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Bufalio took a long toke on his hookah and a flowing manifestation of Satan came from his mouth. What was going on here? I'm in the hole for 20 grand and I’m blowing my last dollars having a bowl with this guy? Something has seriously got to be wrong with my life. Not remembering how I had met Bufalio might seem problematic.. but actually it gives you a cozy feeling... in a way that if I wake up one morning with him gone, I wouldn't remember his leave either. So he looks over at me and passes the pipe, I drown my miserable life in the toxic smoke and quickly fall into sleep beside my childhood beanbag chair.

As I drifted into the abyss that was my night, I thought of what had happened. I knew it had to have all started somewhere on the outskirts of Manhattan... I had been eager for cash and my ethics were a bit misplaced to say the least. For the past few months I had been a drug runner for the local cartel, hustling kids and setting prices, the usual. But here was my chance to take a big piece of the pie for myself, so when the mob came to me, I was all over them. You could say I'd gotten into one hell of a drug deal. You see, the man they sent to my doorstep that night, which was one hell of an inner city flat I tell you, I didn't have the slightest idea who he was. I later found out he was the "Kite" that little gangsters heard about in fairytells and had nightmares about. But as far as I could se he was some half-assed Mr. Smith wannabe in a black coat. Anyway I open the door thinking its someone trying to get a quick fix since my name had been thrown around loosely in the drug ring these days. And before I can say hello the guy has me on my back with a desert eagle to my face. I could barely take my eyes off of the barrel, the freshly shined metal and Russian engravings. When I glanced up at his face he was looking the apartment up and down. He let me up and dusted my shoulders off... mind you all I could do was stand there and try not to piss all over his shoes. I mean sure, ive seen a few things in my time, but this guy had the look of a trained killer and I had no idea why he was even here. Almost reading my mind he flipped out a card and told me he was here to discuss a business venture from way up. He worked for my boss, which only made me wonder how much shit I must be in, and he explained that moving in from the east were a few tankers that he would need me to set up a raiding party for. The cargo was some fine cut shit straight from Columbia, and the big man had to have it. This goateed man in front of me once again reaches into his coat, this time he bring out a piece of paper with the address of a guns depot and enough cash to supply a small team of special ops. The mission was clear... for some odd reason I had been selected to try and find a group of kids to train rob this boat or whatever. And almighty fuck did I pick one devilish crew.

Drugs. Intoxicants, stimulants, sedatives, opiates, depressants, and really any sort of "narcotics"; Bufalio was all them and more. He was very simple to categorize, he was a druggie. Anything you would throw at him he would eat up in seconds. Now, being his friend doesn't automatically make me a druggie, as most no brained Reagan’s would expect. But it gives me quite the array of goodies to pick from when I wish to sell and trade with the locals. But moving on to this whole mafia style hit squad I had to put together, it seems everyone I found was a true character. First on the list of recruits was an old friend. Foller. Foller was a tech guru or sorts, the jack-of-all-trades in the computer world. When he was in high school Foller wasn't the kind of nerd you saw talking about his level 27 half-orc cleric D&D character, he was on the soccer team transiting through every social group and breaking the rules of cool vs. weird. He was into industrial music and the gothic scene, but he wore American Eagle and went to every party there was. I remember this because he was one of the only kids I could have an intelligent conversation with... anyway this is getting off subject. In order to find Foller, me and my now sidekick like Bufalio had to travel to Pittsburgh, the home to the one thing I knew he wouldn't pass up. Anthrocon.

The 6-hour drive to Pittsburgh was, in a nutshell, the hardest trip ive ever made. Bufalio insisted we make it there with a belly full of liquor and a lung or two chock-full of smoke. Ever hotboxed your bedroom when you were a kid? Yeah, I couldn't se past the fucking wheel. Blaring through the speakers of my purple demon was a true mix of every stoner tune you could ever ask for. Wizard of the hood? Got it, same with Darude and The Dust Brothers. It was hard enough driving nonstop for so long, but the worst part of it was that we had to roll a new blunt every few minutes. We dared not stop for fear of the smoke escaping our car. One of the weird things you notice driving on the main highway, people don’t know how to fucking drive! If I try and pass someone, they speed up and act like a hardass. When you manage to get on the left lane and it’s your turn to pull a 140 mph speed trip, every faggot in front of you decides to slow down and smell the smog. And by god that one fucker who took it on their part to cut me off? Heh, a glass pint of Vodka cleared the hell out of his windshield in a second. Anyway, with Satan on our side we made it into town.

Deep mental thought is easy to fake, and I was doing just that. While Bufalio is grabbing every free one shot cosmetic from our hotel room, I’m sitting Cherokee style on the dining room table. I would like to call it meditation, but it’s more or less me having a cigarette trying to escape my problems. Here's the setup. Were at Anthrocon, ive spotted Foller, and now I get to think up a way to make him follow my lead. Lets run and equipment check shall we? Kevlar-sewn leather hoodie, tomahawk tied to my back, baggy pants... complete with cargo pockets filled with the essentials; weed, cigarettes, and lighters. Farther down weve got a prison shiv against my calf and what looks like a harmless pair of sneakers, if you don’t mind the steel plating and all. I take the last drag on the `ol Marlboro and toss it. When I open my eyes Bufalio is mixing egg whites and hair gell... the guys got dreadlocks from hell and he still isn't satisfied. Now were both just wasting away in this hotel room waiting for the other to come up with some smash hit idea to start the conversation with Foller. The buzzing noise from the room's industrial fan was starting to give me a headache, so I decided to break the silence. "Fuck it. If were gonna get him we might as well be spontaneous right?" Bufalio looks up from his joint rolling just in time to catch me lighting a Green Label Salem, menthol.

Holy shit, we should not be this high... well Bufalio looks like he's feelin all right, but he’s always got one thing or another swimming in his veins. "The hell was in that joint man, Heroin?" Bufalio's white teeth grin seems exceedingly ecstatic, "Maybe, it was a mix made by yours truly. Including everything from paint chips to crystal meth... I’m surprised it even lit." I would now like to emphasize how bad of an idea it is to be tripping at a furry convention. Everywhere you look there’s either an anime-crazed fool in his thirties or a person of questionable mental health prancing around in a fursuit. Now, the thing that messes with you isn't how realistic these suits look or how the furs are acting exactly how their fursona would, nor is it the immense size of the convention center. The true reason we were scared of walking through this Technicolor dreamland of animals and art, was the variety. Turn in any direction and you will se someone new, something exciting and different. I look ahead to the giant disco ball reflecting laser lights and techno rave music in front of me, I look to my left to catch a glimpse of a man chasing his pet ferret across the maze of couches and vending machines. Then I look to my right and realize ive lost Bufalio.

Bufalio was in a stride. Not a tough stuff stride like the 1950's fat cats, this shit was prehistoric. Every stomp a bold statement and mating call to the surrounding furs. He was an intergalactic stegosaurus on the prowl. Ahead of him was a door marked 421. Now, he thought, would be a good time to take the rest of the shrooms he has been saving for the trip home. As he lifted the bag from his cargo pocket, at least a gram or two of those mind altering little dudes toppled to the carpet. Bufalio wanted so much to retrieve his lost comrades but when his mind told his body to bend, the following reaction was more of a backward swan dive into nuclear fallout. Caps stems and all other mushroomy things flew from the bag, most finding their way down his gullet. He knew he had been hit hard, but by whom? What kind of monster would ruin a perfectly good day of drugs and furries? Looking over his knees he saw the only logical thing his mind could render. A playful polar bear dawning a rainbow collar was munchin down on what remained of Bufalio's stash.

