Outfoxed at the FBI

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Seattle, October 2026

Brodie Wheeler sat at his desk
and stared blankly at the stacks of paper in front of him.
He would have preferred to stare out the window
but he had not yet acquired
the status necessary for an office
with such accoutrements,
and one had to make do with one what had.

He sighed.
Ever since FBI Director Frank fucking Neeson
had told the Senate that bestiality would no longer
constitute an automatic disqualification
for Bureau employment, applications had surged.
The Seattle field office — his office —
had been swamped.
He’d just spent eight hours interviewing
two werewolves, three catgirls, a hucow
who answered every question with “moo,”
and a big-boned woman who claimed
she was a werebear and who,
after he made a crack about Carebears,
told him that she hoped he would enjoy
his official reprimand because she intended,
after this interview was over,
to file a complaint with HR
on the grounds of racial discrimination.

In other words, it had been a long fucking day.

And it wasn’t over yet.

One last candidate.

He glanced down at her CV.
Lisa Vulpesian. A twenty-nine-year-old
political scientist from Los Angeles
with proficiency in Armenian and Russian
and most recently employed as a contractor
at the State Department.

All of which meant nothing.
On paper, every candidate looked good.
Even the hucow, despite
the inability to speak any syllable beyond “moo,”
had documented experience optimising best practices
and streamlining processes to maximise ROI.

The door opened
and Lisa Vulpesian walked in.

Brodie stared. Then blinked,
clenched his jaw, and prayed
that he hadn’t grimaced.

Christ. A foxy lady.
He’d seen such women out and about,
but never quite so up close and personal. 


Two pointed furry ears stuck out like tents
pitched on a mass of auburn hair,
while her breasts bounded forward with an enthusiasm
that gave the impression of sentience.
Behind her, a magnificent tail rose up
like a flame.

“Hi, Lisa,” he said, rising and extending his hand.
“I’m Brodie.”

For some reason, it occurred to him
that while he knew
that dogs went woof, cats went meow,
and birds said tweet and mice said squeak,
he had no idea
what this fox would say.

Recalling the hucow’s limited vocabulary
and half-anticipating a reply
of “ring-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding!”
or perhaps even “chacha-chacha-chacha-chow!”
he heaved a sigh of relief
at Lisa Vulpesian’s well-modulated “Nice to meet you”
as she shook his hand and flashed a smile
full of overly pointed teeth.

He gestured to the chair
and she sat, crossing her long slim legs
in such a way that gave him
an excellent view of bare thigh.

Shiiiiiiiit.
He forced his gaze upward.

Unfortunately,
it landed on her rack.
Almost as impressive as the hucow’s,
if he were honest. The hucow, though,
had made some effort to acquire clothing
that disguised her physical assets
while emphasising her professionalism.
Lisa Vulpesian, by contrast,
appeared to have disregarded the former entirely
while making a half-hearted attempt
at the latter.