating, Nazi Nephelim. The Mickey Mouse ears he wore on his head made the image of him even more outlandish. His skin was gray, completely incongruent with the surroundings, which too were overwhelming with Nazi vibes. Once Bosco took the time too look around, he realized that he was in a cage just small enough to accommodate him and his colleague Tommy. Tommy was in orange, v- necked, sleeveless prison attire. He looked rather despondent. Bosco noticed he was in the same adornments. He tried to move his extremities, but they had been restrained by steel cuffs and chains locked onto a stool which was bolted to a black, iron floor. He and Tommy would not be going anywhere. This podium was much like that of a court podium, with witness stand on the right and clerk stand on the left. In the clerk stand was Pocahontas in a business suit, giving them a stony glare, fingers ready to translate the witness' claims to markings on paper. It was not just paper however. On the podium was a huge projection screen illuminated by an unseen projector. A blue dot was in the center of it. In the witness stand was the adult Nala, looking cute and innocent with a look you would expect to see on a five year old girl after her red-necked step dad had slapped her silly for not plowing the back 40. Bosco did not like the look of this. He was not sure what they had done wrong, but the words "false allegations" and "I simply want you dead" came to mind. Bosco took to the time to pan over his surroundings. He wish he had not. He was in a colossal dome, with great stone spires supporting the black, iron roof. The spires were decorated with winding torches. But what was most terrifying, was that all the balconies, all the front-row seats, all the benches winding up to the top, were inundated with every Disney character ever made, and all of them were staring at Bosco and Tommy venomously. The Mickey Mouse ears with the Nazi emblem on the audience did not make the sight less tolerable either. The Mickey Mouse club was the figurehead jury, and wore outfits similar to Disney's. "Nala," Disney began with a voice that could have been mistaken for Satan's own, "on the evening of October the Third, what events do you recall?" Upon these words, Pocahontas began typing rapidly. As Disney spoke, (and Bosco presumed anyone that spoke on podium) the words formed upon the projector like some military subliminal message video. The blue dot began jumping fluidly atop of words upon their completion. Nala cleared her throat and said acerbically, "Well, at the time I was busy doing some work for Greenpeace, and I saw these too in the medicinal herb area. They were terrorizing the help and chasing deer with axes. One of them..." Nala began weeping. "One of them chopped off Bambi's head and used it for charades. He had always been my favorite Uno player." Bosco and Tommy of course had done none of these things though he had once procured a flamethrower and tried to burn down the Yellowstone Forest thinking that the Ents from Lord of the Rings had gone bad after a few hits of P.C.P. Suddenly, a 50 foot golden idol of Mickey Mouse appeared before the podium of Disney in a giant puff of smoke. A bunch of swarthy, lean men in leaf loin clothes and bull skulls on their heads were beating on drums. Suddenly, Bosco felt the cage rise before him, and hatchway appeared before the idol of Mickey Mouse. It was a 30-foot pit of magma below them, and Bosco and Tommy found themselves descending into it. The terror was taboo, and the need for a pack of Mentos great. They then heard the terrifying last words of Disney. "MY CHILDREN," Disney announced, his voice reverberating in the great dome, the red and white Nazi Disney curtains flapping from an unfelt wind. "WE CAN NOT TOLERATE THE DEPRAVITY AND REBELLION OF THE MINORITY CARTOONS! ONCE CLEANSED OF THE EARTH, WE WILL WROUGHT FORTH A NEW ORDER!" Disney went through a number of bizarre and rigid gestures while talking. Thank you Hanson, for being such a wonderful, mind-warping asshole and teaching Hitler unnecessary people skills. Disney then gave a zealous Nazi salute. Upon the salute, every Disney character-Goofy, Mickey, Donald Duck, the Seven Dwarfs, all of them, gave a zealous Nazi salute to Disney. Upon this salute, the crowd roared with vehemence, "HEIL DISNEY!" Bosco yelped as he sprung up out of his recliner in a Muy Thai fighting stance, and then wondered where he learned Muy Thai in the first place. He shook his head and yawned. The dream had disturbed him, and he hoped that it had not been some sort of drug-spawned precognition-if drugs were capable of such things anyway. The sun was peeking over the horizon, gradually turning the light blue to a dark orange. The quest for truth, justice, and the pursuit of drugged dementia began. Bosco walked up to the slumbering Tommy, who was snoring rather loudly and leaving a trail of saliva from his maw to Bosco's wooden floor. Bosco grabbed a nearby bottle of rum from off of his cherry wood nightstand and poured the rum into Tommy's mouth. Tommy's eyes sprung open, immediately recognizing the scent and taste of the beverage and with innate talent turned his esophagus into a funnel to accommodate the intoxicating beverage. "Let's go," Bosco chirped. He sauntered out of the house, leaving the screen door open, as he expected Tommy to close it on his way out. Tommy stood up and staggered, hand on head, fumbling his way to the door. He too, neglected to close it. He figured thieves would find this entrance too accessible, and would sense an ambush. Bosco had already made the necessary preparations. The bass was turned up to a deep but not overwhelming setting. The treble just crisp enough to hear every word and guitar rift clearly, the volume just loud enough to permit ambience. Bosco had remembered to jam a bunch of blue ice packs into the cooler, so the nog would still be delicious. The morning was windy, but hinted the hot, sultry weather to come in just a matter of hours. Tommy hopped into the front passenger side with a six-pack of Michelob in his right paw and a black .45 Colt Python in the other. "You're driving, and I'm damn sure going to take full advantage of that fact," Tommy stated, reclining in the leather seating and popping open a Michelob and sighing happily. "Don't rub it in you furry bastard," Bosco snapped, "you're driving on the way back if we manage to survive this precarious escapade." "Of course we'll survive," Tommy assured, "we're on a mission of ethics, and besides, we're anthropomorphic for Christ Sake. No humans could pull this shit off." Bosco titled his head briefly. "Tis true.let us be off." The engine came to life smoothly, a mechanical purring coming to life simultaneously with Alice in Chains' "Sludge Factory" blaring from Boston Acoustic speakers, blending mellifluously in the vehicle as the top of the LaSebring rolled down. "And so it begins," Bosco muttered, pulling out of the parking lot, leaving the complex, and tooling on a residential drag to the freeway to reach a big place called Orlando.
That's all for now folks! Tune in again for more drug-addled dementia with your favorite loveable tiger and wolf! And be sure to bring more booze next time to keep your sanity!