Tapes are rolling, lenses focused, and Foller is ready to go. Moving through the throng of passersby, Foller is already connected to his target’s wireless network. In recent years Foller had run into a sort of dead end, a firewall in his career, so he’s been picking up odd jobs as an “objective hacker”. The job is simple, he needs to find the target, find out where he keeps his personal info (or anything else the client wanted), and retrieve it. For this client he is just doing a sweep and go technique. In other words, he is accessing his victim’s hard drive and sucking up any kind of important passwords, chat logs, and personal information. Other jobs have been harder though, having to completely trash a person’s operating system, retrieve specific files, make copies and above all else make sure none of it was traceable. On top of destroying someone’s electronic livelihood, Foller offered a wide variety of media leverage to sell to whomever wanted it. Equipped on his person was what any techno geek would die for. Within intricately designed webbing he carried a micro media center, where he could process the ongoing feed of the multiple web cams and microphones he was wearing in his clothing. This was by far the better moneymaker, because people usually relished in the fact that they could catch, on video, their enemies, spouses, or just about anyone else. Foller finished downloading the unlucky fellow’s files and saved a cache to be sent to the client. The job wasn’t the main reason he was at AC though; he was here for the love of the fandom. It had been his dream to make a compilation video of the community, not like the propaganda the news media throws at everyone. He wanted to capture the lifeblood of his people and share it with them, and what was looking back at him through his viewfinder was a prime example.

Killer very much enjoyed being a polar bear. His owner was a kind man, and he liked meeting new people. Killer could eat whenever he wanted. Today had been a smorgasbord of fun, all these nice people petting and feeding him. Killer smelt another tasty food right now, and he went between the legs of his next charitable friend. In front of him was this man, he was smelly and had icky hair, but Killer ate his food anyway. Killer looked up and licked the man’s face. This silly man backed off and said silly things to Killer, so Killer thought it would be fun to play with him. Killer let out a roar louder than he intended, and hugged the man. He saw another man looking at him, with some sort of weird glass eyes, but Killer was having fun and didn’t feel like stopping just yet. The man under Killer was starting to play rough, and Killer didn’t feel too good all of a sudden. Killer looked at the man’s hair and was surprised to see glaciers of ice, he felt dizzy and wanted to lie down. As Killer took his rest and rolled away from the man, he felt him nuzzle against his warm belly. As Killer drifted into a dream more colorful than he had ever experienced, Bufalio yawned and petted his new friend.

- next arc i'm not exactly sure where to put in current story

There was a man on our list who I wished we would never have to call. We added Condit to the bottom of the page, thinking of him as a last resort. Back when I first got out of high school I went into an army reserves program. Condit was a good kid, through some scheduling fuck up in military school he was assigned to the same unit with me. We were learning the basics of shooting and survival, I met a few friends and got pretty tight with my squad before I opted out and started my drug career. But the big story behind Condit’s ruined life was one weekend service in Saudi Arabia. We were being cycled through as a guard service for oil conglomerates and wealthy Arab noblemen. They might as well of called us mercenaries, the whole “no man left behind” thing went out the window as soon as Condit got picked up by some renegades. One of our patrols turned into a skirmish, we had to lead our rich employers to safety and Condit took point. As things started to happen, things got blurry, it was hard to keep track of what was going on… and somehow Condit had been left at the mercy of our attackers. When we returned to the US Condit was assumed dead. I quickly hung up my rifle and called it quits. Little did I know that exactly 16 months later I would receive a package in the mail from him. It contained his honorable discharge and his new address, Whistling Chimes Mental Institution. Apparently when we had thought him dead, the terrorists had kept him. Thinking they could ransom him or sell him to the highest bidder. All the time in their “care” must have conditioned him something mighty, because at his first chance he paid them back tenfold. The letter from the package in my hands explained that a backwater outpost picked up an SOS deep in the desert dunes. When they came to investigate all they found was Condit coated with blood, standing atop the remains of his prison and his captors. The boy had gone from a teenager to a seasoned killer too quick. He has been lost in his own mind ever since… I’ve met up with him a few times, to either talk at the Hospital or take him out to a bar, but he has never been the same. He is the most paranoid person I know, as well as being extremely lethal.

