FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Taiz, Yemen. February, 2019

"Why don't we talk about something pleasant? How about...iced mint tea?"

The crackling voice came from a simple speaker on a gray concrete wall. Abdul Aziz struggled against the leather straps that held him fastened to a stout metal chair. He was alone in, what looked like a crude military bunker with only a solitary light bulb dangling from the ceiling to keep him company. He could tell the voice was that of a fellow Yemenite, but this one spoke with an urban tone. Possibly someone from Sa'ana. Next to the speaker, a heavy metal door marked the only exit from the room. Abdul had been a desert warrior for long enough to know it would be locked from the outside, and solid enough to withstand the impact of a mortar shell.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "I want to know who I'm talking to."

"You are Abdul Aziz Ibn Hassan of the Pustua tribe?"

Abdul snorted in disdain.

"We found you sleeping in a bedouin tent in Al-Mahra."

"So? Since when did it become haram to take a nap?"

"The bedouins in the camp were found dead. Did you kill all of them?"

The voice sounded surprised, emphasizing the word "all".

"Rot your ears, Kafir," cursed Abdul. "I'm done talking to you."

Suddenly, a ringing sound, annoying at first, then distinctly painful, seemed to envelop him. His body went numb, and he had trouble controlling the movement of his legs and his fingers. The noise filling his head was like that of an immense swarm of cicadas with shrieking metal tymbals, or an army of locomotives grinding to a halt.

I'm being tortured, Abdul realized. Tortured from a distance with uncertain means.

Throughout history the mere threat of torture is usually enough to make normal people cooperate or confess to anyone, about anything. We fear the agony, the screaming, the uncertainty of what implements come next. But Abdul Aziz was no ordinary soldier. He felt no fear. Anger, perhaps. Resentment for sure, and hatred for his capturers, whoever they were. But not fear. They could be the Saudi-led coalition or maybe Houti rebels. In either case, he had something valuable they wanted, and he was not going to give them anything.

"Torture has no effect on me," he said. "You are wasting your time, infidel."

"Don't worry," said the voice coming from the speaker. "The discomfort will last for only a moment."

He was right. After a few seconds, the searing pain had subsided into a mild throb. The wall of sound still sounded like a choir of Yoko Ono's warbling at the top of their lungs. Abdul felt something popping in his head, as if two grapes had split, and something sticky ran down his cheeks.

"I think there is something wrong with my eyes," he said.

"That's OK," said the voice reconfirming. "You don't need eyes."

"No?"

"Oh no...not at all."

"There's a place in the Al-Mahra desert, called Barhout," said the voice from the speaker. "What can you tell me about it?"

Abdul nodded. Uncaring, unafraid. He didn't care anymore.

"Barhout? That's where the demons live."

"Have you... seen the demons?"

Abdul giggled. "I swore not to tell."

"Aww, please...?"

"Can you repeat that question?

For some reason, only Abdul's right ear seemed to be working. The left one was all muffled and sticky. The voice from the speaker repeated the question, this time very loud and clear."

"Oh! I have seen them, alright" replied Abdul. "The snakes of haawiyah. Leviathan, Behemoth, Beelzebul..."

"And you led them to the bedouin camp?"

"The tribe asked to see the gods, so I opened the doorway, and the demons embraced the tribe and thanked me for bringing them such a generous sacrifice."

"The demons killed the bedouins, while you napped in the tent? "

"I was sleepy," answered Abdul. "Summoning demons is hard work." Now his tongue had swollen to the size of a hockey puck, and his voice was little more than a gurgling noise.

"Baalzebul did most of the slaughter with his claws and talons. Behemoth set the others alight with his breath. The burning bedouins danced like screaming torches, and when the flames died out, Leviathan carried the still living back to Haawiyah. They flailed their arms and the air was thick with their howls, but demons know no mercy."

"But... why? How had the bedouins wronged you to deserve this?"

This time, the voice was that of an American. Unlike the first unseen person, this one sounded to be in discomfort. Maybe he was scared.

"They were of the Al-Hajjaj tribe," spat Abdul. "Unclean people. There's no room for the unclean in paradise. So, I pulled a trick on them."

"The doorway? Can you describe the... doorway to me?" Asked he first voice.

"Dark... Darker than darkness itself. And burning with purple flames. But it's cold. So cold. "

"Can you tell us about the prayer?"

"Prayer?"

"The words, the secret incantation you use to summon the... gods?"

Abdul laughed. At first, it was only a slight giggle. Then it grew into a hearty laugh that grew in intensity and volume until the building shook with thunderous laughter.

