Why I hate furries (a true story)

When I was a young boy, my father took me into a cinema with my mother. I still remember the film - Zootopia they called it. Crowd for the film was… well, not what you’d expect to see for a children’s film. It was mostly young men, though they all had these headpieces and gloves on that concealed their identity. They were - well - fucking feral throughout the film; I think I saw one of them gouge out of the jugular of another non-masked family’s kid at some point, yelling something about “normie scum” or whatever the fuck they were on about. Needless to say, we were pretty hasty in our retreat from the theater…

But not hasty enough, I suppose. A few of the fuckers followed us out. As we were walking back to our car through some dingy alleyway, they broke out into a full charge towards us (I later learned they called this maneuver a “glomp”) and tackled my parents. They narrowly missed me, but… when my parents hit the ground… there were a few loud crunches when they hit the pavement. I lost everything that night.

So now, I watch. I am vengeance god dammit! And every night I dawn my bat suit to patrol the… to patrol…

I dawn an animal suit every single night…

Oh god.