this is going to be a short story.

I don’t know what it is going to be about.

I don’t know who any of the main characters are.

until now.

the main character is a fox.

he is a large anthropomorphic fox.

he has a haircut like a quif like Elvis used to have before his burger/toilet incident.

He wears a leather jacket, no pants. This, frankly, is grotesque. Why is it that if an anthropomorphic animal wears nothing more than an over coat it is seen as cute whereas any human male attempts it, he’s a sex pest?

not that I’m… complaining… or anything.

Anyway. This fox is called…

Steven

Steven the Fox.

He lives in a bungalow, on an island, in the caribbean

his friends call him Stevie da fox.

or Stevie D.

because his surname is DeVito.

Stevie DeVito.

He’s Italian.

He works in a post office.

The only post office on the island.

one of fifteen important buildings on the entire island.

which is called

El Quencho.

It’s a spanish run Island in the caribbean inhabited by italian anthropomorphic foxes.

any way.

Stevie D lives alone.

well, he didn’t always live alone.

He was married once.

To Laurie.

The most beautiful vixen in the world.

In his eyes, at least.

To others, a not so bad looking vixen who, admittedly, wasn’t exactly Megan Fox ( see what I did there), they’d still give her a pumping if they were given the chance.

Turns out, she gave them the chance.

She gave them the chance frequently.

When Stevie D found out, he couldn’t contain his rage.

He stormed out of his own house, then stormed back in, and forced her to storm out of his house.

She left, crying. She was sad. She thought Stevie was a sure thing, and, though she treated him like dirt, it was never out of disdain, or malice, she genuinely loved the guy, it was just a pity that she also loved vodka and nights out.

so he lives alone.

The sadness passed, but something in him changed from when he was just a young pup.

Before, there was a fire, a yearning. Beneath the layers of adolescent naivety, there was a part of him that wanted to achieve. a subconsciousness that compelled him to progress.

Since what happened, however, that need to succeed has died.

He’s not depressed any more,

He’s just…

empty

sure, he gets by, he potters about his insignificant life on the insignificant island of El Quencho, working his insignificant 9-5 shifts at the post office. By the way, you may not be surprised to hear this, but people rarely post anything to El Quencho, apart from the occasional Amazon delivery of the latest box set of the latest, hippest HBO show, that goes to Rodney the Rabbit, or the delivery from asos of some ultra hot new dress or accessory for Delilah the Hedgehog, but other than that, and the bills, there’s never any good post. After work, he potters back to his average house, has a bite to eat, then a bubble bath, watches some television, then potters into bed, to repeat the same schedule the next day.

And he doesn’t even care that he’s wasting away.

He’s beyond caring about insignificant details like personal happiness.

He knows it’s just a pointless, selfish pipe dream.

He had everything he could ever have wanted, and it disintegrated.

There’s no point in trying to reclaim it, it won’t be the same.

So he just doesn’t try.

By the way, he only wears the leather Jacket on weekends. On work days, it’s the post office shirt. just an open blue shirt with a name tag and the words “Post Office” written on it.

Steven has a neighbour.

His neighbour is also a fox.

But a nasty fox.

his name is Benitio.

Benitio Fellicci.

Also Italian.

Roughly the same age as Stevie D.

Except he succeeds.

He works at the local multi billion dollar corporation Headquarters next to the post office.

That’s right.

That’s El Quencho for ya,

just fifteen houses, a corner shop, a police station, a fire station, a doctor’s surgery, a post office, a mechanic’s, a school, a college, and a multi million dollar corporation headquarters.

Some days, when the sun isn’t very high in the sky, the HQ literally casts a shadow on the rest of the town.

Oh, and by the way, despite there being such a massive corporate headquarters in town, none of their post goes to the post office. It’s all privately delivered.

The people who work there can afford private delivery.

And so can Benitio.

Smug rich bastard.

And yes, by the way, he is one of the assholes who porked Stevie D’s girl.

We Hate Benitio Fellicci.

with a burning passion.

He’s one of those dickheads with money who seems never to be content until he’s bettered everyone else in every way.

This unnecessary competetiveness especially applies to

you guessed it

Stevie D.

poor fucker.

There’s nothing that Stevie does that Benitio won’t try to out do him at.

Stevie buys a car.

Beni buys a BETTER CAR

Stevie hosts a barbeque.

