@meridianbarony is an enabler and honestly thank god because this finally broke the writer’s block. ❤
Also because my boy has a new potential boyfriend and how could I not.
Title: Winning
Series: TFIDW/MTMTE/LL
Ship(s): Swerve/Misfire
Rating/warnings: E for sticky interface, blow jobs, kinda spike worship, talking while fragging, snowballing, and just a lot of good silliness while fragging
——————————-
“Is red actually my color?”
Misfire stilled mid-bob, flickering his optics back to life to look up at Swerve. While his helm had stopped moving, his tongue was still warm and wet and pressed against the underside of Swerve’s spike in a way that nearly distracted him completely.
Nearly.
But there was no ignoring the hot shock of shame and apprehension. Misfire was going to think he had been distracted, not paying attention, and he’d be offended and affronted that Swerve would be thinking about anything else while getting his spike sucked—
And yet, Misfire didn’t look the least bit annoyed. If anything he looked thoughtful as he pulled off of Swerve’s spike with an audible pop. His optics locked with Swerve’s as he rubbed his check against Swerve’s spike, seeming to not care at all about the oral lubricant it smeared across the surface.
“Is red anyone’s color?”
Misfire’s servo was relentless as it squeezed and released Swerve’s spike, stroking lazily with no rhythm to speak of, and still pressing it against the side of his face. Pleasure coiled low in Swerve’s frame as he groaned.
“I mean, a lot of bots have red–”
“Exactly!” Misfire interrupted. “So many mechs have red as part of their colorscheme that like. Even if it looks good, it’s not, you know. Unique. Especially with you Bots. Every other one of you got red somewhere on there.”
Swerve might have been insulted if Misfire wasn’t nuzzling against his spike like it was a beloved pet.
“Like you guys don’t have a disproportionate love for purple.”
Misfire held a servo to his chest, jaw dropped and looking appalled with a level of theatrics that somehow didn’t seem at all at odds with the short fat spike still held tight to his cheek.
“How dare you. I’ll have you know this shade of purple is very unique. They don’t call it The Misfire Special for nothing.”
And Swerve couldn’t help it – he started to giggle.
Which turned into hiccups when Misfire shifted his helm down, keeping Swerve’s spike pressed to his face while sticking his glossa out to flick at the anterior node nestled just below his spike sheath.
“Ok, fine, you got me,” Misfire continued, his nose nudging along the platelets of Swerve’s spike and his ex-vents cool against Swerve’s valve lips. Swerve’s laughter finally dissipated with a shuddering moan. “But you gotta admit that I make it look good.”
“Well, obviously,” Swerve managed breathlessly. His hips bucked as Misfire mouthed at the base of his spike, lapping and sucking his way back up to the tip. “But do I look good in red?”
Misfire looked at him very carefully, his optics bright as they traced Swerve’s frame. Or, at least, as much of it that he could see with his face all but planted in Swerve’s crotch.
His lips brushed across the head the spike as he spoke.
“Ok, listen. Folks got a lot of great things to say about me, but even I’ll admit that being nice isn’t one of them,” Misfire said. He nudged at Swerve’s spike with his chin guard as a grin started to pull at his lips. “But honestly? Most bots with red could and should find a better color, but I can’t imagine you in anything else. Like, you’re committed to red, and it’s definitely working for you.”
Swerve whined as scolding hot pleasure washed over him in pulsing waves.
Misfire’s grin grew so wide it nearly split his face.
“Theeeere it is,” he singsonged gleefully. “Found your weakspot, pipsqueak.”
His glossa was slick as it swirled around the tip of Swerve’s spike, tasting the bead of transfluid that had escaped.
“Nothing like a compliment to get you off, huh? You sick little puppy.” Swerve’s spike twitched in Misfire’s hold as he ex-vented, biting his bottom lip tight between his denta.
“It’s pretty weird, huh?”
Misfire shrugged.
“Maybe, but I love it.” The servo was stroking again as Misfire rubbed his face against the fat spike. “I can’t wait to learn how to be nice so I can give you a boner whenever I want.”
Another wave of pleasure hit at the same time that Swerve’s spark throbbed with emotion, and with a short litany of surprised curses, overload took hold of his frame without warning. Hips jerked and transfluid escaped in bursts as Swerve panted and trembled against Misfire.
The flyer’s engine purred.
“Guess you can’t aim either, huh, pipsqueak?”