Description
Bufalio took a long toke on his hookah and a flowing manifestation of Satan came from his mouth. What was going on here? I'm in the hole for 20 grand and I’m blowing my last dollars having a bowl with this guy? Something has seriously got to be wrong with my life. Not remembering how I had met Bufalio might seem problematic.. but actually it gives you a cozy feeling... in a way that if I wake up one morning with him gone, I wouldn't remember his leave either. So he looks over at me and passes the pipe, I drown my miserable life in the toxic smoke and quickly fall into sleep beside my childhood beanbag chair.

As I drifted into the abyss that was my night, I thought of what had happened. I knew it had to have all started somewhere on the outskirts of Manhattan... I had been eager for cash and my ethics were a bit misplaced to say the least. For the past few months I had been a drug runner for the local cartel, hustling kids and setting prices, the usual. But here was my chance to take a big piece of the pie for myself, so when the mob came to me, I was all over them. You could say I'd gotten into one hell of a drug deal. You see, the man they sent to my doorstep that night, which was one hell of an inner city flat I tell you, I didn't have the slightest idea who he was. I later found out he was the "Kite" that little gangsters heard about in fairytells and had nightmares about. But as far as I could se he was some half-assed Mr. Smith wannabe in a black coat. Anyway I open the door thinking its someone trying to get a quick fix since my name had been thrown around loosely in the drug ring these days. And before I can say hello the guy has me on my back with a desert eagle to my face. I could barely take my eyes off of the barrel, the freshly shined metal and Russian engravings. When I glanced up at his face he was looking the apartment up and down. He let me up and dusted my shoulders off... mind you all I could do was stand there and try not to piss all over his shoes. I mean sure, ive seen a few things in my time, but this guy had the look of a trained killer and I had no idea why he was even here. Almost reading my mind he flipped out a card and told me he was here to discuss a business venture from way up. He worked for my boss, which only made me wonder how much shit I must be in, and he explained that moving in from the east were a few tankers that he would need me to set up a raiding party for. The cargo was some fine cut shit straight from Columbia, and the big man had to have it. This goateed man in front of me once again reaches into his coat, this time he bring out a piece of paper with the address of a guns depot and enough cash to supply a small team of special ops. The mission was clear... for some odd reason I had been selected to try and find a group of kids to train rob this boat or whatever. And almighty fuck did I pick one devilish crew.

Drugs. Intoxicants, stimulants, sedatives, opiates, depressants, and really any sort of "narcotics"; Bufalio was all them and more. He was very simple to categorize, he was a druggie. Anything you would throw at him he would eat up in seconds. Now, being his friend doesn't automatically make me a druggie, as most no brained Reagan’s would expect. But it gives me quite the array of goodies to pick from when I wish to sell and trade with the locals. But moving on to this whole mafia style hit squad I had to put together, it seems everyone I found was a true character. First on the list of recruits was an old friend. Foller. Foller was a tech guru or sorts, the jack-of-all-trades in the computer world. When he was in high school Foller wasn't the kind of nerd you saw talking about his level 27 half-orc cleric D&D character, he was on the soccer team transiting through every social group and breaking the rules of cool vs. weird. He was into industrial music and the gothic scene, but he wore American Eagle and went to every party there was. I remember this because he was one of the only kids I could have an intelligent conversation with... anyway this is getting off subject. In order to find Foller, me and my now sidekick like Bufalio had to travel to Pittsburgh, the home to the one thing I knew he wouldn't pass up. Anthrocon.

The 6-hour drive to Pittsburgh was, in a nutshell, the hardest trip ive ever made. Bufalio insisted we make it there with a belly full of liquor and a lung or two chock-full of smoke. Ever hotboxed your bedroom when you were a kid? Yeah, I couldn't se past the fucking wheel. Blaring through the speakers of my purple demon was a true mix of every stoner tune you could ever ask for. Wizard of the hood? Got it, same with Darude and The Dust Brothers. It was hard enough driving nonstop for so long, but the worst part of it was that we had to roll a new blunt every few minutes. We dared not stop for fear of the smoke escaping our car. One of the weird things you notice driving on the main highway, people don’t know how to fucking drive! If I try and pass someone, they speed up and act like a hardass. When you manage to get on the left lane and it’s your turn to pull a 140 mph speed trip, every faggot in front of you decides to slow down and smell the smog. And by god that one fucker who took it on their part to cut me off? Heh, a glass pint of Vodka cleared the hell out of his windshield in a second. Anyway, with Satan on our side we made it into town.

Deep mental thought is easy to fake, and I was doing just that. While Bufalio is grabbing every free one shot cosmetic from our hotel room, I’m sitting Cherokee style on the dining room table. I would like to call it meditation, but it’s more or less me having a cigarette trying to escape my problems. Here's the setup. Were at Anthrocon, ive spotted Foller, and now I get to think up a way to make him follow my lead. Lets run and equipment check shall we? Kevlar-sewn leather hoodie, tomahawk tied to my back, baggy pants... complete with cargo pockets filled with the essentials; weed, cigarettes, and lighters. Farther down weve got a prison shiv against my calf and what looks like a harmless pair of sneakers, if you don’t mind the steel plating and all. I take the last drag on the `ol Marlboro and toss it. When I open my eyes Bufalio is mixing egg whites and hair gell... the guys got dreadlocks from hell and he still isn't satisfied. Now were both just wasting away in this hotel room waiting for the other to come up with some smash hit idea to start the conversation with Foller. The buzzing noise from the room's industrial fan was starting to give me a headache, so I decided to break the silence. "Fuck it. If were gonna get him we might as well be spontaneous right?" Bufalio looks up from his joint rolling just in time to catch me lighting a Green Label Salem, menthol.

Holy shit, we should not be this high... well Bufalio looks like he's feelin all right, but he’s always got one thing or another swimming in his veins. "The hell was in that joint man, Heroin?" Bufalio's white teeth grin seems exceedingly ecstatic, "Maybe, it was a mix made by yours truly. Including everything from paint chips to crystal meth... I’m surprised it even lit." I would now like to emphasize how bad of an idea it is to be tripping at a furry convention. Everywhere you look there’s either an anime-crazed fool in his thirties or a person of questionable mental health prancing around in a fursuit. Now, the thing that messes with you isn't how realistic these suits look or how the furs are acting exactly how their fursona would, nor is it the immense size of the convention center. The true reason we were scared of walking through this Technicolor dreamland of animals and art, was the variety. Turn in any direction and you will se someone new, something exciting and different. I look ahead to the giant disco ball reflecting laser lights and techno rave music in front of me, I look to my left to catch a glimpse of a man chasing his pet ferret across the maze of couches and vending machines. Then I look to my right and realize ive lost Bufalio.

Bufalio was in a stride. Not a tough stuff stride like the 1950's fat cats, this shit was prehistoric. Every stomp a bold statement and mating call to the surrounding furs. He was an intergalactic stegosaurus on the prowl. Ahead of him was a door marked 421. Now, he thought, would be a good time to take the rest of the shrooms he has been saving for the trip home. As he lifted the bag from his cargo pocket, at least a gram or two of those mind altering little dudes toppled to the carpet. Bufalio wanted so much to retrieve his lost comrades but when his mind told his body to bend, the following reaction was more of a backward swan dive into nuclear fallout. Caps stems and all other mushroomy things flew from the bag, most finding their way down his gullet. He knew he had been hit hard, but by whom? What kind of monster would ruin a perfectly good day of drugs and furries? Looking over his knees he saw the only logical thing his mind could render. A playful polar bear dawning a rainbow collar was munchin down on what remained of Bufalio's stash.

Tapes are rolling, lenses focused, and Foller is ready to go. Moving through the throng of passersby, Foller is already connected to his target’s wireless network. In recent years Foller had run into a sort of dead end, a firewall in his career, so he’s been picking up odd jobs as an “objective hacker”. The job is simple, he needs to find the target, find out where he keeps his personal info (or anything else the client wanted), and retrieve it. For this client he is just doing a sweep and go technique. In other words, he is accessing his victim’s hard drive and sucking up any kind of important passwords, chat logs, and personal information. Other jobs have been harder though, having to completely trash a person’s operating system, retrieve specific files, make copies and above all else make sure none of it was traceable. On top of destroying someone’s electronic livelihood, Foller offered a wide variety of media leverage to sell to whomever wanted it. Equipped on his person was what any techno geek would die for. Within intricately designed webbing he carried a micro media center, where he could process the ongoing feed of the multiple web cams and microphones he was wearing in his clothing. This was by far the better moneymaker, because people usually relished in the fact that they could catch, on video, their enemies, spouses, or just about anyone else. Foller finished downloading the unlucky fellow’s files and saved a cache to be sent to the client. The job wasn’t the main reason he was at AC though; he was here for the love of the fandom. It had been his dream to make a compilation video of the community, not like the propaganda the news media throws at everyone. He wanted to capture the lifeblood of his people and share it with them, and what was looking back at him through his viewfinder was a prime example.

Killer very much enjoyed being a polar bear. His owner was a kind man, and he liked meeting new people. Killer could eat whenever he wanted. Today had been a smorgasbord of fun, all these nice people petting and feeding him. Killer smelt another tasty food right now, and he went between the legs of his next charitable friend. In front of him was this man, he was smelly and had icky hair, but Killer ate his food anyway. Killer looked up and licked the man’s face. This silly man backed off and said silly things to Killer, so Killer thought it would be fun to play with him. Killer let out a roar louder than he intended, and hugged the man. He saw another man looking at him, with some sort of weird glass eyes, but Killer was having fun and didn’t feel like stopping just yet. The man under Killer was starting to play rough, and Killer didn’t feel too good all of a sudden. Killer looked at the man’s hair and was surprised to see glaciers of ice, he felt dizzy and wanted to lie down. As Killer took his rest and rolled away from the man, he felt him nuzzle against his warm belly. As Killer drifted into a dream more colorful than he had ever experienced, Bufalio yawned and petted his new friend.

- next arc i'm not exactly sure where to put in current story

There was a man on our list who I wished we would never have to call. We added Condit to the bottom of the page, thinking of him as a last resort. Back when I first got out of high school I went into an army reserves program. Condit was a good kid, through some scheduling fuck up in military school he was assigned to the same unit with me. We were learning the basics of shooting and survival, I met a few friends and got pretty tight with my squad before I opted out and started my drug career. But the big story behind Condit’s ruined life was one weekend service in Saudi Arabia. We were being cycled through as a guard service for oil conglomerates and wealthy Arab noblemen. They might as well of called us mercenaries, the whole “no man left behind” thing went out the window as soon as Condit got picked up by some renegades. One of our patrols turned into a skirmish, we had to lead our rich employers to safety and Condit took point. As things started to happen, things got blurry, it was hard to keep track of what was going on… and somehow Condit had been left at the mercy of our attackers. When we returned to the US Condit was assumed dead. I quickly hung up my rifle and called it quits. Little did I know that exactly 16 months later I would receive a package in the mail from him. It contained his honorable discharge and his new address, Whistling Chimes Mental Institution. Apparently when we had thought him dead, the terrorists had kept him. Thinking they could ransom him or sell him to the highest bidder. All the time in their “care” must have conditioned him something mighty, because at his first chance he paid them back tenfold. The letter from the package in my hands explained that a backwater outpost picked up an SOS deep in the desert dunes. When they came to investigate all they found was Condit coated with blood, standing atop the remains of his prison and his captors. The boy had gone from a teenager to a seasoned killer too quick. He has been lost in his own mind ever since… I’ve met up with him a few times, to either talk at the Hospital or take him out to a bar, but he has never been the same. He is the most paranoid person I know, as well as being extremely lethal.