Beni hosts an ALL NIGHT SECRET VIP ONLY CLUB NIGHT FEATURING SEVERAL VICTORIA’S SECRET MODELS AND CELEBRITIES GALORE.

Stevie has a wife.

Beni FUCKS HIS WIFE.

you know, that sort of thing.

So Stevie D has a DICKISH neighbour.

As well as a DICKISH neighbour, Stevie also has a DICKISH boss.

A parrot.

Called Clyde.

DICK HEAD of a parrot, is Clyde.

the sort of anal retentive, obviously got beat up alot in school, Obsessive Compulsive ARSEHOLE that would OF COURSE wind up in charge of a decent-minded-yet-simply-exhausted-with-the-strains-of-the-world being such as poor old Stevie.

If Stevie is even half a minute late to work, Clyde absolutely FLIPS. He just goes mental. He takes Stevie into his office, and screams at him until his beak turns blue. Talking about efficiency and professionalism, for a good fifteen minutes, failing to realise the lack of efficiency and professionalism involved in spending quarter of an hour screaming at someone who is a mere 30 seconds late.

we all hate Clyde, yes we do.

He’s the sort of anthropomorphic person who clearly spent too much of their lives being beaten to the ground, forced into the position of the underdog, for such a long and traumatising time, that the MINUTE they found themselves in possession of even the slightest little bit of power, they take FULL advantage of it. Nobody has ever dared to point out to small time megalomaniac Clyde that he is nothing more than a manager of five people, in a post office, on an island that NOBODY CARES ABOUT. Nobody dares tell him, because they live on an island that NOBODY CARES ABOUT. They know the sad, demeaning truth. The truth is that a victory over Clyde, however important and glorious it would feel, would still be the biggest thing they were ever likely to achieve in their pathetic little lives. And that depresses them. So they resign to being his bitches. at least someone on the fucking island could feel good about themselves.

(with the exception of those working at the corporate Headquarters, that is.)

Any way, we join our friend, Stevie D, on one of these days. One of the days where he is but a couple minutes late, and Clyde has FLIPPED

“What FUCKING time do you call this, Steven?!”

“I call it… Just about ON time, Clyde.”

“Excuse me?”

“what, Clyde?”

“That’s MR. MONROE to you!”

“… Okay, Mr. Monroe, i’m ON TIME”

“NO YOU ARE NOT! You are supposed to arrive at 0900 hours! not 0902!”

“0902?”

“MILITARY TIME, STEVEN! YOU ARE TWO FUCKING MINUTES LATE!”

“But even when I’m on time, nobody comes into the post office at nine o clock anyway, it’s a VERY slow island, Mr. Monroe.”

Stevie was thinking of mentioning the absurdity of using military time in a place such as El Quencho post office, But he didn’t want to burst the poor twat’s feeling of self importance.

“DO NOT LIVE YOUR LIFE BY AVERAGES, STEVEN! LIVE IT BY WHAT IFS!”

“you mean, don’t live your life without worry, live it in a constant state of paranoia that anything could and most likely will go wrong at any given moment?”

“YES!”

“… I can’t think that’d be any good for my hairline”

“hairline? YOU’RE A FOX!”

“Foxes can have receding hairlines too, you know”

“I don’t want to hear about it! Now stop being so fucking inefficient! It’s unprofessional I tell you! get in your fucking booth next to fucking michael NOW!”

Michael is Stevie D’s post office colleague. He’s a nice guy. laid back. in fact, he’s just about the only guy in the past three years who’s been good to Stevie.

Michael Zambellas is his name. He’s Greek. He’s a mouse. he likes to surf and eat. He’s always there for Stevie. He’s just a swell sort of guy. Only downside to his character is that he’s just a bit simple. He’ll never amount to anything, and if we’re perfectly honest here, he’s not too bothered. It’s not the same sort of apathy, say, as Stevie’s, more a simple lack of ambition. Mike loves his life on El Quencho Island, and he has no other dreams other than to be able to spend his days off surfing and drinking mojitos down by the the beach all day long, and maybe to find a pretty lady, but only if she’s cool with surfing and mojitos. The post office job is just a way of making enough money for mojitos and various other menial goods and services.

you could say it’s Mike’s blissful ignorance that first drew Steve to be his mate in the first place. Someone who, when hanging out with, he can appreciate as a person, and also feel adequately superior than, to the point of feeling that he’s actually ok with his own life. Mike’s sort of Stevie’s comfort blanket. Someone to be around to make him feel better about himself.