Swerve onlined his visor to see that his transfluid painted the side of Misfire’s face, some having shot hard enough to catch on his helm ornament while the rest dripped down to collect between his chin and cheek guards. His glossa was sticking out to the side in an attempt to lap up some of the mess around his mouth.
Swerve meant to apologize. To say that he hadn’t realized he was so close, that he tried to hold back, that he could go get something to clean up the mess—
“Brainstorm literally made a gun just for me because I have such bad aim.”
And instead of teasing him about it, Misfire’s optics flickered as he replied, “I have got to get me one of those.”
Swerve, in his post-overload bliss, couldn’t stop himself from giggling at the mental image of Misfire carrying the ridiculous looking “My First Blaster.” And about the fact that they both had terrible aim. And the fact that Misfire continued to be on the same topic-hopping wavelength as Swerve, proving to not be the least bit put off by having unsexy conversations during every step of interfacing.
Swerve’s spark warmed with bubbly affection.
Misfire pushed up so he was face-to-face with Swerve, smacking his lips as he finished the last of the transfluid that he could reach. “You just gonna keep laughing, or are you gonna help me clean up this mess you made.”
“Yeah, yeah, hold on,” Swerve managed between giggles. His servo moved to his side to dip into his subspace, but Misfire’s servo caught him by the wrist first.
“Lick it up but don’t swallow,” Misfire said, and as much as it was worded like an order, it sounded more like gleeful conspiring,
Swerve snorted as he asked, “Seriously?”
And Misfire puffed his bottom lip out in a pout while transfluid still dripped down his face.
And his optics glittered when Swerve just started laughing again, even as he leaned in closer.
It took a moment, but Swerve managed to focus enough to curl his glossa as he licked up Misfire’s cheek, catching a little pool that he held there as he pulled back. The mystery didn’t go unanswered for long though as Misfire grasped Swerve’s face with both servos and leaned back in to thrust his glossa into Swerve’s mouth, swirling to catch the transfluid and swallow it down himself. Swerve shuddered and opened his mouth wider for Misfire, and he couldn’t help noticing that his whines were met with an equal number of rumbling hums and groans from Misfire as he licked Swerve’s glossa and mouth clean of transfluid.
“Gross.”
Misfire licked his lips.
“Liar. You loved it.”
“I can think it’s gross and still love it,” Swerve pointed out and Misfire just grinned wider.
“Neither of us know how to shut up, or how to aim, and we both have nasty oral fixations?” Misfire asked as he lifted his servo to his face, swiping more of the transfluid off. The dirtied digits immediately were caught between Misfire’s lips and he sucked them clean, slipping his glossa between and across them as he did, all while his gaze was focused on Swerve’s.
Swerve didn’t know if he had ever depressurized after his overload, but he did know he was fully rigid now as he stammered, “Wait, don’t swallow,” and pressed his mouth to Misfire’s in a messy tangle of glossae and digits and transfluid and loud, drawn out moans.
By the time Misfire’s face was finally clean, he had Swerve pressed back into the berth and his servo back around Swerve’s spike.
“What’s your opinion on clone-fucking, pipsqueak?”
Swerve shuddered as he grabbed at Misfire’s thighs where they straddled the minibot’s hips. Misfire’s valve dripped lubricant down onto Swerve’s sensitive array and his hips drifted down just enough to let the lips kiss the tip of Swerve’s spike.
“I’m very pro clone-fucking.”
“Yet another thing we have in common,” Misfire announced with glee before dropping down to completely encase Swerve inside his hot clenching valve. Swerve hadn’t even overloaded yet, wasn’t even over that first wave of pleasure with Misfire around him, and already he couldn’t wait to lick his transfluid out of Misfire’s valve.
And when Swerve told Misfire that, the flyer gasped out “Oh frag yes” as his valve spiraled tight in overload.
The universe was so going to regret letting them meet, and it Swerve loved it.
They’re not used to wild life. They won’t last long.
Pokemon Sanctuaries were made for this.
Which species of Pokemon would be considered domesticated as opposed to tamed? Are Miltank domesticated at this point? Furfrou?
(Longrange is indoctrinated if not outright brainwashed, Sharpshot is furious at that, confusion ensues when those collide.)
“You forgot everywhere
else.”
