Foolery Pox: A Heady Cure for the Brainsick

Why are people so stupid?

Unfortunately, this is a very common question, often asked when we see a car drive the wrong way down the road; when we witness someone duck under the boom gate for a railroad crossing or not long following someone saying “Hey guys, watch this”.
When people act stupid, people tend to find it somewhat confronting and confusing. After all, you have to ask:
“Why didn’t they just think?” or,
“Why didn’t they use some common sense?”
Well, what if I told you that it was caused by a sickness? That ignorance was, in fact, a viral infection, passed from person to person. A soulless, formless, mutating virus that infects the brains of the weak-minded, leading them away from education?

It’s a terrifying thought, and disturbingly accurate. In fact, in many ways, it can explain many different and disturbing forms of ignorance, from racism, transphobia, homophobia & religion to bunkem beliefs like homeopathy, fortune-telling & even conspiracy theories.

For the sake of transparency, I must make it clear that stupidity is not, strictly speaking, a virus. However, if you understand how viruses and sicknesses spread, it is a useful cognitive aid to help explain the real reason why people tend to be so stupid. But, ignorance isn’t like a virus with genetic mutations, it’s more akin to a memeplex with memetic mutation. The word of the day is: ‘MEME’

Meme /’meem/ n. 1. Any unit of cultural information, such as a practice or idea, that is transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another in a comparable way to the transmission of genes. 2. Slang Something, usually humorous, which is copied and circulated online with slight adaptations, including quizzes, basic pictures, video templates etc.

If you are confused as to how captioned pictures are related to stupidity, or you think this is just me expressing my opinion of online culture, then I suggest you re-read the definition above, or pay close attention to what I am about to say.
Although an online image is a means of transmitting an idea, and so may very well be a ‘meme’, it is not the only form that memes can take. A meme is, nothing more and nothing less, than a unit of thought which you can share. Let’s take a simple example: Jokes.
“Why did the chicken cross the road?”
I chose this for two reasons. Firstly, most people know it, and secondly, the basic punchline of the joke is “to get to the other side” - the setup is therefore that although a chicken crossing the road seems unusual and thus jokeworthy, the actual answer is rather mundane, and your ignorance of this mundanity creates the humour.

Now, I am sure that some of you have heard a variation of this joke. This is a very simple joke, for some people it’s the first joke they have ever heard. But, perhaps as a result of the original answer being so mundane, some people have decided to “improve” it. Even with the same question, the answer may instead be:
“It was too far to walk around.”
“To show the possum it could be done.”
Or, my personal favourite:
“It wanted to watch the builder ‘lay’ a brick.”

Some people even change the original wording “Why did an elephant cross the road?”; “Why did the duck cross the road?” or “why did the dinosaur cross the road?” - all variations of the original joke.

Now, consider for a moment, that although these are just rewrites or recreations of the same joke, even if a person never retells the original “to cross the road” joke, it may yet live on (in a sense) through the “descendants” of the original joke. A person heard this joke, and whilst they were thinking about it (whilst it was in their head) they either enjoyed the joke and so referenced it, or did not enjoy it and so developed it further. In essence, by hearing and adapting this joke, we alter its memetic structure, trying to make it funnier.
But, why do we do this? Well, people like jokes, so we are changing the joke so that MORE people find it funny. So that more people enjoy it and want to pass it on. They tell it to more and more people.

Consider, now, Avian Influenza. Yes, just because I am talking about chickens, I chose bird flu as my example. Now, consider for a moment, that as a chicken’s immune system fights a virus it will try to kill it, but even if the original viral infection is eliminated, the illness may yet live on in the virus’s “descendants” as it spreads. A chicken gets sick and whilst it is sick (whilst the virus is in their body) its immune system fights it, but at the same time the virus replicates. Either the immune system is too slow, or the virus adapts in a way that the immune system has not fought before, and so it kills off parts of the virus that are not as strong, and so as it passes on the virus through mucus and secretions, it essentially alters the virus’s genetic structure, making it more infectious.
Why does it do this? Well, it’s not deliberate, it’s just evolution. The immune system of a chicken is trying to kill ALL of the virus, but as it kills off some of it, only the mutated versions of the virus most fit to survive the immune system’s attacks can be passed on to more and more chickens.

Are you seeing a correlation here? Because it’s not just a metaphor, it can help to explain how people think, how different ideas spread and also how we can prevent their spread. When it comes to jokes, we don’t have an immune system, but we have a sense of humour. We are only susceptible to jokes that are stronger than our sense of humour, and we only pass on jokes that have successfully bypassed our systems so that we think it’s worthy of passing on. Each time we tell a joke, it's like we have sneezed to pass on the joke-virus.
But this doesn’t just work with jokes . . .

A joke is just a single form of meme, or a "memotype", but every single thought in your head, if it is transmissible, can be the subject of a meme. The indivisible fragments of thought that construct a meme can be a very confusing, but what we do know is that whether you're dealing with a joke memotype, a query memotype or even a factual memotype, the life-cycle and evolution of the meme is the same.

Let’s say, for instance, facts - or, attempts at facts, let’s call them statements. Say that I tell you:
“Too much sugar can give you diabetes”
Do you accept that?
Of course, whether or not you accept a statement to be “true” or “false” is not determined by your sense of humour (unless someone presents a stupid statement, like “I don’t like roses, they’re too chewy”), but for a statement about sugar and diabetes, often the system by which you confront it is through critical thinking. A sense of humour is really nothing less than critical thinking in regards to subjective, emotional response to something we experience. I am not going to tell you if that statement is factual or not, I’ll leave that up to you - I am not really sure myself, I just made it up. But, the means by which you determine its factuality may be similar for any meme you encounter.
Whether you accept it or not is essentially due to how you think, critically.

This leads on to my discussions of ignorance. See, some people believe that the Earth is Flat. These so-called “flat-earthers” are not actually less capable of thought than us. Rather, when they attempted to learn, they came across something which bypassed their critical thinking.
The difference between flat-earthers and people who think flat-earthers are stupid and ignorant is merely that our critical thinking was capable of rejecting this meme. I do use the words 'ignorant' and 'stupid' interchangeably, but it is important to understand that whilst they do fit the definition of the word 'stupid' I am not claiming that these people are "unintelligent".
See, flat-earthers, and other such conspiracy theorists as well as bigots, do, in fact, think about these beliefs. However, just as a person with a compromised immune system may be sick for a very long time, a person with a compromised critical thinking system may be affected by ignorance for their whole life. Even if they are capable of being critical of other things, the reason they are so ignorant is because these viral memes have overcome the immune system of their thoughts or bypassed it entirely.

Think of a virus. When a virus is spread to you, it doesn’t transfer through psychic link. It needs to attack through a weakness in your immune system. Through food you eat, through air you breathe - it may even be attacking you constantly but your immune system is too strong, so it is left waiting for your immune system to weaken so that it can finally break in. Or, if you have a cut in your skin, it gets in through the the wound, as it can bypass the protective layer straight to your insides.
When it comes to viral memes, they attack through the weak points of your critical thinking system - your emotions. Either they attack without warning, making you feel without thinking - like, when a Neo-Nazi tells others to be afraid of foreign invaders or when a homeopath offers water to make you feel healthier and happier.
Or, it could wait for your critical thinking system to weaken, perhaps during a moment of grief or hardship when a priest offers to pray with you or during the initial stages of euphoric, newfound love when your partner attempts to get you to sign a non-disclosure agreement. It may even attack through a weakness, like a wound in your skin, it may attack a sore point in your critical thinking, like when homophobes and transphobes attack your own disgust at people who harm innocent children, or when fortune-tellers and mediums tells you that they can help you find love, just after a breakup.