Stevie strolled into the office after Clyde was done yelling his brains out at him.

Michael was there already. How that guy managed with was always a mystery to Stevie, considering his typical surfer dude attitude, and general all round laziness.

“sup Stevie D, man, how’s things going?”

“hey, Mikey, yeah, things are… well, they are ok, you know, nothing special, bit early for a bollocking from twat head over there, if you know what I mean?”, indicating Clyde.

“ah don’t worry about it man, he’ll calm down, and go back to plannin’ world domination or some thing, you know?”

Stevie chuckled.

“God, the day that twat-beaked fucker takes control of the planet, that’s the day where god decides ‘you know what guys, suicide is ok, anything to get you guys away from THAT fucker’”

Mikey laughed, but he didn’t really understand the joke.

“Ah man, you shouldn’t kill yourself man. it aint good for you”

Stevie didn’t really know how to react to this, he simply went along with it.

“… thanks for the advice”

So the two were at work. the other three were there too, but they don’t really matter.

Okay, okay, just to complete the image, there’s another fox called Marci, a dog called Jack, and a Hippopotamus called Harold. They work in the post office on the caribbean-spanish island, El Quencho.

So the day was panning out, just as usual, and, just as usual, NOBODY WAS COMING IN. No deliveries, nothing to sign. no work. In many ways, the poor fuckers should just be glad that they were still essentially getting paid to sit behind a glass panel for 9 hours a day. In many ways, they are, except for that subtle yet somehow still over riding feeling of worthlessness at the end of yet another day.

lunch break. 1 hour. Stevie had chicken sandwiches. (non anthropomorphic chicken, so it’s ok, i guess. believe me, it’s confusing, but at least you’re not the anthropomorphic animal who farms non anthropomorphic animals thinking to yourself “hey, I walk about on my hind legs, but these guys don’t, yet we are essentially the same species. Now hang about, how the fuck does that shit work?!” don’t ask, I’m not gonna tell you. it’s just one of those things, okay? good. Now, where was I?

Back to work. Chuckle. “Work”. sorry, let me start over.

Back to sitting around waiting for nothing to happen. Something the employees at El Quencho post office are surprisingly good at. God knows what Clyde’s been doing, locked away in his office for the past 4 hours. In fact, I’m sure even GOD doesn’t want to know that one. Omniscience must be a bitch sometimes. You know, the whole “knowing everything at once” thing. must cause a fucking headache. just EVERYTHING. Everything happening at once in your head. one side of the world, a beautiful, romantic scene, a pair of lovers walking by the riverside. dusk. ducks. the horizon slowly showcasing a warm palette of beautiful, emcompassing reds and oranges, as the skyline of whatever city this couple is gazing out at from the river bed gently twinkles on progressively. Beauty. Absolute Beauty.

On the other side of the world, some fat fifty two year old eating a packet of crisps and picking his nose while he sits on the toilet, struggling to have a shit. or maybe the man in the caravan sitting in isolation from the world because there’s nobody in it that will love him. or maybe the thousands upon thousands of voices screaming in desperation, sorrow, anguish or agony, pleading for an intervener, praying for someone or something to help them, to get them out of this shit. but however much your attention gets drawn to the misery and suffering, you then suddenly cut to a small sea side town in England, and get reminded of the existence of Maxibons, and all is okay with the world. This constant, shifting distraction of omniscience leaves no wonder that god doesn’t help. with an infinite amount of good distracting from the infinate amount of evil, and vice versa, god’s attention span must be the length of a bit of rice, and I don’t blame it. The death of one is a tragedy. the death of millions, still tragic, but god was distracted by a puppy cocking his head to one side, and making a cute not-quite-growling, not-quite-barking noise, a noise that can only exist in word form as “garuffluffluff”. Too cute.

Ahem….

not EXACTLY sure where that came from…

like I said, I am making this story up as I go along. Forgive the digression, but i’m still not quite sure where i’m going to take it. I have an idea, however, as to a grand narrative that could exist. some sort of device to help our foxy hero out. Though, I must admit, I’m not so sure I should  divulge that information in this paragraph, just because we don’t want to ruin anything to you.