Longrange paused, mildly puzzled,
and looked their frame over for a moment. They hadn’t missed any visible areas,
and they knew they hadn’t gotten dirty enough to need any sort of deep
cleaning, so they were done. They tried to tell Sharpshot as much, but he was already
steering them back into the shower. Puzzled but cooperative, Longrange sat down
on the bench again, helm tilted to watch Sharpshot. “I’m- I’m sorry, but I
don’t know what you’re talking about, to be perfectly honest.”
Sharpshot, electing to demonstrate rather than talk,
sat down next to them and showed them a long, thin brush. “This is for
cleaning under plating. Someone clearly hasn’t shown you how to use one. You’re
shiny and attractive, yes, but you need to clean the parts of you that are not visible. You need to keep
yourself comfortable. Hold still.”
As expected, Longrange
cooperated. It usually made Sharpshot angry that they were so compliant, but,
in this case, it might be helpful. Wasn’t as if one could easily scrub under
the plating of someone who was actively running away from you.
It was working, at least.
Longrange was still wearing their all-too-common “what in Primus’ name are
you doing” expression, but they were relaxing, and there was no undercurrent of
anything negative. Still- best to ask.
“Longrange, do you want me to
stop doing this? If it’s unpleasant for you, I will stop.”
No, they really didn’t mind. In
fact, Longrange leaned into Sharpshot, more than happy to go with… whatever
this was. He confused them, but he seemed very earnest about helping. However
this was supposed to help. They looked nice! They were fine!
…although that did feel good.
If ticklish. “No, no objections, thank you, this is actually quite nice,
but- ah! Goodness! That’s- I- oh!”
Wait, no, too ticklish.
People who started to squirm that
much generally wanted whatever was happening to stop, so Sharpshot paused, then
shifted to a different area that didn’t earn as much wiggling. “Good. Hold
still. And, urgh- look down.”
Primus. How long had it been
since anyone had done this? Ever? The solvent running from under Longrange’s
lifted plating was filthy where Sharpshot was scrubbing, Not enough to truly
interfere with anything, but it couldn’t be comfortable. “How much of your
weight is grime?”
Longrange would have been light
in the first place, meant to be held on someone’s arm, and the carved markings
in their plating lessened their weight even more. It was absurd. Sharpshot
could throw them over one shoulder and carry them away. Had, once. It made them
even more confused.
Poor, deluded, brainwashed Longrange. Somehow not
aware that they should be outraged over having their genetics lab-modified to
make them prettier for their owner. What on Cybertron did a noble even need with
a long-range telescope? What-
Oh, he was getting riled up
again. Probably best not to do that, Longrange was confused enough already
without further outrage on their behalf.
Oh good, he’d stopped. Longrange
had no idea how to communicate “please continue doing this thing but alter
it slightly to suit my minor and unimportant request” without sounding
incredibly selfish. This was lovely.
Entirely unnecessary,
though. “Sharpshot, this… this feels very good, but… I’m quite clean
enough. I need to maintain my image if I am ever going to find a new Lord. I-”
almost a chuckle, but not quite, this wasn’t the funniest thought, “I do
terribly hope that wouldn’t require me to take my plating off. Not that I’m…
quite certain. People have been unofficially appointing themselves to the
position for me. I haven’t needed to look. Would you… happen to have any
ideas?”
That’s a bit sad, isn’t it?
Servitor-class mech asking how to find a new Lord. It wasn’t as though they’d
had any practice in this. Every time they’d been available, someone had…
picked them up. Often literally. It was their role in life.
Longrange was making it very hard not to be visibly
outraged on their behalf. “No. I… wouldn’t know how to go about finding
yourself a new owner. Unless you want to go all-out, put a leash on yourself,
and hold an auction,” Sharpshot grumbled, then paused, hissed, and outright
glared up at them. “Do not do that. Instead, explain to me why you need an
owner.”
Dear Primus, there’s that
brainwashed expression again. Like they’re baffled by the very thought of
questioning any of this. Perfectly happy with their life as a decorative
pet.
Was it not obvious? Genuinely taken aback, Longrange
leaned away to look down at Sharpshot, optics wide and helm cocked. “I’m-
first of all, not an owner, a Lord. And… look at me. Really. My alt mde is
immobile. I am entirely useless without someone to use me.”
This was true. Yes, they could
theoretically position themself to look at things themselves, but what good
would that do? They weren’t any sort of leader, they weren’t a strategist. The
best they could do was look at things and enjoy it. Enjoyable, admittedly, but
useless. That didn’t do anyone any good. Sharpshot really didn’t seem to be
getting the idea, though, and evidently something was upsetting here.
