ANIMAL PEOPLE (a satirical short story, in three parts) by M.C. Hansen, Pt I

ANIMAL PEOPLE (a satirical short story, in three parts)
by M.C. Hansen

Pt. I

The bell rang, announcing the impending arrival.
A few minutes later, there was a flash, a violent sense of vertigo, and he was there.
“Bloody ‘ell.”
A pale hand reached out and clutched a nearby rail, steadying unsure legs.
“Nothing like spending fifty million creds to toss your lunch,” Tom groaned, head between legs.
The portation room was egg-shaped, sleek, and ancient iPhone chic. ‘Retro futuristic’ is what they called it. Tom called it rubbish. If they could pop you out anywhere in the world, they ought to be able to make it feel like an orgasm rather than like your guts were being sucked through a straw.
Standing, Tom rubbed a hand across his unsettled stomach and pinched his belly. How repulsive, he must be up to ten percent body fat. It was far past time to go in for some lipo and muscle toning.
“You here for the resort?”
In the recess of a curved doorway stood a lanky gorilla; wild wisps of black hair sprouted from khakis and an embossed pink polo.
“What else? This place is supposed to be amazing.”
“Oui,” said the bloke in the gorilla costume, butchering a fake French accent. “The safaris alone are worth the trip. Our hybrids are superb, and I’m not talking about those tiger-tabby cats or ridiculous arctic fox-dogs or any of the other clumsy pet subspecies combs you see all over the place. Those things are child’s play, apples and apples type stuff. I’m talking about real genetic artistry - apples and oranges, apples and papayas, hell freaking kiwis and kumquats. Mammal and avian amalgamations on par with a Michelangelo masterpiece: majestic, fully realized, and only found here. But that’s not the best part.”
“No?”
“No! The best part is that all of it - from the hotels, to the spas, to the restaurants - are catered to you by the crème de la crème, the true gentry: us animal people.”
“Wait...you’re an animal person?”
“But of course.”
Tom eyed the rubber mask with cutout eyes and painted teeth, forever molded in an open-mouthed simper. Sweat and dirt had twisted the synthetic fur around the throat into a sagging dreadlock necklace, and the oversized latex gloves were frayed and cracked, allowing stubby white fingers to protrude like pupae from a honeycomb.
“What’s with the getup then? Is it some kind of uniform?”
“Excusez! What getup?”
“Ah...right. Sorry, you just looked...so real.”
Larva hands fisted and went to hips.
“You shouldn’t make fun. We animal people have the same feelings as you humans.”
From the day beyond the door bounded in an enormous Great Dane; uncropped ears sailed back behind a tongue-lolling grin. The dog made straight for Tom’s groin and the impact of its blunt muzzle was like getting hit by a softball.
“That’s Maggie,” laughed the gorilla-man.
“Uff…” Tom exhaled, using both hands as a barrier to fend off the boxy head chuffing and sniffing vigorously at his crotch. “She’s...friendly.”
“She’s just excited. It’s been a while since our last guest - all because of those damn new moral maturity and ethical reformation laws. Those ministry bureaucrats claim it’s to protect what’s left of the human population, but they’re not going to take away my inalienable rights. My fetishes and consumerism are protected under the second world constitution!”
Tom nodded, still running defense against the molesting nose. A gentle shove, instead of bringing freedom, only excited the dog more. Her wet rough tongue came out and began to lick; licked and lapped and slobbered.
“Uh, you mentioned a hotel,” said Tom.
“Pardon! Where are my manners? I’m François, your chauffeur.”
“Tom Welch.”
Having had her fill, the Great Dane sat, mouth opened, tail sweeping the floor.
"A pleasure. This way, monsieur."
Tom waited until the driver’s back was to him before wiping his hands against his thighs.
“Your owner’s a little off.”
Maggie cocked her head.
“Oh, you didn’t notice?”
He tousled the dog’s ears.
“Well anyway, thanks for not humping my leg.”
Maggie chuffed.
“Right then, off we go.”
Outside cottony cumulus clouds dappled a baby blue sky. Slow moving, the pod of amorphous sky whales cast rolling shadows on the valley below. Granite peaks poked out above a lush conifer tree-line. The bushy evergreens marked the location as the Canadian Rockies as the American range had long become a globally warmed wasteland.
Tom filled his lungs. The air was crisp and ambrosial.
François took them up the road in a single cast polycarbonate solar paneled golf cart that was as posh and ponderous as a cruise liner.
Excited barking interrupted the tranquil mid-morning calm, and François looked over his shoulder.
"Let it be, Mags."
Ignoring her master, the Great Dane shot into the undergrowth. Tom followed her trajectory and stopped when he saw what she was heading towards.
Among the sentinel aspen and bottom-heavy pines moved four improbably long legs, and above the legs towered an even longer neck. The animal resembled a giraffe, except there were no trademark spots or flattop mane. Instead, short brown fur covered the body and at the chest, a bushy pelt of hair thinned upwards into a throat beard. The head was more rectangular than a giraffe as well, crowned with a massive sweeping rack.
“Bugger me—” breathed Tom, craning his neck. “Is it...is that a hybrid?”
François nodded. “Elk-giraffe.”
With royal grace, the creature glided along, head upturned nibbling choice green shoots. It ignored Maggie’s excited barking and playful heel nips.
“Wicked,” exclaimed Tom, leaving the cobblestone road and blinking rapidly to make sure his contact lens cameras were recording. Squinting and widening his eyes to zoom in and out, he slowed when he was within two meters, snapping off shot after detailed shot.
Chewing a fresh mouthful of leaves, the elk-giraffe lowered its head. A circling jaw kept regular time, while large, intelligent eyes investigated the flaxen-haired curiosity below.
Tom held his breath and uprooted a tuft of budding vegetation. Extending his offering, he inched forward.
How could anyone call this genetically engineered wonder an abomination? François was right; those reformation pricks were ruining the world, though he wasn't about to admit as much to that nutter. What happened to the good old days of progress at any cost, of pushing the envelope, of doing a thing just to see if it could be done, consequences be damn?
A sudden shrill whistle cut through the air. Both the Great Dane and the elk-giraffe looked up. François waved for the dog to come, and Tom used the distraction to step forward.
Heart hammering, he ran a hand along the elk-giraffe’s flank.
At the touch, muscles bunched and flexed, and the twisting knobby six-foot antlers reared up. Piston fast legs bucked out, and there was a pained yelp.
“Maggie!” François screamed.
The elk-giraffe bolted, throwing up clods of dirt and spinning Tom to the ground in a thundering clatter of hooves.
François hurried over to where the dog lay whimpering. Tom sidled up a moment later and sucked in a hissing breath.
“Aw shit mate, I just...I mean, I wasn’t...”
Tangled in a nest of branches and leaves Maggie lay sprawled, her glossy blue-grey coat matted with arterial blood and speckled with dirt. Both rear legs danced spastically, tapping out an anguished jig, while the chest heaved, and one wild eye rolled about seeking relief.
“No, no, no, no, no,” moaned François, kneeling and holding himself. He began to rock in tandem with the incessant denial pouring from his lips.
Tom reached out a hand but hesitated.
“Should I...ah, call someone or something?”
Ignoring the question, François scooped up his friend as delicately as if made of glass. In pain, Maggie bit him. Hard. Blood welled up from under the rubber suit.
“That’s okay girl,” he cooed, standing.
Overhead songbirds sang as desperate feet darted away.
“Fucking great,” Tom sighed.