Exit Through the Gift Shop

 It was a still and listless morning when he woke upon the blue lake's pebbled shore. 

 The forest surrounding the cerulean lagoon whispered with murmured small-talk, drowsy creatures donning a half-baked readiness for the day. 

 Booker sat up and blinked. He had no memory of getting here.

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Once, there was nothing—

And from it, came something. Something, that was short and stout. Something, that was the colour of an open prairie, tan and gold and brown.

His ears folded back.

The skin of his flank twitched at the breeze that blew through.

And he took a drink.

The body—now awake—stirred.

He watched it from the corner of his eye.

His hackles bristled.

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 When he turned he saw another. 

 Booker squinted as if he could bring the blond stranger into clearer focus. He needed to scratch this itch in the back of his head. 

 “Do I know you?” Curious first words.

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He raised his head from the water. Swiped the off-coloured purple-pink of his tongue across the black of his lips. Beads and drops of water, suspended on the fur of his chest.

He shifted his weight. The pebbled shore moved underfoot.

His right ear twitched.

“No.” He grunted. Stood, with his shoulders rolled forward. His head carried low.

He knew nobody.

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 No. Yet he stared at him with the kind of intensity that warranted a magnifying glass and a pipe.

 Booker stared back. “You look familiar.” He said, less of a challenge and more of a statement to himself. Getting up, the stocky coywolf shook himself.

 “Where are we?”

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‘You look familiar.’

He huffed.

His ears rolled back.

And he watched as he stood. Stood, with the slow movements of someone just woken up. Sleep, that still clung.

He licked his lips. Stepped back from the lake’s shoreline. More space, placed between them.



The beginning of an exit.



‘Where are we?’

“Fuck if I know.” He grunted. His hackles bristled at ‘we.’

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 Booker continued staring at the stranger, his coat the color of sun-gilded soil. Like a newborn gosling, he shuffled closer, imprinting. 

 “So, where are we going?”

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He stepped forward—

And he stepped back.

His ears splayed out. