March 23rd, 2018 - Part 2: Samwell Parker, age 21

     Samwell smiled genuinely for the first time in a long time.
     “We don’t carry mezcal and you know that, Theodore!” Greg shouted this from the opposite end of the bar without missing a beat.
     “Can’t you just grab a mealworm from the vending machine and pretend?”
     “We don’t have a vending machine, either.”
     “Whatever happened to customer service?”
     Greg flashed Ted the middle finger without even looking up from wiping down the bar. Ted laughed and turned back to Sam.
     “Well, there goes that idea. What do you say to some good old fashioned Jägermeister?”
     “God, I hate that shit.” Sammy thought for a moment. “Let’s do it.”
     Ted chuckled and said, “That’s the spirit.”
     “Actually, I think Jäger is technically a liqueur.”
     “Wow, sorry, wise guy,” Teddy’s tone and smirk implied he enjoyed the fox’s jest rather than took offense. “Hey, Greggy-boy,” he called out.
     “Yeah, yeah, I heard your loud ass from all the way over here,” Greg replied, the Jäger already in his hand. The rodent returned with two shots of the foul-tasting liquid, and set them down. When he turned around to his register, Samwell spoke up.
     “Put it on my tab,” he said.
     “Hey,” the bear protested, “It was my idea! Put it on my tab.”
     “I’m not doing this,” Greg sighed. “The fox spoke first.”
     “But—!”
     “Listen, if y’all have another, I’ll put it on yours,” said Greg, cutting Teddy off.
     “We’ll have another, then!”
     “You haven’t even taken the first one yet.”
     “Yeah, but… We wanna do two. Back to back. Right?” Ted turned to the fox.
     “Wh—You—Yeah, sure, whatever,” Sam said. 
     “I thought you were driving, Ted!” 
     “I live three blocks away, fuck it! I’ll walk if you think I’m too drunk.”
     “I’m not your mother, Ted. You have to decide if you’re too drunk. And you know I’d give you a ride home if you asked, right?” Greg announced this as he poured them two more shots of pure disgustingness.
     “But then I’d have to close out the bar with you!”
     “As if you’ve never done that before.”
     Sam sat silently as he watched the two bicker, wondering how he had gotten himself into this mess. He wondered how Ted hadn’t recognized him yet. Bears must not have a great sense of smell, he supposed? This was untrue; in fact, bears surprisingly have a much better sense of smell than canines. The fact of the matter was that Ted had spent the last ten years thinking his best friend was dead. So, naturally, running into him at the local bar was the last thing that ever would have crossed his mind.
    Amidst the arguing, Greg had poured the two each another shot. Now four shots sat in front of the two boys—well, technically, they were men now. Or perhaps they were just boys that were old enough to drink. Not that being boys ever stopped them from drinking. Especially not Samwell.
     Ted scooted one more seat down so that they were sitting next to each other, knees almost touching. Ted’s scent invaded Samwell’s thoughts, and he had to hold back tears. The bear picked up his shot, and presented it to the fox. The fox picked his up, and their glasses collided, producing a short clink!. Their knuckles brushed up against each other and a chill ran up Samwell’s arm, as if he had just been touched by a ghost.
     “To victory,” said Theodore triumphantly, holding his glass even higher.
     “Whatever that means,” Sam said before they both downed their drinks, slamming them down on the bar in sync. Ted immediately reached for the second one, prompting Sam to say: “Oh, we’re actually doing this.” 
     Ted’s glass was already to his lips and Sam scrambled to catch up. Sam’s glass hit the bar half a second after Ted’s. 
     “I don’t know which is worse,” Ted strained to speak, then let out a belch. “That or mezcal. I feel like they’re a different type of bad.”
     “I’ve never had mezcal so I wouldn’t know.”
     “Shame. I feel like you’ve gotta try everything once.”
     “Everything?”
     “Well, I probably wouldn’t try heroin.”
     “Good choice.” Samwell had tried heroin on no fewer than three occasions.
     “Thanks, I won the D.A.R.E. essay contest in fifth grade.”
     I know, Sam almost said. But instead he said, “I guess you were absent the day they taught the ‘A’ part of it?”
     “Don’t tell Officer Wachowski.”
     Ah yes, Officer Wachowski. The dopey old wolf that came to teach the kids about how not to smoke weed. The same one that lost his ‘example’ joint when it was passed around the classroom. Or so it was rumored. Sam resisted saying anything further on the matter, as he was still unsure if he wanted Ted to find out who he was.
     “So you’re staying at the Motel 12, huh? Got some dirty plans with the local hooker? An after-work affair with the receptionist?”
     “Neither, I’m just in town for the weekend.”
     “For the weekend? Why?”
     Sam hadn’t quite yet figured that out himself. He lied: “To visit my aunt.”
     “Ah. Makes sense. Nothing else to do here. The only honest people who stay in that motel are truckers. And even then, half of them are patrons of the ladies of the night. So to speak. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Sex workers are people too.”
     Sam had nothing much to say to this, so he didn’t.
     “So you don’t really talk a lot, do you?”
     “Sometimes.”
     “And when is that?”
     Sam struggled to come up with an answer.
     “Not now, I guess,” Ted answered for him. “Listen, if you wanna just be left alone, I get it. Just tell me to fuck off, I won’t be offended.”
     “No, it’s not that at all. I’m just, y’know. Socially… anxious. Do you… do you have a smoke on you?”
     “Nah, I quit a while ago and switched to vaping.”
     “Can… do you mind if I hit it?”
     “I mean, yeah, sure, I guess.”
     “Let me just run to the bathroom real quick.”
     “Yeah, sure.”
     Sam did just that, returning to the stall where he had been sobbing a little over an hour and a half earlier. He pulled out a bottle of the same pills that killed his mother and crushed up another, this time able to snort it through his clear nostrils. He let out a deep sigh, as if he had just taken a huge bong rip. Then licked his nose clean and washed his hands. He grabbed the jacket off of his barstool and motioned to the bear to follow him outside.
     The air was brisk and the wind was plentiful. They walked a respectful thirty feet from the entrance to the smoking area. Ted pulled out his clunky box mod and offered it to Sam.
     Sam pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. 
     “I thought you said—”
     “I just wanted you to come outside with me. So I could really talk to you.”
     “Uh, look, dude, I don’t know what you think—”
     “Teddy Bear, it’s me.”
     They stared into each other’s eyes for a few moments. Sam’s eyes were pleading that he didn’t have to say anything more. Ted’s eyes turned first from confusion to disgust, then back to an even deeper confusion, then realization, then recognition, then tear-filled disbelief.
     “Sammy?! I thought you were fucking dead!”
     The three hundred pound bear knocked the wind right out of the fox. His arms were wrapped around the hundred-fifty pound canine, nearly crushing his ribs in a desperate hug. The freshly lit cigarette fell to the ground and was promptly forgotten.
     Sam had never heard a full-grown bear sob before, but it was a quite a frightful sound. Were he able to breathe, the fox would have been sobbing as well. He couldn’t even hug his friend back, the bear’s grip was so tight. 
     “I thought you were fucking dead,” the bear reiterated between sobs. “I thought you were fucking dead.”

     - - - 

     March 25th, 2008 - Samwell Parker, age 11
     
     It wasn’t often that Redford Parker went out to drink on a Tuesday night. 
     Drink? Yes. Go out to drink? No. It seemed such that on the nights he decided to go out to drink, he drank more. This habit was somewhat counter-intuitive, since it was on those nights that he would have to drive. His status as an officer of the law—and one of the very few in town—seemed to negate any worries one might have had regarding tickets and DUIs. In fact, it seemed to negate any worries of his whatsoever. It had been a week since he had inadvertently killed a fleeing suspect when a PIT maneuver had gone wrong and flipped the suspect’s car. The kid was fourteen, taking a joyride in his father’s Bronco. Today, Red was given indefinite leave without pay. He was drunker than he had been in years. Probably since his wife died.
     Tracey was out—as usual—with her long-term boyfriend, Scott Vickers. She had dropped out of college after one semester and her father never let her forget how much of his money she wasted. It didn’t seem to matter to him that she was the one paying the student loans.
     The only one home when Redford returned was Sam, who was used to being left to his own devices now. That device specifically being his prized Gameboy Color. Sam had gorged himself on freezer-burnt pizza rolls since that was quite literally the only thing left in the freezer. He still had to bring a chair over to reach it. 