The memetics of these ideas are such that they attack us where we are most susceptible - our emotions. If you are interested in learning more about this particular facet of memetics, there is a very informative video by CGP Grey that divulges more on this topic. It helped to inspire this very post, so I suggest you check it out.

But, this is where it gets truly insidious. This is often not conscious. Religious people aren’t trying to indoctrinate you because they think they can manipulate you. Racists aren’t trying to lie to you so that you can join their team before they reveal the truth. Even homophobes aren’t trying to spread dissent and hatred for any nefarious political ends.
They are doing it because they are infected too. They actually believe what they say, because whatever the meme is - whether it is that god loves us all; the Earth is flat and governments lie; Jews control money and the media; homosexuals will cause harm to children and society or even that water mixed with onions can cure a headache . . . they believe it to be true, because it attacked a weakness in their critical thinking.
Their ignorance is due to something that bypassed their critical thinking. Either they were raised believing it since their youth, and so their critical thinking never identified the foreign thoughts, Or it’s something that affects them emotionally, and so attempts to remove it flair up that emotion again (or other emotions, like anger, due to the backfire effect) and so the meme essentially protects itself.

These memeplexes, these complex ideologies, are nothing more than the result of memetic evolution. Only transmissible ideas live on, and those which are not fit to survive in human minds and culture inevitable die off. Sometimes, this is due to all of the “carriers” of a meme dying off, like how Mayan gods and culture are rarely (if ever) believed in - the Mayans themselves died. However, because it affected fear, the “2012 Mayan Apocalypse” meme had a brief resurgence.
Sometimes, the idea itself is too cumbersome to be believed, like a belief in Qi or Ch'i (氣) and flow of internal life energies through the meridian network of a body, which is a very outdated and superstitious belief. However, portions of these beliefs live on, like Acupuncture as people rarely know the history of the traditional Chinese medicine that helped develop it.
Then, there are even some ideas which died off because of a shift in the cultural landscape. Like how sex was once considered to be taboo and entirely untoward before marriage by most people, until the invention of prophylactics made problems of unwanted pregnancy and sexual-transmitted infections a trivial issue. However, despite this, some religions still hold onto their outdated beliefs in regards to sex.
These are all examples of ideas on the verge of extinction, whose dying off leads to only its far-flung descendants surviving on.

The ideas that are unbelievable, or unable to be shared, die off - so, even when an idea seems truly unbelievable to us, it can yet survive on because it found an environment within which it could survive. This 'environment' is more commonly known as - a gullible mind.

But this is where things become dangerous. See, some memes mutate within a carrier. Just look at conspiracy theories, these are - more often than not - akin to a superbug. By developing within a person, they can weaken the immune system as a whole, they make it harder for a person to get better, because they are more vulnerable to other ideas, like how people with diabetes are more likely to get heart disease. But in the case of these viral memes, it weakens the critical thinking of the person, making them even more gullible.
Those gives room for the meme - the conspiracy theory itself - to grow. Even if it cannot be passed on, it can replicate within a person to become more complex and self-sufficient.
The most ignorant people we know, they did not wake up one morning believing everything they believe. Every born child is born, tabula rasa, and ideas are presented to them as they grow. Even the most bigoted racist, homophobic monster we know are just the result of a virulent idea that bypassed their critical thinking skills.

Going back to the Flat-Earthers. Often their belief starts with something very small and easily acceptable: the ground on which you stand is flat. Building upon this that round ground, like a hill, makes things roll and fall off, this develops into a simple concept that the entire world must be flat. The next step is realizing that others are trying to claim the world is not flat, and coming to the sensible conclusion that, since the earth clearly is flat, those who say otherwise are either trying to trick you, or have been tricked themselves. From there, it can mutate and evolve into a variety of ways, from believing that NASA is trying to eliminate religions that propose a flat earth, or believing in a military presence trying to prevent people from exploring Antarctica.
Even people such as Homophobes. It begins with a very simple thought, often something as simple as the concept of homosexuality making them feel uncomfortable, but it could be someone telling them homosexuals are dangerous or sinful. This then develops into fear and disgust, and reinforcing this idea makes them create wild claims about freedom, disease and child endangerment.
What about Theists? Well, in my experience, the very first thought is either "god loves you", "you have a soul" or "magic is real". Then, developing from there, building up the story from the bible and the fantasy of heaven.
This can even make an idea mutate to work alongside another idea. People who believe in religion are more likely to believe in ghosts. People who believe the earth is flat are more likely to be religious. And when these ideas become symbiotic, it becomes much, much harder to cure.

These are all examples of memeplexes. Not one idea, not one meme, but several memes that interact and depend upon each other in a complex system. This is akin to symbiosis.

This is why it's so hard to re-educate the ignorant. It's not just one meme, it's not just "black people are just like white people", it's also "genetics doesn't work like that"; "socio-economics explains crime rates"; "monoculturalism is not actually that easily understood"; "I, and most people, don't accept your definition of beauty"; "the media misrepresents almost every ethnic identity" & "no, that's not what 'white privilege' means".
Even if you can convince them that one meme is actually inaccurate, and so it dies off, the rest are still there infecting their brain.

So, what is the solution? If ignorance is essentially a kind of brainsickness, then how can we make such people better?
Well, the same way we make people safer from viruses. You can vaccinate and inoculate children from harmful viruses by presenting them with an inactive or weaker form of the original virus. So, to inoculate people from ignorance, you test and strengthen their critical thinking skills with logical hypotheticals, riddles and puzzles. You can also give people antibiotics to prevent viruses, or other medicines to work alongside our immune system, but the memetic equivalent is education, an understanding of logic, reason and meaning which boosts how we think overall making critical thinking stronger as a result. And, of course, we can never forget the importance of herd immunity. If there are those amongst us with weaker critical thinking, such as the young or the gullible, then we can protect them by making those around them more critical as a whole.

But, what of the people that are already sick? In all honesty, prevention is the best cure. Some ignorances are too deeply embedded to be easily cured. However, there are some things you can do.
Setting a good example, through herd immunity, can help others to get better. Also, in regards to virulent memes, introspection is equivalent to bedrest. Just as bedrest lets a person rest and let their immune system work, getting a person to stop and think about their own beliefs allows their critical thinking to get to work.
It can even be dealt with through quarantine.
No, not isolating people from you, or bigots from others, but rather, quarantining those thoughts and working on others, to develop the strength of their critical thinking as a whole, so that they can tackle the memeplex later when their mental faculties can overcome it.
Or, if you're incredibly patient, you could treat them symptomatically - deal with one issue at a time. Start with one meme, move onto another, move onto another. This is incredibly difficult and requires a lot of patience and empathy, and at the end of the day, it will only ever succeed if the ignorant person themselves is interested in developing their critical thought.
Unless the two of you have the same goal, you are wasting your time.