Turning slightly to the side,
Longrange placed their servos on Sharpshot’s servos, meeting his optics. Well-
meeting his center optic, that was probably the best place to look. “Sharpshot,
I am servitor-class. When needed, I work for strategists. When not in active
warfare, I work for nobles. Nobles use my alt for their enjoyment, and, as you
can see by my plating, the rest of me is used for decoration. That is my role
in life. And it’s, really- it’s fine!” they crooned, armor lifting, optics
bright and earnest. “It’s not hard! I follow someone around, I keep myself
clean, I transform when requested, and that’s it. One of the easiest jobs I
know of.”
…oh dear. Sharpshot had that
furious expression in their optics again. It was borderline terrifying,
honestly, his scope-optic whirred and dilated rapidly as if focusing on a
target.
Ow, okay, that hurt. Sharpshot’s
primary optic physically couldn’t focus on anything this close, so he shut it
and shook his helm, using the moment of time to settle his plating down. He was
probably scaring Longrange, wasn’t he?
Dear Primus. He’d hoped that
asking Longrange what they thought was happening would help him figure out how
to get around it, but it was mostly just making him angry.
A few deep vents to settle himself, then he patted
Longrange’s arm, sighing quietly. “I understand that you… are very set
in your role here. I suppose it offers you some level of stability, hm? But
stability that centers around being controlled by, used by,
other people for no reason other than the frame you were born into. You are a
person. You are not a tool. Look at me- my alt is incapable of operating
properly without assistance! But I do fine on my own. I don’t need an owner. Stop- stop
saying ‘Lord’, Longrange. If someone controls your every movement and what
you are allowed to do, if they fuel you and provide you with a place to live
only so you will do something for them, if they have ultimate control over
everything including whether or not you are allowed to interface, they see
themselves as owning you!”
He tried to stay calm. He really
did. It didn’t work. “And- and another thing! You are not going to burn
out your lenses if you overload! Believe me, overloads have not hurt me, not one iota. We
are living beings born of a species meant to self-reproduce in a process
involving overloads, there would be no practical reason for overloads to do us
any harm! How do you think your ancestors reproduced if not by interfacing and
overloading?”
Ah, he was getting through, Longrange was starting to think, he
could see it in their optics-
Until it faded into a
forced-looking version of the infuriating mindlessness from before.
That- that couldn’t be-
Sharpshot was almost scaring Longrange at that point
with the outright fury in his optics. He was nearly shaking, armor
flared, optics blazing, gripping Longrange’s arm in one servo, as intimidating
as someone his size could be. The one thing keeping Longrange from being
genuinely afraid was the fact that it wasn’t directed at them. It was at, what-
their Lord? For- for wh-
He was right. He was right about-
about overloads, wasn’t he? And about- yes, fine, “owner” was a more
accurate word, Longrange had nearly been their Lord’s pet, but that was okay because pets got fed
and-
…being
a pet was okay? Being, essentially, one of the bred-out-of-practicality leashed
mechanimals was okay? Being- being lied to about their own frame, being told
they couldn’t interact with others because their Lord was too busy to stand
around and allow it, being picked up and carried at any moment despite their
feelings on the matter was okay?
…no, no, this line of thought was dangerous, this
line of thought got people transferred -no, sold– to places no one ever heard
from them again, and it- and their-
Their Lord had always been kind
to them. Aloof, but kind, keeping them clean and well-fueled and away from
people who looked at them wrong, had never demanded anything of them but what
their frame was made for, had-
-how had it become such an
accepted thing that a servitor-class mech might have to do more than what their
alt was made for? How- how was that-
How did-
What-
But they-
Vocalizer clicking a quiet noise of distress,
Longrange sat back against the wall, hunching into the corner for protection
against the onslaught of things they’d never had reason to think of before.
They didn’t have anything to put against Sharpshot’s- well, not quite evidence,
but everything he was saying made sense. Far too much sense.
They didn’t know what to do.
They really, genuinely didn’t
know what to do.
So they defaulted. They stood up,
stepped in front of Sharpshot, and waited for orders.
Frag.
Frag frag frag.