     Sam panicked as always when he heard his father’s car pull into the driveway. He quickly turned off the television, cleaned up the kitchen and his trash, and ran to his room, Gameboy in hand, before his father was able to stumble from his car to the front door.
     “Sammy boy!” Red called out into the dark and vacant house. “Your dad is home! Didja save me any dinner?”       Sam hid under the covers playing Pokémon. The plug-in light he had added to the mix may have drained the battery faster, but it was worth it to be able to play in the dark. He ignored his father, assuming he would snack on a few slices of plain white bread and then pass out in the living room as he usually did.
     No such luck. 
     “Sammy! Where ya at? Don’t tell me you’re in bed already!”
     Sam heard his doorknob jiggle. He hid his Gameboy under his pillow and quickly pretended to be asleep. The door swung open and slammed against the wall as it had so many times before. The door stopper was still there, but recessed into the drywall where it had caved in a few years prior.
     “Sam! Wake up! It’s too early to go to bed!” 
     Red approached his son, breathing gently and shallowly, head laying silently on the pillow. He almost decided to let the sleeping boy be and just go jerk off instead, when he saw a light seeping out from under the pillow.
     “You motherfucker! You always were a shitty fucking faker!” Red ripped the pillow out from under the boy’s head and threw it blindly across the room, knocking a lamp over in the process. Sammy’s eyes snapped open and his hands shot up to protect his face. 
     “You’re just gonna lie here and ignore your poor old dad?” Red grabbed the thing that had given Sammy away—his glowing Gameboy Color—and slammed it against the wall, shattering it into pieces.
     “No! Dad!”
     “Oh, now you’re going to pay attention to me? I just have to break your shit, is that it?”
     Red grabbed the toy nearest to him—a model airplane Sam had spent hours making—and slammed it against the wall as well. The kid began to sob. This was the wrong move for Sammy.
     “You know I hate it when you cry like a little fucking faggot!”
     This, of course, made him sob harder. 
     Red grabbed his son by the shoulders and shook him. 
     “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
     An open paw made contact with the cub’s left cheek. He gasped and choked on his tears. It shut him up only briefly. It was more out of surprise than pain. Surprisingly, Redford rarely hit his son—and never without reason.
     “Dad, stop!” Sam struggled to speak.
      He did not stop. Instead, he picked the boy up out of the bed by his neck and threw him to the ground. A steel-toed boot pounded against Sammy’s ribs—not once, but twice—and then the larger fox grabbed the smaller one’s tail and placed him back on the bed. The boy’s pajama pants were off in an instant, and his wails only grew louder.
     “I said, shut the fuck up!”
     The man removed the firearm still holstered at his hip and struck his son across the back of the head with the butt. This finally quieted the boy, except for a few choking gasps for breath here and there. 
     Redford placed the gun down on the nightstand next to him, then continued undressing his son until he was completely naked, half-conscious on the bed. Red didn’t bother undressing himself. He just unbuttoned his pants, then the bottom three buttons of his shirt, then pulled his pants and boxers down around his knees, exposing the red tip that peeked out of his engorged sheath.
     Redford kneeled down and placed one hand on each of the boy’s asscheeks, spreading them apart and revealing the ripe tailhole hidden between them. One of Red’s thumbs teased the entrance as his sheath swelled up even more. He lowered his muzzle to his son’s rear end and pressed his nose against the base of his tail. His tongue encircled the tight pucker, then tried and failed to enter it. Red readjusted his hands and used both thumbs to part his son’s tailhole, and pushed his tongue deep inside.
     Sammy stirred in his injured state, thinking perhaps under different circumstances, he might be able to enjoy this. But his stomach felt sick and his vision was dark, and he wasn’t sure that he was able to move. He tried to make a fist, but his fingers only curled a bit before his head started to hurt. He decided to stop thinking.
     Red continued eating his son’s ass. Now that he was loosened up a bit, the older fox no longer had to use his thumbs to spread the boy, so he used one hand to hold the boy’s tail up and moved the other down to free his own cock from its sheath. His knot was already threatening to become stuck, so he freed it as well. His hips involuntarily humped the air as the tip of his cock spurted some pre-cum onto the bedskirt. His tongue took one final plunge into the boy’s bottom, and Redford stood up and took his position.