In conclusion, before you go home thinking that every viral meme is completely borne of ignorance and degenerate thought, keep in mind that all transmissible thoughts are memes.
The content in this blog is a meme, a belief that "ignorance can be harmful" is a meme. Your brain is essentially the biome within which the complex ecosystem of your memes exist in a complicated, living system of thought. Some of those memes are born of ignorance, some are not, and some are in a constant battle with your critical thinking, trying to survive in the harsh mindscape within your brain. You have to remember that, although I have only ever spoken about harmful, viral memes, some viral memes are helpful - like charity, uplifting fandom, education & comedy. This is why I don't like to judge ignorant people. They, like you, let memes into and out of their brain on a daily basis. By reading this very blog, you are exposing yourself to memes, and testing your critical thinking. Hell, within this blog I left a link to a YouTube video that I thought was worth learning, essentially perpetuating a viral meme. Memes are not good or bad, they are just a thoughts. And the study of memetics is just a tool to understand how thoughts are shared, not whether they are good or bad.
Although I think this can help you to understand ignorance, and potentially even help those around you who have been too gullible for their own good, I know some other may believe that this memeplex I've presented to you today is potentially harmful. As to whether they are right or not, well, you'll have to decide that for yourself . . .

Five Nights at Furries, Night 5

FRIDAY, 6:42 ᴘᴍ

The phone rings three times before I can answer. I hear a click as I answer, then some kind of garbled grunting noise and scratchy, digital buzzing. I listen as closely as I can, since I can almost hear a voice through it. Suddenly, there’s some kind of inhuman screech, making me jump. Then the line goes dead.
  “Probably a pocket-dial . . .”
I put the phone in the carseat beside me, indicate and pull out. I'm already late, so I'm going to park in the Centre Carpark today. I was worried the call was Phone Guy to rouse on me for running late, so I pulled over to check - the voice almost sounded like him.  Luckily, I'm not in trouble. Not yet, anyway.
I drive past the centre and turn in, heading down the ramp and I park in the first empty space I see. I switch off the lights, jump out, locking the car, and run to the elevator, pressing the button frantically, tapping like a woodpecker. The lift arrives, and I have to step back as several young girls walk out, then I run into the lift and press the button for the Terrace Level. With a metal clang, the door slams shut in front of me, startling me.
  “Jeez . . . calm down, creepy, old lift.” I mutter. When the door opens, I sprint towards the secirity office and rap my knuckles against it.
  “Phone Guy? Open up. It's me.” I say.. I wait a moment, but there's no answer. I remember how he was listening to loud music the other day, so I slam my fist into the door. “Come on, man . . .”
I bang my fist into it ten times, but there's no answer.
I sigh, glance around, and decide to ask one of the other guards. Omeo is usually the closest, so I head around the balcony - glancing over the railing to see several folks in fursuits, playing around downstairs - and easily spot Omeo. He speaks up before I reach him.
  “Little man! ‘Sup, man? Last day, eh?”
  “Last day? . . . of the week?” I ask, confused.
  “No, Furries,” says Omeo. “Con’s done today.”
  “Ohh, right. But hey, Om. I can't get into the security office.”
  “The office? D’jer knock?”
  “Yeah.”
Omeo grabs the radio on his waist.
  “Bouncer to Operator. Come in, man. Over.”
I wait there awkwardly for a moment as Omeo stops someone in a puppy dog fursuit to check their lanyard, but even after a minute of that, there's no radio response. Omeo tries again. “Oi, Operator, pick up. Over.”
After a few seconds, he shakes his head.
  “Must’ve stepped out. Here, man,” he says, taking a set of keys from his belt. “Take these. I'll get ‘em back later. All good?”
  “Yeah, all good,” I say taking the keys. “Thank you.”
He nods, and I head back to the security office.
I stick the key in the lock and turn it. Nothing happens. Did I turn it the wrong way?
I turn the key anti-clockwise, and hear a click.
I grab the handle, but it doesn't turn.
I've just locked the door. The door was unlocked. I turn the key the other way, the lock clicks again and I turn the handle.
  “Hello? Hello, hello?” I say, heading into the room. There's no answer. I step inside the room and look around, but there's no one else in here. I take the keys out of the lock, close the door and lock it behind me.
The only other thing in the office is the head of the Catsuit. It's back sitting on the lost property desk. I just shake my head at it and lean over onto the desk to check out the monitor. It’s showing Camera 04, pointing down at the carpet. I use the controller to point the camera along the hall, but just see Omeo standing there. I change the settings so that the cameras tour, then open the locker room.
As I open the door, I get hit with a waft of a hot, stinking smell. It's like the rotten B.O. smell, but with a persistent dirtiness with it, like an unflushed toilet, and I can see why. The rest of the dirty Catsuit is sitting haphazardly on the bench. I think maybe Phone Guy got changed in here, out of the Catsuit, so now the whole place reeks.
I just grab my stuff from the locker and head back into the security office to get changed away from the smell.
I wonder why he left it there. Did he want to change into it again? Or did he leave it there after yesterday?
I bundle up my clothes take a deep breath, grab the locker room door, run in, chuck my clothes in the locker, run out and breathe easy. I sit on the study chair and watch the images go past. Nothing too unusual. Although, I do notice there aren’t as many stalls in the Ballroom. I guess some of the smaller vendors have already packed up, since it’s the end of the week. But I see Peter  walking around the dealer’s den, Kelly at the door, Om by the changing room. I look in the Exhibit Hall, cameras 06 and 07, and although there’s some kind of band playing and there are dozens and dozens of people in there, I can’t see any other security guards. I can’t see Phone Guy anywhere, and I know he’s not hiding in that costume, because it’s here.
I look around for a radio only to open the drawer and find it sitting there. I pick it up and speak into it.
  “Hey, Central to Security. Does anyone know where Operator is? Over.”
  “Uhh . . . office? Over.” says Peter
  “He’s not here. I’m here, and there’s no sign of him. Over,” I say.
  “Did he go to the bathroom? Over.” asks Peter.
  “I didn’t see him come down. Over,” says Kelly.
  “He could’ve taken the lift,” says Peter.
  “I watch the lifts, Hightower. He didn’t. Come. Down,” says Kelly, sounding annoyed. “Over.”
  “Can someone check the carpark?” I ask. “There’s no cameras down there, maybe he’s around. Over.”
  “I’ll have a look,” says Peter. “Hightower, out.”
  “Oh, Central?” says Kelly. “Did you just get here? Over.”
  “Yeah,” I say. “Uh, affirmative. Over.”
  “I have spotted our Mismatch again, walking around, so keep your eyes peeled. Report him if you spot him. Over and out.”
Mismatch? The kid from Tuesday?
  “Roger that. Over and out.”
I don’t understand at all. Phone Guy was always making sure I knew how important it was to keep an eye on the cameras, and I know as a matter of fact that there are several spots that the cameras alone are watching over. There's no way he would just leave without telling anyone, right?
I start to feel anxious. I can only imagine the worst. If only he would just answer the radio. Or if we could call him on his mobile, but I don't even know if he has a mobile.
Wait, yes I do . . . he was listening to music yesterday, on his phone! I grab the radio again.
  “Security, does anyone know Operator's mobile number? Over.”
  “Yeah, I've got it. Over.” says Kelly.
  “Well, can you call him? He should have his phone in his pocket. See if he's okay. Over.”
  “On it. Over and out.” replies Kelly.
I sigh and sit back in my chair. We'll sort this out, figure out where he went, and move on from there.
There’s a loud twang! sound behind me that makes me jump. I glance around towards the scratchy sound, just beside the Cat head, I see a dark rectangle, vibrating. It's a mobile phone, playing a heavily bit-crushed version of an R’n’B track. I move back in my chair and pick up the phone.
  “Eugh . . . sticky,” I moan, dropping the phone on the table, right-side up. The screen says: Kelly
That's when I finally realize. Kelly. Mobile. Phone Guy . . . I don't know why it took me so long to piece it together, but this is his phone.
I sigh, and realize that the Cat Head is staring at me.
  “Screw you, Catsuit . . .” I say. I shove the head to slide it off the table. It slips off and hits the carpet with a heavy thunk.
The noise surprises me and I look over at the head, now facing away from me on its side, shirt-cloth type rag hanging loosely from the stump. I picked the head up, I felt it, it was light and pillowy. Why would it be so heavy?
I stand up from my chair, lean over and pick it up by one of the ears. As I lift it, I feel the extra weight, like there’s a brick inside. Then the rag suddenly bulges as something slips out of it and as it falls loose, the rag makes a swip noise and gives birth to a head that hits the ground with a wet thup, leaving a red splatter beside it.
A head. A human head. I can't see the face, but the skin is familiar bald, brown.
It's his head. It's Phone Guy’s head.
I know it's true, but it can’t be. I can't even wrap my brain around it. How could it be his head?
I start backing away. I get startled when the back of my legs kick the chair, and I drop the Cat head as I flinch violently.
This doesn't feel real. It can't be real, but it's real. Oh my god, that's his head!
What do I do? Do I call the police?
I remember Phone Guy saying to never call the police. But what the Hell do I so if I can't call the police?!
The Button! The panic button under the desk. Well, I'm certainly panicking . . .
I sit in the chair, swivel around and slam the panic button with my fist, three times. Then I slam both my hands down on the desk, making a loud bang!
Now what? What do I do? Is that all, just call the police? Do I just wait for the police here?
. . . No, I can't stay here. I can't stay in this room!
I get up without looking back, unlock the door and head out into the hall. I gasp for breath, and realize how quick and panicky I'm breathing. I lean against the wall with my arm, and lean my head on my wrist.
It was his head. His head was in the suit. Someone cut-off his head.
  “Gah! . . . I gotta get out of here.” I wander down the hall, and as I do, I remember doing the same thing this morning, to talk to Omeo. “Omeo . . . Yes, hey! Omeo!”
I start jogging and head around the corner. Omeo nods towards me when he sees me. I wave both my arms when he sees me. I don't know what to say . . . I hear his radio crackle to life.
  “Security, Lockdown. I repeat. All Security, Lockdown! A man-”