"You will find no God in the abyss," Abdul roared, his voice no longer that of a human. "Only hunger. But you will pray. Oh, you will drop to your knees and pray for your death to come swiftly."

"Turn it off," he heard the American voice argue. "Turn that da..." The speaker crackled and the creature inside Abdul knew his unseen capturers had switched the PA off, while they were having a heated argument among themselves.

"Why don't we talk about something pleasant?", roared the creature that had once been Abdul Aziz Ibn Hassan of the Pustua tribe. Its voice too deafening, too penetrating to need wall-mounted speakers. Too roaring to be human.

"How about...iced mint TEA!"

But the pulsating microwaves had blinded its eyes, deafened its ears, and turned Abdul's brain into an unrecognizable, useless mush.

This host has served its purpose, thought the creature and left its temporary home like a whisp of smoke. Abdul's broken body slumped back into the seat, like a marionette puppet with its strings cut.

In a sparsely furnished office behind the green metal door, a tall, military clad man by the name of Izzat al-Selim switched off the microwave generator, and the buzzing sound came to a stop.

"Still too inefficient," he sighed. "Microwave technology is okay for interrogation, but too large and too bulky for field work."

Next to him, US marine officer Ted Warner shook a cigarette from its pack. His hands were trembling and his pulse beat much too fast. He felt the blood throbbing in his ears; a tell-tale sign of blood pressure going nuclear. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his uniform.

"Holy shit!" he gasped. "What just happened in there?"

"Oh, he was possessed by a demon," replied al-Selim absent minded, before continuing.

"Your people was this close to obtaining a far superior technology, but you let it slip through your fingers... like desert sand."

"A deeymon?" The slight drawl betrayed his Lafayette origins. Sure he knew about demons. He'd read the bible, and he'd been to New Orleans. He'd even visited the tomb of Marie Laveau for shits and giggles. But deep inside he'd always dismissed all things voodoo and demonic as nothing but fanciful Creole tales.

Good ol' Southern gumbo jumbo, he'd joke.

Now he wasn't so sure, anymore.

"First the war, then the clash between the desert tribes, and now... demons?"

"You are afraid?" Asked Izzad Al-selim.

"Demons don't exist," insisted Ted Warner. "They can't exist. I don't want to fight supernatural beings."

"How American of you," said Al-selim with some amusement. "You Americans only believe what you see with your own eyes. My people have told stories about the demons for thousands of years. We don't need to see them to know they are for real. And with their help, our country shall rise again from the ashes like the Bennu. Alive and flaming."

The words could have been those of a madman, a lunatic dictator out of touch with reality. But Izzat Al-Selim was no madman. He was a warrior and a good one at that, but he and his troops wanted results. Fast, efficient and with little concern about the cost. Whether monetary or human casualty. In many ways he reminded Ted Warner of the MI-16 from back home.

"Damn straight, I'm afraid."

Al-selim patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.

"Don't worry about fear, my friend. Fear is a disease of the mind, that makes you weak. It spreads like the flu, but for every malady, there is a cure."

"A cure for fear?" Asked Ted Warner.

"I swear on your life," replied Izzat Al-Selim.

---

Oakfort, USA. April, 2019

The Phantom Cat Jazzclub is one of the oldest and most popular nightclubs in Oakfort. I'm not just saying that because I know the owner, but it has a long and proud history under changing ownership. The current owner, Jesse Juliano has kept the tradition going by hiring solid names and predicting what musicians play well together. The place seats two hundred guests, but it packs a hundred more when the fire inspector turns the blind eye. Oh, he used to be strict on safety regulations, but Irene Sapere, singer and main attraction of the place had a quiet word with him, and he's been supportive ever since.

Irene joined the Phantom Cat six years ago. Blessed with a great voice and a seductive charm, the place has seen little trouble since she set foot on the stage.

Until tonight, that is.

One hour ago, six years worth of trouble came crashing down, and half past midnight the Phantom Cat had turned from a quiet candle-lit hipster hangout, into a blood-soaked slaughter house.

The cold corpse of Jesse Juliano lay in his office, Irene Sapere was in her room upstairs with a bullet in her chest, and the government MI-16 agent who had been sent to kill them, was on the floor of the nightclub. He too was dying, but unlike his two victims, this agent had not been shot. He had been ripped to pieces and left to bleed out on the floor, at the massive paws of a vaguely feline demon.

My name is Daniel Kent. I'm 23 years old, born and raised here in Oakfort.

And that demon, was me.

---