Harland Bixby did not mean to attend a furry convention. He meant to attend a cybersecurity seminar titled “FURSEC: Keeping the Wild Internet Tamed.” In retrospect, the flyer was ambiguous, especially the part where it promised “costumed demos.”
By the time he realized his mistake, he had been issued a lanyard, a paw-shaped name badge, and a small packet of dehydrated salmon treats. The woman at the registration desk had been very enthusiastic. She had complimented his “commitment to the everyman aesthetic” and whispered that not everyone had the courage to go as a furless marmot.
Harland opened his mouth to correct her. Then he closed it. It didn’t seem worth it.
The convention floor smelled like synthetic fur, Cheetos, and something vaguely emotional. There were tails. There were ears. There were… noises. One room was labeled “Purrgatory.” Another was labeled “Snuggle Dungeon (18+).” Harland did not investigate either.
He wandered, a confused iceberg drifting through a sea of foxes, wolves, and one unsettlingly accurate giraffe. Someone dressed as a cyberpunk raccoon handed him a flyer titled “Anthro Rights Now.” Harland took it out of reflex and immediately regretted it when the raccoon tried to unionize his shoes.
Eventually, he found a quiet corner near a booth called “Mimefur.” The display featured a dozen mannequin heads wearing blank white masks with fur-trimmed ears. A sign read: “Express Yourself. Silently.”
It was there that he saw him.
The Killer Mime.
Standing perfectly still beside a vending machine, half-obscured by a six-foot-tall kangaroo in fishnets. White gloves. Painted face. Full bodysuit. The tail was the only thing Harland couldn’t explain. Long. Striped. Swishing rhythmically, as if annoyed by the general state of existence.
The Killer Mime raised one hand.
Harland backed away.
The Mime raised the other.
Harland froze.
With excruciating precision, The Killer Mime pantomimed zipping himself into a giant animal onesie. The zipper went up. Then it went down. Then back up again. Each motion was exaggerated, graceful, and slightly menacing.
A nearby red panda clapped. “Performance art!” they said.
Harland did not clap. He tried to leave.
The floor had other plans.
An invisible rope, unseen but undeniably real, looped around his waist. He felt it tug. Gently at first, like a cat kneading your stomach. Then sharply, like the same cat learning taxes are real.
Harland stumbled into the booth.
The Killer Mime placed a single furred ear onto Harland’s head.
Then the other.
Then he slowly, deliberately, patted Harland on the nose.
Boop.
The invisible rope released. Harland staggered back, breathless, trembling, ears askew.
And then nothing.
The Killer Mime was gone.
No one had seen him leave. A wolf with LED goggles offered Harland a sticker that read “YIFF HAPPENS.” He declined.
By the time he reached the parking lot, Harland realized two things. First, he had never gotten his cybersecurity CPE credit. Second, the ears were still on. He tried to remove them, but they wouldn’t budge. He tugged harder. Nothing. They were attached. Emotionally? Mystically? Industrial adhesive?
Back at home, his cat stared at him in what he could only describe as quiet respect.
That night, Harland dreamed of paws.
In the morning, he woke up to find a tail.
It was striped. It was swishing.