BANG!!
A loud, sharp bang echoes through the whole centre, making me instinctively duck down.
I glance all around. I can hear a dull, high-pitched ringing in my ears.
  “Omeo!” I call out.
  “Lockdown!” bellows Omeo, sounding dead serious, and he points at me. “Get back in there!”
Then he turns towards the people down the hall.
“Y’all head into the lounge, okay?”
I turn to head back. As I do, I hear growling and someone yell out “Get ‘em!”
I turn towards the voice to see something at the bottom of the escalator that looks like someone with a shag-pile rug over their head. In one hand, I see a wooden rifle with a sniper scope on it. The sight makes me turn and run back down the hall. I open the door, but stop when I see the head on the carpet once more. It's still there. It's really there.
I don't take my eyes off of it as I step inside, shut the door and lock the latch.
  “What the hell is going on, now?” I say. I sit in the study chair and flick through to Camera 08, in the reception area. I see the man with the gun. There are half a dozen people running, scattering towards doors as he swings the gun, as usual it's perfectly silent, as it’s all images, no sound. By the desk there is someone in a sandy-brown fursuit, with a brown pitbull mauling their arm. The man in the gun approaches, and I see that it's not a rug over him, but he appears to be wearing some kind of hood made of pelts - two or three black and brown animal skins, roughly stiched together. He walks up to the fursuit, points his gun at them and pulls the trigger. There's a flash from the muzzle, and the gun is so loud, I hear the gunshot thunder through centre. The fursuit falls limp, and the furskin-wearing gunman grabs the dog by the collar, and spins him around. As he does, I see that the dog has patchy dark and light brown fur, and some kind of protective vest and collar around it’s front. There's someone in a grey dog-character fursuit struggling to run, the man sics the dog on them next.
  “Tower to Security. What the hell’s going on up there?”
  “There's a man with a gun!” I say into the radio, panicked. “Omeo said we're in lockdown. - uh, Bouncer said. There's a man with a gun. Over.”
  “Central. Have you pressed the emergency button? Over.”
  “Yes,” I say, glancing under the desk. “I already pressed it. Over.”
As I look under the desk, I see something loose that looks like a shoelace hanging from the drawer. I push the chair back and crouch down. I grab the string, and it feels like plastic but can't see, so I take my phone out of my pocket and switch it on. The light from the phone shines on the wire, and I see it hanging loosely from the panic button. I also see the other end of it.
The other end was stuck to the drawer, but at the end where it's cut, there's a scratch along the metal, cutting through the paint to where someone’s swiped a knife across the wire.
It's been cut off. There's even a sliver of red by the cut. It must be the same knife that beheaded Phone guy.
I feel a knot in my stomach as I crawl out from under the desk. The police weren't called. We're cut off.
There's another bang! as the gun fires again.
I stand up and look around, see the filing cabinet and remember the phone back there. I take a step towards it, and freeze when I lay my eyes on Phone Guy’s head once more. I can see the side of his head from this angle, his left ear.
I feel sick.
I force myself to look away and I focus on the cabinet. I grab the handset and press it to my ear. It's silent.
I pull the phone unit closer and see the cut phone line and power cord, hanging loosely behind it. They've cut all the lines.
I drop the useless phone and feel chills. We're trapped.
I step around the head, and kick the Cat suit-piece out of the way as I grab the radio.
  “Operator is dead. We're cut off. Call the police. Over.” I say.
As I do, I see the monitor, Camera 08. Three collapsed fursuits are laying on the floor, the pitbull biting the leg of one pink tiger suit. But in the very middle of the downstairs reception area is Mismatch. Grey dog head, purple fox tail, ragged pants. He is looking at the gunman in the furskin, and I see that Mismatch is holding a knife in his bare, left hand.
Is he going to try to fight him?
Furskin gestures upwards with the gun, then Mismatch nods his head, and starts jogging towards the elevator.
He's not fighting him. He's helping him.
Furskin grabs the dog by the collar, and drags him towards the exhibition hall as Mismatch heads into the elevator.
I quickly speed through Cameras 07, 06, 05, 04 & 03 to see the second floor elevator on Camera 02.
I grab the radio.
  “Bouncer, our mismatched attacker has a knife. He's coming to the second floor. Over.”
After what feels like ages, I see Mismatch head out of the elevator. But, he doesn't head for the headless lounge, instead he cuts across the room full of chairs and heads straight for the hallway with the security office. Straight for me.
Before I switch  the camera view, I can hear the heavy, padded footsteps. The doorhandle rattles as he grabs it. I hear a muffled voice mutter something, then the familiar sound of metal scraping and the lock clicks.
As the door cracks open, I leap out of my chair and throw my body against the door. It slams shut, and I pinch the doorlatch, twisting it locked.
  “Hey! What the fuck?!” yells out Mismatch, his voice muffled by his mask.
The handle jostles, then I hear him try the key again. The latch tries to twist under my fingers, but I have a firm,  and determined grip. It hurts my fingers to pinch the metal so hard, but I will break my fingers before I let him through this door.
I hear another echoing bang! - Furskin is still downstairs, shooting people.
Mismatch stops turning the key and the door shudders as he kicks it in frustration, making the keys jangle in the lock.
I glance back at the monitor. I can't see just outside the hall, since it's still on Camera 02, but I don't see Mismatch walking away, so I keep holding the door locked. There's a strange thock! noise, and I hear a grunt and splintering wood. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s stabbed the knife into the door,  but the wood must be too thick, it didn't break through. There's a woody crunch, then thock. Thock. Then it stops.
  “Hey!” calls out Mismatch, “I can't get in the fucken door!”
There's no answer, and I hear the footsteps jogging away. I glance ar the monitor again, and see him jogging to the railing to xall downstairs. He's going to get the other guy. Furskin. The guy with the gun.
I quickly get up and without sitting  down, I switch the view to Camera 01, just outside the door. The hallway is empty.
Should I run? I don't know if I'll make it, if I try to run, but I also don't know how much longer I can hold that door closed, especially if there's two of them trying to break in.
I point the camera right at the door. I Can't see much damage, it just looks like two black lines in the door; but there's something hanging from the doorknob. The keys!
I check Camera 02 again. Mismatch is still leaning over the railing.
I quickly unlock the door and open it. I peak out, and Mismatch hasn't turned around.  So I reach around the door, grab the hanging ring of keys, slam the door shut and lock it with the latch.
I sit in the chair and check out at the keys. They're Phone guy’s keys. These two must have killed him.
I look at the monitor to see Mismatch running back towards the hall. He must have heard me slam the door. I hear him run back along the carpet,  and the door shudders violently as he slams his fists against the other side
  “Give me back the keys!” he screams.
‘No . . .’, I think to myself.
  “Dad, help!” cries out Mismatch. “He's taken the keys!”
Did he say ‘Dad’? Furskin is his father?
I hear him run down the hallway, and on the monitor I see him head around and go down the escalator.
No, I can’t leave. I can’t run. I reach into my pocket, but I can’t find my phone. I left it bundled up with my clothes, so I grab Phone Guy’s phone, on the Lost Property table. I dial 000.
  “Emergency response. Is this for police, fire or ambulance?” says a man on the line.
  “Police. Definitely police.”
  “One moment . . .” he says. After a second someone else speaks, a woman.
“This is Police Emergency. Can you tell me where you’re at?”
  “Doomben Convention Centre,” I say.
  “Alright. What’s the emergency?” she says .
  “Yes, there’s a man with a gun, shooting people.”
  “Has anyone been injured?”
  “Yes, shot and killed. Maybe five people.”
  “Okay. Police are already on their way, we have a few people on the line. Do you know who the shooter is?”
  “No, but he’s here with his son, the same kid that was arrested here a few days ago. I think the shooter is his dad.”
  “Alright. Do you know where he is?”
  “No, but I can find out,” I say.
  “It’s a good idea to stay where you are, if you’re safe. Are you safe? Is the door locked?”
  “Yes. I’m a security guard, I’m in the office with the security cameras,” I say, and I flick through the cameras to see that Furskin is harassing people in the Exhibit Hall, and I see Mismatch run up to him.
  “He’s in the exhibit hall, by the entrance. There’s a lot of people in there. His son is with him.”
  “Okay,” says the lady.
  “I think they also killed my boss, cut his head off. I’m sorry, I don’t know his name.”
  “That’s okay. The police are on their way, just sit tight and stay on the line. You can help us sort out this situation.”
  “Okay, well, there’s a guy with a rifle, his son has a knife, and there’s an attack dog. A pitbull. He’s biting people,” I say. As I speak, I see Furskin head past Mismatch, out of the hall. “He’s moving now.”
  “A pitbull dog?” says the lady on the phone.
  “Yes, it’s biting people. But, the gunman is heading out of the hall . . . ” I switch around the controller to see that the man is marching with purpose towards the escalators, and when he gets there, seems to jump up them two at a time with his huge lace-up army boots. “He’s heading upstairs now. I think he’s coming for me!”
  “Okay, I need you to close any windows and lock the door if you can, safely. Are there any windows?”
  “No, no windows,” I say.
  “Okay, then just get to the back of the room, okay? Away from the door.”
  “Open this door!” yells Furskin, he sounds furious. “Open this door, you perverted scum!”
That voice, I recognize it . . . it’s the same man that was ranting and raving last Monday.
  “Okay . . .” I whisper into the phone as I stand up.
The door shakes violently with a bang! As he kicks it, but it doesn’t break.
  “Just get as far back as-”
BANG!
There’s a sound of gunshot, and I hear a loud pop by my ear, and the sound of cracking glass. I feel the warmth drain from my legs and I collapse back into the chair. As I do, I take the phone from my head and look at it. The screen is completely black, with spidery cracks all over the glass leading to a hole the size of a pea.
My ears are ringing, and everything seems muffled. My vision is going spotty. As I turn my head, I start to drift off, and I can just faintly hear the sound of sirens. Is that an ambulance? I think I need an . . . my head falls forward and hits the desk, then everything goes black

