Destined Fur More

Irony: Opposite Of My Low Expectations In Life

"Jesus…" I sputtered, recovering from my fresh change. "If you're up there, please, KILL ME."

No matter what I was, I lost. If I was Fisher, I was freezing my naked ass off in the snow, and if I wasn't Fisher –I was beginning to have inklings that maybe I was the leopard in the mirror—well, I wasn't Fisher and scared the shit out of myself. I mean, come on, I had fucking DAGGERS implanted in my feet. It's bad enough I have a brain, let alone face-breaking tools of death.

My jaw was chattering away in futile attempts to warm myself up. Then came the cramping and I wanted to scream in frustration. It's like my body couldn't decide if it wanted to be its proper, hideous form or the twisted, mangled body that gave me warmth. It's not like I had any say in the matter, it's not like it was my body changing. Once again, my skin melted and re-shaped itself in whatever the fuck it wanted to.

I would have sighed, but I was incapable of such gifts when in this form. I'd nearly accepted the fact that maybe I was a psychomaniac freak and my entire existence was lie, like that movie…Shutter Island? Yeah, like that. And everyone is just playing alone with my crazy inner-workings to "help" me. There really was no other explanation. Graham was probably just in on it, trying to convince me I was a shape-shifter.

Come on, folks, I may have been born yesterday, but not this morning.

Finally, I was fully shifted. I stretched out my Daggers of Doom, still freaking myself out at the sight of them. Humans are just naturally nervous when they see shit like this. It's the kind of stuff you heard about in movies. Well, I guess not.

Unless I was in Punk'd. I heard they were bringing that back. Maybe I was their season premier: 'That Episode Where We Convince That Fat Chick She's A Cat'. Has a certain ring to it, doesn't' it? And if I was, I would personally slaughter every single being involved, including the doughnut guy, with my Fangs of Fear. Yeah, I had those, too. Along with FOUR FEET OF EXTRA TAILBONE.

Trust me, these Punk'd people are pretty legit.

I now know why dogs so avidly chase their tale: it's shitting annoying to have one. I paced through the trees with the unsettling sight of my tail trailing behind me. It's like all those movies where the heroine has someone constantly stalking them from behind and every time she turns around, they totally hide. Except it was attached to me. Every single time I saw it swaying behind me, I jumped. If that was even possible for something like me. Fun shit, right?

WRONG.

I growled, finding it to be much more intimidating than my usual grumble of disapproval. Yes, I scared myself when I tried to talk, too. It came out as the intelligible jumble of "grwwmbbleprrhrrral" or like a saw on wood. My ears twitched, acutely aware of every living thing within three miles. That, too, was fiercely annoying.

My form didn't seem to want to melt away, so I decided that finding the instigator of this whole mental-breakdown was the best idea. I stood very still, trying as hard as I could to find some kind of cynical mutterings of the infamous Graham Cracker or his bear, Quentin. I didn't hear anything from either of them, but hear the distinct rumble of car engines.

I bolted towards them, eager to get back to a building with clothing. My legs were strong; much faster than any person I knew. Avoiding trees was amazingly like second-nature to my sharp eyes, weaving through each pole of wood before slamming into it while pushing fifty. I arrived at the road in three minutes, though I was sure it was a good two miles away from where I'd been. I can't say I didn't like the power, It felt wonderful after seventeen years of not being able to climb a flight of stairs without panting and near cardiac-arrest.