Was that- had he just run afoul
of some sort of slave coding? Sharpshot’s spark lurched, but Longrange didn’t
have that faded look in their optics, the way people did when something pushed
their rational thought away. They looked incredibly, unbelievably confused, and
a little bit like they might be about to cry.
Whoops.
Maybe Sharpshot should have been
more gentle. This was probably his fault.
At least Longrange was thinking.
Even if that thinking included seemingly running out of processor power and
just standing there waiting for him to give them an order. Poor mech.
…maybe an order would help,
actually. Gesturing slightly, Sharpshot whispered “come here, Longrange”
and coaxed the taller mech closer, petting and lightly pressing on their frame
until they were back on the bench with him. This time, lying down, helm in his
lap. “There. Now… stay here. Let me keep cleaning you. All right?”
Longrange
didn’t seem to have any complaints.
Probably wouldn’t say if they did.
Primus save the poor thing from their own processor.
I’m not even posting your emergency vet advice question. It’s not appropriate to message a vet blog about time sensitive advice, ever, and hope that I just so happen to look in time?
Make a phone call to your vet clinic or poison control. It’s been hours.
For those wondering, most vet clinics either will refer to a nearby overnight/24-hour clinic when they’re closed, or they will do their own afterhours work.
Many vet clinics are open late, so if it doubt call your local clinic. They will answer if they are there, and there is a very high chance of the answering machine message telling you how to contact a vet until they open next.
None of us want animals to suffer, so the majority of clinics have something in place.
sorry if i’m being a party pooper but because rabies is apparently the new joke on here ??? please remember that rabies has an almost 100% fatality rate after symptoms develop so if you’re bitten or scratched by an animal that you aren’t 100% sure is vaccinated then GO TO A DOCTOR. it’s not a joke. really.
You’re being kind when you say “almost 100% fatality”. What people need to hear is: if you get to develop rabies symptoms, you’re dead. If you get heavy treatment after developping symptoms, you still need a miracle. Like, a real miracle, you should enter some religion if you escape that.
ALSO, I don’t want people feeling confident about petting stray/wild animals because there’s a vaccine available, either. I’ll explain why from my own experience (I’m not a doctor).
I got bitten by a wild tamarin once, on the pulp of my index finger. It drew blood, there are many wild animals in the area (tamarins, possums, bats, foxes) and it isn’t that uncommon to hear about 1 or 2 rabies cases every now and again (a puppy we gave to a friend got it, for instance), so I went to an ambulatory immediately.
Because I was bitten in an ultrasensitive area, I needed fast treatment. But it was also a small area, so the usual thing they do – inject the vaccine in the place – wasn’t a choice. They told me they’d divide the shot in 5 small ones, and inject me all over my body, so the antidote would get to my entire system fast.
Please stop for a moment and think that the disease is so worrysome that they’d rather needle me all over than to give me one shot and wait until it spread through my system.
Then they said that, okay, but there was a catch first. I needed to take an antiallergic shot. “Why?” “Because the virus is devastating, and as the vaccine is made from it, but weakened (like almost every vaccine) it will still create a reaction, and it’s a strong one, and it’s veru common for people to have strong allergic reactions to it.” YOU HAVE TO TAKE AN ANTIALLERGIC SHOT IN ORDER TO TAKE THE VACCINE COZ THE VACCINE COULD POTENTIALLY MAKE YOU REALLY SICK
ALSO IT WASN’T JUST “A LITTLE ANTIALLERGIC SHOT”
IT WAS ONE OF THESE FUCKERS HERE.
It was OBVIOUSLY dripped in my body and not injected because HAHAHAHA. Truth be told I was an adult already and I’m tall so I have a lot of mass but STILL.
So after I had taken the antiallegic and was starting to feel drowsy (as a side effect of it) the doctor came with the 5 shots.
– One in each buttock
– One in each thigh
– One in my left arm
They all stung like a bitch and I usually don’t care about shots.
“Okay so can I go home now?”
“No, we have to keep you under observation for 2h so we’re SURE the vaccine won’t give you any reaction.”
BINCH I WAS GIVEN A BUTTLOAD OF MEDICINE BUT THERE WAS STILL A RISK.
I slept through the two hours and then was liberated to go home. My legs, butt, and left arm hurt all over, like I had been punched there, for a few days. I also had a fever (not feverish, a fever)
BUT DID YOU THINK IT WAS OVER?
WRONG!!!