†

Westminster Chimes. Like a clocktower, or an old, grandfather clock. I recognize the sound of Westminster Chimes. Is it midnight already? The End of my Shift?
I open my eyes, and I’m staring at the ceiling. The light shines right in my eyes, and I have a dreadful headache. I move to sit up.
  “Hey, whoa, whoa . . .” says a voice. It sounds far away. I turn to my right, but can’t see anyone. The door is open. Two hands touch my shoulder, surprising me. “Don’t move. Doctor’s comin’, little man.”
That sounds like Omeo. The voice is coming from behind me, but my left ear feels weird, I can’t hear right. It sounds muffled, like it’s underwater.
  “I can’t hear right from the left side . . .” I say.
  “Hey, you lucky to be alive, man,” says Om. “Shot in the head, you should be gone.”
  “What happened?” I say.
  “You were shot,” says Omeo.
  “No no no, the police. The shooter.”
  “Dead, man,” says Omeo. “When the cops came, he shot the kid, them himself.”
  “Oh, hell . . .” I say, and I put a hand to my head.
  “Hey, lay down, man,” says Omeo. “That went through your head - don’t know what that did to your brain, man.”
I do as I’m told, and I lie down, turning my head to the side so I don’t stare at the light. As I do, I see the Catsuit head. It’s staring at me, sitting on its side next to the open doorway.
  “Is everyone okay?” I ask.
  “No, man. Frank is dead. Kel’ was shot. We’re all pretty buggered, man.”
  “Jeez . . .” I mutter. “I have a headache.”
  “Here, I’ll hurry the doc’ up,” says Omeo. He stands up, and his huge shadow passes over me as I watch his feet step by me as he walks out of the room.
It’s just me and the Cat Head. It’s almost comforting. And to think, a week ago, I was horrified just to see it.
  “You’re not so bad after all . . .” I say.
  “Not so bad, yourself,” says the Cathead.
  “No . . . no no no,” I say, and I try to sit up and crawl away, but my head is screaming in pain, I can't move without seeing spots. I yell out “HELP!”
  “It’s okay, Jerry . . . it's me,” says the Cathead. “It’s only me.”

Five Nights at Furries, Night 4

THURSDAY, 5:43 ᴘᴍ

Local Furry Convention threatened with “Toxic smell” - Attacker Not Found

In December of 2014, at the Hyatt Regency Hotel, the occupants of Room 963 complained of sickness and nausea after reporting a foul odor coming from the hotel, which was hosting the Midwest Furfest, a convention where attenders dress as anthropomorphic animal mascots.

Initially, five people were transported to Lutheran General Hospital due to breathing the toxic smell. Police and paramadics responded by 12:47 am, and by 1:00 am, firefighters discovered a broken glass bottle containing an unknown, white powder, inside the ninth floor stairwell - which was believed to be chlorine powder.

Symptoms of chlorine exposure includes burning of the eyes and mouth, choking, coughing, chest pain, headache, nausea, vomiting & trouble breathing.

Whilst officers investigated several suspects, the attacker was never found.

  “That’s just crazy . . .” I mutter to myself, scrolling through the phone as I read through the articles. “Why would anyone do that?”
I flick through three more similar articles as I walk from my car to the Doomben Convention Centre. I was trying to figure out more about that green cat fursuit and why it smelled so bad, so I looked up ‘furry convention’ and ‘smell’ online, but then found a lot of articles about a chemical attack. After a few minutes of reading, I realize that I’ve been standing at the pedestrian crossing for a full traffic light cycle, so I force myself to close the browser on my phone and put it back in my pocket.
I jog towards the convention centre, and can’t help but glance at the terrace as I approach, to make sure there’s nothing standing in that blind spot. When I head up the steps, I’m both glad and anxious to see that the furries are back tonight, so I can finally ask them what I couldn’t last night. Random internet searches have let me down, and kind of disturbed me, but I’m still nervous about approaching people to ask personal questions about their hobbies and smells . . . it seems rude, and it kind of is, but I can’t help but feel like it’s more rude to just assume they’re all weird for weirdness’ sake.
I head towards a group standing outside the centre, on the steps. There were six people, three girls in colourful shirts, one short girl with a tail around her waist and a hairband with ears, a young man in a leather jacket and two people in fursuits, a yellow mouse and a blue and red fox with rabbit ears.
One of the girls, with glasses, was telling an anecdote about a local burger place. I stand back for a moment to let her finish before intruding.
  “So, I just said ‘sure, just give me a vegan burger with cheese’,” she said, as some of the friends laughed. “I didn’t want halal, but my fursona eats cheese! What else could I say?!”
  “You could have just eaten vegan,” said her friend with the tail.
  “But I hadn’t eaten all day! I needed protein!”
  “Excuse me?” I say, stepping forward, having the group turn to look at me. “You guys are all attending the convention?”
  “Yeah,” says the girl with the glasses, “Are you lost?”
  “You can get a lanyard at the front desk,” interjects the guy.
  “No, I work here,” I say. “I’m just curious, y’know. I don’t really get . . . why you dress up as animals. I mean, I don’t want to be rude or anything, I just don’t really get it. I was wondering if you . . .”
  “It’s just for fun,” says the glasses girl, with a shrug.
  “Yeah, some people like Star Trek or comic books or Harry Potter,” says the girl with the tail, and she swings her hips to make her tail swish, “but, we like fluffy animals, because they’re cute!”
  “And for the cool books and art and other stuff, y’know . . .” says the glasses girl.
  “Yeah, but, the suits . . .” I stumble over the words.
  “Look, not all of us do the sex thing,” says the guy, sounding annoyed.
  “Hey, some people do it, that’s their thing, y’know, there’s no need to judge people for liking that. Love is love, after all, that’s not just a gay marriage thing,” says the other girl, wearing a bright shirt with Disney characters on it.
  “Yeah, but nobody here does it,” says the guy.
  “Some of them might,” argues the girl. “Just because they also like the family-friendly cons doesn’t mean they’re not into it. You don’t know.”
  “I know for a fact they wouldn’t,” says the guy. I can see I’ve resurrected an old argument, so I interrupt him before he continues..
  “No no no,I wasn’t asking about that. I mean, the smell. The other day there was a head, part of a fursuit, in Lost Property, and it smelled rancid. I mean . . .” I gesture towards the mouse. “Doesn’t it smell in there?”
  “No, not at all!” says the mouse, in a voice that is appropriately high-pitched and squeaky, and barely even sounds muffled by the headpiece. She even gestures animatedly as she speaks. “You have to wash, silly . . . but there’s also a really cool - Cass, can you hand me my bag?”
The girl with the tail bends down and picks up a large gym bag and hands it to the mouse. Cass kindly opens the bag, and the mouse rummages around before finding a small spray bottle. It looks like bug spray, but with a colourful label.
  “Here, look!” says the mouse, carefully stepping towards me down the steps. She holds up the bottle, and I see that it says “Citrusss - orange + lemon scented spray”, and it has a picture of a yellow and orange snake on the bottle, with ingredients below, mostly alcohol and some fragrance oils.
  “What is that?” I ask.
  “Suit cleaner!” says the mouse. “You spray it on your suit to stop it from smelling. I usually just use rubbing alcohol and water, that kills any germs, but I bought this today so I can smell lemony fresh as well, see?”
Sure enough, I can faintly smell oranges around the mouse fursuit.
  “Fursuiting is no different than cosplay, dressing like Batman or Master Chief” says the girl with the tail. “I only do ears and tail, but I love anyone that puts in the effort!”
She grabs the red and green cat-rabbit fursuit in a hug.
  “So, suits don’t usually smell?” I ask, rubbing the back of my neck.
  “No, duhh . . .” says the mouse, shaking her head, exaggeratedly. “We’re not crazy, nobody likes to be smelly, right? People in the community share stuff about keeping suits clean and healthy. There was a talk just on Tuesday all about fursuiting.”
  “Then, what would make a suit smell rotten?” I ask.
  “Well, if someone isn’t part of the community, they might not know yet,”  offers glasses girl, “like, maybe they’re new or something?”
  “Or fake,” says the guy, “and they use their suit for something other than cons.”
  “Ugh, you’re gross,” says the girl with the tail, giving the guy a playful shove.
  “Okay, thanks,” I say. “Uhh, keep on . . . trucking.”
I wave awkwardly, and peel away from the group, then head inside the front door. I feel a bit anxious, since I’m still not totally comfortable around the costumes - they’re cute and fluffy, but the eyes still creep me out. But, I feel better now than the other night, at least it all kind of makes sense to me. Well, everything except what was inside that black and green cat fursuit the other night . . . and where it got to.
As I head up the escalator, I see that there are a lot of people, more than usual hanging around the reception area and chatting. I head around through the room full of chairs and knock on the security door. I wait for a few seconds, but the door doesn’t open. I knock four more times, a bit more slowly. Is anyone inside? I think to call out, but Phone Guy is usually inside, and I don’t really know what his name is. And I’m not going to call out “phone guy”, so I just knock again four times.
  “Come on . . .” I say. I bang on the door with my fist. There’s still no response, and I groan, loudly “How am I supposed to get-”
Suddenly, there’s a click and the door opens. Phone guy is standing there.
  “Hey, wow, Jerry? I didn’t expect you to be here so early,” he says.
  “Okay . . .” I say.
  “No, it’s all good. I’m kinda glad you came when you did. Come in, come in,” he says, waving me in. He steps aside and I head into the little office. As I do, I can faintly hear a soft, scratchy sound like a distant radio.
  “Did you not hear me knocking?” I ask.
  “No, sorry, it’s uh . . . it’s been a long night here for me,” he says, and he picks up a phone from the desk, attached to a set of hearphones. I realize the tinny, screeching sound is rap music, playing loudly through the little speakers. “After a week of staring at these monitors, it drives me crazy, so I listen to music.”
He switches the sound off and puts the phone in his pocket, then sits down in the study chair.
  “Hey, do me a favour. Could you check inside those crates in the back room?”
  “What’s the back room?”
  “Oh, just storage. We have extra chairs, tables, urns and stuff. It’s at the end of the hall, just outside,” says Phone guy. He hands me the set of keys and turns back towards the monitors again.
  “Okay . . . why do you want me to check inside the crates?”
  “Someone in administration was wondering what was inside the empty boxes back there,” he says, waving a hand to gesture vaguely behind himself. “I’d check myself, but we have a full house tonight. I can’t leave here.”
  “No, I mean, why do you want me to check the crates? What am I looking for?”
  “I think they’re looking for paper. Just tell me what you find, I’ll hold out here until you check.”
I head out of the security office, turn left and head towards the storage room. There's  a window looking upon the street outside, pure black from the tint and night sky.
I unlock the door and step into a somewhat cluttered storage room, switching on the light by the door. There are shelves to the left side, all along the wall and lined up in heavily-stocked rows; four whiteboards on wheels stored together as though to create a makeshift barricade down the middle, then stacked tables and chairs on the right side.
I see several blue, plastic crates at the bottom of the furthest shelf to the left, so I pull three of them out and open the lid of the first one. It's entirely filled with paper cups. I put the lid back, slide it away and open the next box. Inside, there are several plastic sheets for laminating, as well as a laminator and an extension cord. I put the lid on and open the next box full of teatowels, then I catch the hint of a smell hits me that makes me cough. The sour, musty smell of rotting meat. I stand up and get some fresh air, but the smell lingers in the air. I step back, take a breath, then kneel down again.
  “What is that?” I mutter, turning the box. I reach in and lift up some towels. As I do, I see something dark just under the edge of a towel and flinch, dropping them, thinking it's a cockroach. I peer down the side of the crate, but it doesn't move and there are no thin legs peeking out, so I lift the towels again. I stare into the box as I flip the teatowels over and put them on the ground beside me. In the box, there is a dead, grey mouse. It's shriveled up and its legs and tail seem crooked on its thin, rotten body, but there are still tufted clumps of hair on the thing.
I stand up to get some more fresh air, and I see that the towel sitting on it has a rusty-brown patch where the mouse had been.
Poor little thing must have gotten sealed in and died. I take a breath and kneel down, then carefully pick up the mouse by the tail. It feels dry and thin in my fingers. I place it on one side of the stained towel, then carefully fold it over, to cover it. I stand up and head back to the security office, knocking on the door. Phone guy unlocks it  and as I step inside and lean against the open door, he glances at me from the chair.
  “Any luck?” he says.
  “No. No paper. But, there was a dead mouse in one of the boxes.”
  “What? Did you say ‘dead mouse’?”
  “Yeah, under some teatowels. I should probably wash my hands.”
“Whoa . . .” Phone guy scoots the chair to the far side of the room from me. “you touched it? Definitely, yes, go wash your hands, man.”
  “Well, yeah, I mean, I was going to anyway. But I figured I should let someone know first, so they can handle th-”
  “-Uh uh, now!” he says as he stands up and picks up the phone on the filing cabinet. “I'll deal with that, but you go wash your hands in the bathroom. don't get any mouse guts in here. Go. Now.”
  “Okay,” I say. I turn and head out the open door, towards the elevator, to head down to the toilet.

