Chapter 11

"Jeffy," you whisper in a most seductive voice. It's a little throaty with sweet melodic undertones. It's beautiful. Jeffy screams. There is a raccoon on your back. He's not terrified for you. There is a raccoon on her back, too. There is a raccoon boxing your right leg and a raccoon crawling up your left and a raccoon dropping from the ceiling rafters and three raccoons hopping down the spirals stairs three steps at a time. They aren't any bigger than you remember, but they are more. They're coming from the kitchen. From your room. From the bathtub. There's one on Jeffy's face and it makes his scream sound funny. You pause to chuckle before grabbing your leatherman from your pocket and brandishing it with a most intimidating air. Some of the raccoons are intimidated but not the right ones. The right ones are the ones digging their claws and sinking their teeth into you and Jeffy. They pause to chuckle before burrowing deeper into Jeffy's soft, warm, smooth skin. Also yours.
Maybe you just have the slipps again and you're pinching yourself to pull yourself out of it. Subconsciously. As hard as you can. On that place on your back where you can't quite reach. And you filed your nails to points earlier today.
"Why the fuck did you bring me here if you knew they were here?" Jeffy shrills, billy clubbing you out of your musings. He's managed to detach all of his raccoons and is now trying to pry the one on your back off your back while you scare other potential latchers-on by stabbing them repeatedly.
"Hey, that hurts," you flirt. You turn to wink but forget to when you see Jeffy's shredded, bleeding and now completely unkissable mug. "Uch" you say. Whether because of your apparent repulsion or because of the raccoon-on-your-back's apparent perseverance or because of the pack of fur hurtling towards her, Jeffy gives up on tearing the thing off and turns his attention to the pack of fur hurtling towards him.
Her eyes flash as she raises his taser majestically in the direction of the attack pack, preparing for another heroic display of self-preservation so characteristic of, and prided by, polls. The lead raccoon leaps forward. Jeffy points, aims, and Doc bounds through the nearest window and swallows the flying raccoon whole, shivering slightly when the electric dart nicks his jaw. He woofs eagerly at the quickly but professionally dispersing pack and pounces, not like a cat. He is bigger than you remember. He is so hungry. He must have tracked you and Jeffy from the pound. You must not have secured the door. Or considered taking any measures to deal with this insatiable and difficult to kill giant. You must have been really, really horny.
As Doc scarfs down the fluffy corpses you take a good long ogle at Jeffy, who has given up trying to aid in the carnage and is now reclining against the far wall enjoying the show, and wonder what the hell came over you. Why were you convinced he was your supervisor? Admittedly, your supervisor is mildly attractive--at least a good bit more attractive than Jeffy, if only because he's a classier dresser. Were you just trying to trick yourself into believing you weren't about to fuck a poll? And how did you think you'd pull it off at your raccoon infested home? There is no explanation.
"Is this place really city-approved?" Jeffy smirks.
"The raccoons didn't used to live here."
"I remember." Jeffy stands up. "So," she says, "are we going to talk or what?"
"I'm not really interested in that anymore."
"...In your job?" Jeffy seems genuinely confused.
"No... in... you know..." Still no light on his mangled face. You search for the right words. "You know... fucking."
"What? What the hell are you talking about?" Now Jeffy looks repulsed.