I had to take four reinforcement shots in the next month, one a week, so I could be positively be considered immunized.Every time I took a shot, my arm would swell and hurt like it’d been hit, and when night came I’d have a fever. Because that’s how fucking strong the vaccine is, BECAUSE THAT’S HOW VICIOUS THE VIRUS IS.
So yeah. DO NOT PUT YOURSELF IN RISK, GODDAMNIT. Rabies is a rare condition all over, THANK GOD, and 1 confirmed case can be already considered a surge and a reason for mass campaigning, AND FOR A REASON.
If you like messing with stray/wild animals, don’t go picking them up and be extra careful. Or just, like, DON’T – call a vet or an authority that can handle them safely.
I must add that I live in a country with universal healthcare, so I didn’t pay a single penny for my treatment. Is this your reality? If not, ONE MORE REASON TO NOT FUCKING PLAY WITH THIS SHIT.
Rabies is 100% lethal. Period. If you are scratched or bitten by an animal you’re not positive is vaccinated, you need to find treatment NOW. And probably go through all that shit I’ve been through (also if you are immunosupressed? I DON’T KNOW WHAT’D HAPPEN)
Stay safe and don’t be stupid ffs
Guys, I know this isn’t art nor anything like that, but I’ve been hearing about this rabies thing and ???? Look I trust none of you would risk yourselves like this, but maybe you can educate someone through my experience and stuff.
Also rabies does not necessarily cause frothing-at-the-mouth aggression in animals. Docility is also a very common symptom so any wild animal that is ‘friendly’ or ‘likes to be pet’ is suspect. Literally any wild animal is a vector.
Finally, you don’t need to be bitten. All you need is to come into contact with an infected animal’s bodily fluids through a cut that maybe you didn’t notice when you were handling it when it drooled on you.
Never touch a wild animal.
Infection with the rabies virus progresses through three distinct stages.
Prodromal: Stage One. Marked by altered behavioral patterns. “Docility” and “likes to be pet” are very common in the prodromal stage. Usually lasts 1-3 days. An animal in this stage carries virus bodies in its saliva and is infectious.
Excitative: Stage Two. Also called “furious” rabies. This is what everyone thinks rabies is–hyperreacting to stimuli and biting everything. Excessive salivation occurs. Animals in this stage also exhibit hydrophobia or the fear of water; they cannot drink (swallowing causes painful spasms of the throat muscles), and will panic if shown water. Usually lasts 3-4 days before rapidly progressing into the next stage.
Paralytic: Stage Three. Also called “dumb” rabies. As the infection runs its course, the virus starts degrading the nervous system. Limbs begin to fail; animals in this stage will often limp or drag their haunches behind them. If the animal has survived all this way, death will usually come through respiratory arrest: Their diaphragm becomes paralyzed and they stop breathing.
And to add onto the above, saliva isn’t the only infectious fluid. Brain matter is, too. If, somehow, you find yourself in possession of a firearm and faced with a rabid animal, do not go for a head shot. If you do, you will aerosolize the brain matter and effectively create a cloud of infectious material. Breathe it in, and you’ll give yourself an infection.
When I worked in wildlife rehabilitation, I actually did see a rabid animal in person, and it remains one of the most terrifying experiences of my life, because I was literally looking death in the eyes.
A pair of well-intentioned women brought us a raccoon that they thought had been hit by a car. They had found it on the side of the road, dragging its hind legs. They managed–somehow–to get it into a cat carrier and brought it to us.
As they brought it in, I remember how eerily silent it was. Normal raccoons chatter almost constantly. They fidget. They bump around. They purr and mumble and make little grabby-hands at everything. Even when they’re in pain, and especially when they’re stressed. But this one wasn’t moving around inside the carrier, and it wasn’t making a sound.
The clinic director also noticed this, and he asked in a calm but urgent voice for the women to hand the carrier to him. He took it to the exam room and set it on the table while they filled out some forms in the next room. I took a step towards the carrier, to look at our new patient, and without turning around, he told me, “Go to the other side of the room, and stay there.”
He took a small penlight out of the drawer and shone it briefly into the carrier, then sighed. “Bear, if you want to come look at this, you can put on a mask,” he said. “It’s really pretty neat, but I know you’re not vaccinated and I don’t want to take any chances.”