I wash my hands twice, just to be thorough, then pass a crowd of furries on the first floor to come back up the elevator.
I head into the security office, where Phone guy is, somewhat aptly, on the phone to reception.
  “Yeah, no paper though,” he says. He glances at me and puts a hand over the mouthpiece. “Can you watch the monitors for a bit?”
I nod and he returns to the phone.
I sit and quickly flick through the screens. I see that both of the exhibit halls are packed. There are two presentations on tonight.
  “If it's easier, transfer me to Alex, I can explain it all. Thank you,” says Phone Guy.
I check the ballroom and see that the dealer’s den is packed as well. Mostly regular people, but with dozens and dozens of fursuits peppered through the crowds.
  “Hey, Alex! Not too busy? . . . Okay, my new guy just found a dead mouse in our storage room. I asked Will, and apparently all the cleaners have gone home . . . yes, I laid eyes on it, it was in a box of towels, they'll need cleaning as well . . . In my opinion? We can't wait overnight. That rotten smell could spread through the whole room and- . . . okay, thank you.”
I hear him hang up the phone.
  “Hey, Jerry. Can you hold up here until I get this sorted?” he asks.
  “Uh . . . well, I'm not in uniform, but if that's okay, yeah.”
  “Oh, yeah yeah, sure,” he says,  waving his hand lazily. “You just lock the door and get changed quickly. I've got to deal with this. Who'd have thought a freaking mouse would be such a big deal, right?”
I just shrug and Phone Guy heads out the door. I lock the doors behind him, then look back at the monitors.  Things seem calm. At least, as calm as they can be with a full convention centre. So, I quickly slip into the locker room, throw my shirt off and change into the light-blue short-sleeved shirt. I head out as I do up the buttons to check on the monitors, then run back and slip into my black trousers.
I return to the office, sit in the chair after zipping up my fly and I tie up my shoes as I watch the monitors.
Everything is still calm. The audience in the exhibit hall are getting a bit rowdy and laughing, but I think they're just enthusiastically enjoying the show. I tighten my belt, then sit up in the chair, prepared for a long haul.

The main halls of the exhibition centre start to become less crowded, returning to their usual peppering of attendees. I soon realize that the majority of the crowd is here specifically for the show going on in the conjoined exhibit halls. It surprises me, because rather than a stageshow, music or play like earlier this week, it's just a kind-looking old man wearing overalls telling a story, yet everyone is flocking to it. I thought it was a comedian at first, but some of the signs in the main hall advertise the event as: Furrytales - as told by Old Man Horsecollar
He is very animated when he speaks, but I still don't know why he got the biggest crowd. Maybe it's just a furry thing . . .
The monitor tours through several of the cameras. Camera 09, in the ballroom, where there are still quite a few people shopping in the dealer’s den. Several of the sellers have even hung around, for the huge crowds. Over to Camera 10, and I see the gamers are back in their corner, although there are less of them, and they appear to be playing a card game. The view switches automatically to Camera 11 upstairs, a packed up room for briefings with a whiteboard in the corner.
A dark figure enters the room. The monitor switches over to Camera 12, a nearly identical briefing room.
  “What was that?” I say, and I flip the monitor back to Camera 11. In the middle of the room, staring up at the cameras, is the Catsuit. Those neon green claws, ears, eyes and teeth are unmistakeable. It is looking straight up at the camera, standing perfectly still. Almost like it's staring at me.
I find myself staring right back at it. I wonder what is underneath that fur. I think I let my fear get the better of me the other night, I am not sure what I saw. But, I still can’t shake the feeling that there’s something wrong under that mask. I find myself taking short, shallow breaths, and I feel frozen. I don’t want to move or look away, in case it would see me flinch.
After what feels like a minute, the Catsuit actually looks away, and walks out of the room. I find myself sighing heavily, my throat dry. I take another quick breath and exhale when my breath gets caught in my throat.
  “Where did it go?”
I swallow to try to get rid of the dryness in my throat and I check through the cameras, frantically stabbing the ‘Next’ key with my finger like some kind of panicked Morse Code. I don’t see the Catsuit on any of the twelve cameras. I look on the left and right monitor and I see the thing on the upstairs camera, standing in front of the elevator. I scold myself for forgetting the upstairs fixed camera and watch as the creature waits there, back to the camera. As I watch the strange  thing on the camera, I remember something Phone Guy told me about the top floor, three nights ago:
“ . . . it should be empty. Of course, if anyone IS up there, radio immediately . . .”
I grab the radio from the desk.
  “Central to Security, we have an intruder upstairs. I repeat, we have an intruder upstairs, on the top floor. Over.”
The elevator opens and the creature steps inside. The doors slide shut.
  “Central, this is Doorman. What’s the situation? Over.” says Kelly over the radio.
  “Doorman, the suit that attacked me yesterday is back! Black cat, green eyes and ears,” I say. I quickly change the central monitor to Camera 02 with my free hand, to show the viwe just outside the Level 2 elevator, and I switch between watching it, and the fixed camera watching the ground elevator on the leftmost monitor. “It’s heading down now, over.”
  “Central, please repeat. I don’t understand what you’re asking. Over.” says Peter in his familiar accent.
  “Suspicious individual, wearing a black cat suit. Green eyes. Over,” says Kelly.
On the left monitor, I see the elevator door open, and the Catsuit walks out. It seems to walk in a slow but steady shuffle, barely lifting its feet.
  “On the first floor,” I say into the radio, “Keep your eyes on it. Over.”
The Catsuit walks off-camera, so I  press ‘Next’ on the controller to flick through the cameras on the centre monitor. 03 and 04 are upstairs, with nothing to see. 05 shows people wandering around the entrance, but I don’t see the black fursuit. 06 is inside the exhibit hall, as is 07.
Camera 08, showing the reception and just in front of the elevators, has several more people wandering around, but, I still can’t see the Catsuit.
  “Where did you go . . .” I mutter to myself. I press ‘Prev’ to flick back through the cameras. On Camera 05, I see it. I get a flash of green eyes just before the cat turns around and the dark figure heads up the escalator.
  “Kel- uh, Doorman!” I say into the radio. “On the escalator, nearest to you, over.”
  “Are you saying the target is still on the elevator? Over” asks Kelly.
  “No, escalator. I repeat es-ca-later. Should be right in front of you. Over.” I say.
  “I can’t see anything. Over.” says Kelly.
  “Can’t . . . see it?” I mutter to myself. I flick back to Camera 02 again, and I watch as the Catsuit heads up the escalator.
I feel a slight tightness in my chest, like a cold, dark hand is taking a firm grasp of my heart, and I can feel its every thump.
  “Hightower? Bouncer?” I say into the radio, “Can someone come here, please? It’s on the second floor now. Over.”
The Cat trudges past the water fountain towards the Hallway.
  “Guys. Now, please?” I say into the radio. I quickly jab the controller to switch to Camera 01, outside the door. I see the Catsuit as it heads down the hall, and I slowly turn to the door as I hear the thump, thump, thump of heavy, padded feet on the carpet outside. The latch is vertical, the door is locked. It can’t get in here. The sound stops. I glance at the monitor. The Catsuit appears to just be standing there.
I look back at the door. Outside, I hear the familiar, ripping sound from yesterday. Then a very soft, metal scratching sound that I don’t recognize at first.
With a clunk, the door latch turns and the door unlocks. My blood turns cold.
The door opens, soundlessly, as the Catsuit pushes open the door, its limbs scratching and ripping as it moves. Those green, neon eyes stare down at me from its height.
I can’t move.
  “ . . . Do you remember . . .” says the Catsuit, in a raspy, slightly muffled voice.
As I stare, I let out a soft, wordless exhale that sounds like a meek groan. My hands feel so empty. I just have the radio in my hand, grasped tightly between my desperately clenched fingers.
The Catsuit leans forward, reaching out its neon-green claws once more.
  “GET AWAY!” I screech. I jump up from the chair and smack it in the side of the face with the radio. It makes a dull thup noise, like punching a pillow.
  “ . . . hey!” says the Catsuit. And suddenly it grabs me by both arms, and stares directly into my eyes, barely inches between our faces. So close that I can smell the familiar, sour rot from before. “Remember, Jerry. Costume is not consent . . .”
  “ . . . What.” I say. I grab the head and tear it from the body of the Catsuit. “Phone Guy?!”
Underneath the mask is Phone guy’s sweaty, bald, black head. He has a cheeky grin on his face.
  “What the- what. What? Whuh-why?”  glance at the head in my hands, then put it on the study chair. Phone guy snorts and starts laughing.
  “Woo! Oh, man . . . the look on your face . . .” he says, then starts cackling some more..
  “What the hell, man!” I say, and I give him a shove. He just shrugs it off and keeps laughing “Wh- . . . what the . . . What the the actual Hell, man! You scared the crap out of me!”
That just makes him laugh harder.
  “Ohh, man . . . oh, despite wearing this thing, it was worth it,” he says, and he grunts as he pulls off the glove. There’s a sharp ripping sound as he does, then he detatches a wire inside and he drops it on the floor. When he does, I see the velcro around the wrist, and a red electrical wire.
  “Why is there wire in the glove?!” I say, a little louder than I meant to.
  “Oh, yeah yeah, it lights up,” says Phone guy. He reaches into the sleeve behind the other glove to press a switch. When he does, the neon-claws glow from little lights inside. “Cool, huh?”
  “Why the Hell are you wearing that? Isn’t that from lost property?” I ask.
  “Oh, no no,” he says. “Here, can you help me out of this thing?”
  “ . . . No,” I say.
  “Whatever,” says Phone guy, and after dropping the other glove, he pulls the collar of the suit forward, and more velcro opens with a ripping sound. He pulls his arms out of the sleeves, leaving the black body hanging in front of himself, and I am forced to step back from the overpowering smell of body odour.
  “Ugh . . . you smell,” I say.
  “Yeah, usually I just go for something less conspicuous,” says Phone Guy. “But I got this from a stall downstairs, so you wouldn’t recognize me.”
  “You bought that thing?” I ask. “But why? Why didn’t you want me to recognize you?”
  “Oh, just a standard test,” says Phone Guy. “You’re new to all this, and we need to test you out on the floor. I wanted to know how you’d act under pressure. I can’t put any of our patrons at risk, so usually, I just wear sunglasses and a hood, try to look like any other patron. Just my luck we hire a new guy when there’s a furry convention on, right? But, hey, you couldn’t tell it was me, could you?”
  “So . . . this was all a test?”
  “Oh, no no . . . “ he says, waving his hand dismissively, “Yesterday I was testing how you’d act on the floor, face-to-face. You were doing okay, then you freaked out and attacked me. I was a bit worried, but I figured it was probably because you were terrified. y’know, because of the whole mascot costume thing. So, rather than let the suit go to waste, I couldn’t resist scaring you.”
  “Couldn’t resist? You’re a jerk. I thought I was going to have a heart attack . . .”
  “Hey, it’s all good . . .” he says. “No disrespect. I’m just playin’.”
  “Whatever,”  I say. “And, you do know that furries clean their suits, right? They have perfumes and stuff.”
  “Huh, right . . .” says Phone guy, slipping off the suit and the paws on his feet. I have to admit, seeing how uncomfortable and hot he was in that suit does make me feel better about him scaring me. “Anyway, got to get back to work. We’ll save more field training for next week, alright?”
  “Okay, then.” I say.
Phone guy collects up the gloves, feet and suit from the ground and heads into the small locker room.
I go to sit down, then jump up immediately when I feel the lump in my chair. I grab the head and smack it onto the short coffee table by the wall, then slump into the chair.
  “Good grief . . .” I mutter.
I settle into my chair once more, take a calming, deep breath, and set the monitor to tour.

†

I jump at the sound of the phone in my pocket. I’d been staring at the screen, yawning, when the sound of Westminster Chimes brought me back to reality. I take the phone out of my pocket and glance at the screen:

12:00 ᴀᴍ -  End of Shift

I close the alarm, rub my eyes and stand up from my chair. Tonight was a long night, and Phone Guy creeping up on me in the suit got me so worked up, it tired me out.