     He spat on the tip of his cock and lined it up with his son’s entrance. There was quite some resistance—there always was at first—but once it gave way it was smooth sailing from there. For Red, at least. Sammy moaned and sputtered on the bed as his father slowly entered him. Red grunted through gritted teeth.
     “Ah, fuck, boy,” he sighed, “You’re as tight as ever.”
     He slowly pushed past the girthiest part of his shaft, and the rest of his length easily slid in until his knot was nestled snugly against his son’s backside, the fur that lined each asscheek brushing ever so gently against Red’s knot, sending shivers up his spine. He let out a groan that slowly turned into a moan and grinded his hips in a circular motion, pressing his knot against his son’s asshole, knowing that the tight little boy wouldn’t be able to take it in a million years. Okay, maybe just give him five more years.
     Once he got down to the knot, it was much easier to pick up the pace. Sammy’s ass was so tight it practically pulled his dad back if he slid out slowly enough. Lube would’ve made it much easier, but Red hadn’t heard any protest from Sammy about it specifically, so he continued pumping.
     Redford put his hands on his son’s hips and started slamming his knot against the boy’s backside. Sammy simply laid there, lucky he was mostly unable to feel anything save for a throbbing in his head. 
     Red began grunting loudly, climbing his way to climax ever so slowly due to the amount of alcohol in his blood. This didn’t discourage him, however. The bed creaked and smacked against the wall, and Red closed his eyes, focusing all his attention on the sensations in his loins. The blood rushing through his ears and the short, heavy breaths rushing through his nose were so loud he didn’t even hear the front door open, nor did he hear Tracey approaching the hallway and Sammy’s open bedroom door. He did, however hear her shrill scream.
     “Dad, no! Not Sammy! You promised! You promised you wouldn’t—” 
     In an instant Tracey’s brains were splattered against the hallway walls and ceiling. A chunk of her skull had cut Scott’s cheek and he was bleeding slightly—not that you would have been able to tell anyway, since his face was also covered in Tracey’s blood. And it didn’t matter, either, because Scott only lived long enough to scream Tracey’s name once before he, too, was shot. Red’s second shot was bit less successful and hit the doberman in the neck, allowing him to live for a few minutes in utter shock and terror before he eventually drowned in his own blood.
     Red screamed and hit Sammy one more time in the head with the butt of his gun. He fucked and fucked harder and harder, screaming at the top of his lungs, covering up the sounds of gurgling coming from the dying dog just outside the doorway. He pushed, grinded, and finally, he felt his knot push past that final stretch and pop inside his son’s ravaged rear for the first time. Red let out an exasperated heave, and sucked in air sharply through his clenched teeth, then started to sob as his final orgasm began. He came harder than he ever had before—he nearly blacked out for a few seconds. When he had returned to earth, if only ever so slightly, he grinded his hips against his son’s a few times, his cock throbbing and pulsing deep inside him. He felt the warm flow of cum slickening his cock, and it made him cum even harder. He look a glaring look around, then looked down at his broken son, struggling to breathe through a partially collapsed lung that was barely protected by a cage of cracked ribs. The boy’s skull was fractured, and his brain was bleeding. Countless doctors and surgeons and neurologists over the years would tell him it’s a miracle he’s still alive and able to talk, or even feed himself.
     Still cumming, cock twitching and oozing, Red continued to sob. He didn’t have much time to think between sticking the gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger, but what he did think was: “Boy, I really fucked up, huh?”
     The weight of his father’s limp body on top of him made it even harder to breathe.  One of the last sensations he felt was how warm the blood was that poured out of his father’s mouth and onto the bed beneath them. How it sounded like a running river, filling the first few seconds of silence after the gun went off. Then it slowed down. Then he felt it soaking into the sheets and mattress, wetting his cheek and fingers. His father’s body heaved as if trying to breathe, and his cock—still knot-deep inside Sammy—twitched as if still cumming. Sammy really just wanted to go to sleep now, but a voice in his head kept telling him to stay awake. And he did stay awake for a while longer, and the sound of the approaching sirens was the very last thing he would remember before he woke up from a medically-induced coma almost eight months later.
     The neighbors had phoned the police after the first two gunshots and subsequent screams. It would be less than ten minutes before the ambulances and authorities would arrive. Were this not the case, it is almost certain that Sammy would not have survived. And he would spend the next ten years wishing he hadn’t.