And at that point, I knew exactly what we were dealing with, and I knew that this would be the closest I had ever been to certain death. So I grabbed a respirator from the table and put it on, and held my breath for good measure as I approached the table. The clinic director pointed where I should stand, well back from the carrier door. He shone the light inside again, and I saw two brilliant flashes of emerald green–the most vivid, unnatural eyeshine I had ever seen.
“I don’t know why it does it,” the director murmured, “but it turns their eyes green.”
“What does?” one of the women asked, with uncanny, unintentionally dramatic timing, as she poked her head around the corner.
“Rabies,” the director said. “The raccoon is rabid. Did it bite either of you, or even lick you?” They told us no, said they had even used leather garden gloves when they herded it into the carrier. He told them to throw away the gloves as soon as possible, and steam-clean the upholstery in their car. They asked how they should clean the cat carrier; they wanted it back and couldn’t be convinced otherwise, so he told them to soak it in just barely diluted bleach.
But before we could give them the carrier back, we had to remove the raccoon. The rabid raccoon.
The clinic director readied a syringe with tranquilizers and attached it to the end of a short pole. I don’t remember how it was rigged exactly–whether he had a way to push down the plunger or if the needle would inject with pressure–but all he would have to do was stick the animal to inject it. And so, after sending me and the women back to the other side of the room, he made his fist jab.
He missed the raccoon.
The sound that that animal made on being brushed by the pole can only be described as a roar. It was throaty and ragged and ungodly loud. It was not a sound that a raccoon should ever make. I’m convinced it was a sound that a raccoon physically could not make.
It thrashed inside the carrier, sending it tipping from side to side. Its claws clattered against the walls. It bellowed that throaty, rasping sound again. It was absolutely frenzied, and I was genuinely scared that it would break loose from inside those plastic walls.
Somehow, the clinic director kept his calm, and as the raccoon jolted around inside the cat carrier, he moved in with the syringe again, and this time, he hit it. He emptied the syringe into its body and withdrew the pole.
And then we waited.
We waited for those awful screams, that horrible thrashing, to die down. As we did, the director loaded up another syringe with even more tranquilizer, and as the raccoon dropped off into unconsciousness, he stuck it a second time with the heavier dose. Even then, it growled at him and flailed a paw against the wall.
More waiting, this time to make sure the animal was truly down for the count.
Then, while wearing welder’s gloves, the director opened the door of the carrier and removed the raccoon. She was limp, bedraggled, and utterly emaciated, but she was still alive. We bagged up the cat carrier and gave it to the women again, advising them that now was a good time to leave. They heeded our warning.
I asked if I could come closer to see, and the clinic director pointed where I could stand. I pushed the mask up against my face and tried to breathe as little as possible.
He and his co-director–who I think he was grooming to be his successor, but the clinic actually went under later that year–examined the raccoon together. Donning a pair of nitrile gloves, he reached down and pulled up a handful, a literal fistful, of the raccoon’s skin and released it. It stayed pulled up.
Severe dehydration causes a phenomenon called “skin tenting”. The skin loses its elasticity somewhat, and will be slow to return to its “normal” shape when manipulated. The clinic director estimated that it had been at least four or five days since the raccoon had had anything to eat or drink.
She was already on death’s doorstep, but her rabies infection had driven her exhausted body to scream and lunge and bite.
Because, the scariest thing about rabies (if you ask me) is the way that it alters the behavior of those it infects to increase chances of spreading.
The prodromal stage? Nocturnal animals become diurnal–allowing them to potentially infect most hosts than if they remained nocturnal.
The excitative stage? The infected animal bites at the slightest provocation. Swallowing causes painful spasms, so they drool, coating their bodies in infectious matter. A drink could wash away the virus-charged saliva from their mouth and bodies, so the virus drives them to panic at the sight of water.
(The paralytic stage? By that point, the animal has probably spread its infection to new hosts, so the virus has no need for it any longer.)
Rabies is deadly. Rabies is dangerous. In all of recorded history, one person survived an infection after she became symptomatic, and so far we haven’t been able to replicate that success. The Milwaukee Protocol hasn’t saved anyone else. Just one person. And even then, she still had to struggle to gain back control of her body after all that nerve damage.
Please, please, take rabies seriously.
This has been a warning from your old pal Bear.
I knew how bad it was, but I had never read anything like the raccoon story.
I am not exaggerating when I say that is literally terrifying.
Y’all please read this. That is absolutely hideous. That’s literally like something from a horror movie.
Do not fuck around with wildlife. Or weird strays.
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