I just decided I’d quite like to turn this short story into an ongoing series of short stories about Steven Da fox, or, Stevie D, and I have now decided to name him.

god, I totally forgot that I gave him a quif like Elvis at the start of this tale.

Anyway. Back to the post office in El Quencho.

Closing time. Marci, Jack and Harold had all left, Mike was just about to leave, and Stevie was close on his trails, when Clyde, as if he’d spent the whole day in the office preparing for this moment, launched a perfectly timed “storm out of his office right in front of Stevie, just as he was leave”.

“Night boss”

“goodnight, Michael, “

“Night, Mr. Monroe.”

“AHEM! STEVEN! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?!”

“umm… home?”

“WRONG! You inefficient, unprofessional cocksucker!”

“but…. it’s closing time…”

“NOT FOR YOU! since you were late, you have to make up the time by which you were late, by staying on!”

“you mean… two minutes?”

“YES! you have to stay an extra two minutes after we’ve all left!”

“um.. I think I … already have… Mr. Monroe…”

“SHUT IT! I’m going outside with a stop watch. If you’re out before those two minutes are up, YOU’RE FIRED!”

wow, Clyde reallly was a pathetic moron.

“umm… o…kay… then..”

Out stormed clyde like a child on an imaginary secret mission.

Stevie just stood there. Looking about. He looked at the clock to check the time.

This was retarded. staying on an extra two minutes… just so that Clyde could maintain the illusion of control… One of these days, Stevie thought, I’m going to have to do something about him.

Stevie walked back to the booth and sat down at his desk. He sighed. This was ridiculous. It was also ridiculous how slowly 2 minutes was when all he had to do was wait for it to finish.

 It was then that he noticed it.

Underneath his stationary, folded neatly, there was a piece of paper. A suspicious looking piece of paper that he hadn’t seen before. He knew it was new, because he didn’t keep things underneath his stationary. It was stupid. Either way, he was intrigued, to say the least, and withdrew it. He unfolded it, slowly.

The piece of paper turned out to be a note. Stevie didn’t quite understand it. The handwriting was all curly and mysterious. the text said simply

“I can help you. PTO.”

He turned over. There was an address.

6 Matador Lane.

“what the fuck?” Stevie said aloud.

Maybe this was a joke.

Maybe a cruel practical joke that someone in the office was playing on him.

Maybe a twisted sexual advance by someone in the office. if so, he prayed to god it was Marci, or at the very least, NOT HAROLD. Hippo Loving. ew. sorry to sound prejudice.

But before Stevie could put any more time into it, Clyde returned.

“WHAT THE FUCK, STEVEN?”

“… huh?”

“THE TWO MINUTES ARE UP, YOU LAYABOUT! YOU’RE TWENTY SECONDS LATE!”

“What… what’s wrong with that?”

“Late in, Late out, are we?”

“Mr. Monroe, I… I have a bit of a headache, I guess I must have fazed out a little bit there”

“Fazed out?! NOT A VALID EXCUSE, DeVito!”

Clyde started ranting again, but Stevie wasn’t listening. He was dwelling. This note, simple as it may have been, had really hit a nerve with him. He had to find out what it meant. He had to go to number 6 Matador Lane, ASAP. He was well aware that his life had petered into mundanity. But up until now, hecould never be bothered to consider making an effort to feel better.

Now, however. And, bear in mind, this was his head spinning webs here, I mean, the note only said “I can help you”, it was his own head creating the notion that in some way this note was in reference to his personal way of life. But NOW, he had been invigorated somehow. for the first time in years, his brain was working again. For the first time in decades, he was experiencing the faintest inkling of that rarity known as imagination. And, dare I say it, ambition. He felt determined. he felt prepared. he felt… he felt… he felt as if some fucking OCD Parrot asshole was screaming in his face for no good fucking reason other than to cater for his own fucking god-complex.

Whilst Clyde kept ranting, Stevie left. He couldn’t be fucking to reply. The self important cock didn’t deserve it. Stevie DeVito was back. He was imagining some emotive, bombastic rock music playing as he strolled like a bad ass out of the El Quencho post office. This was a big moment for him. Re discovery had begun.

….

AAAAAND THAT, I think, is a good place to leave a cliffhanger, don’t you?

I’ll hit you up with the next piece of the story soon ,hope you enjoyed it so far. Hope you’re on your toes as to what’s going to happen next, I know I sure am.

much love.

Ciao.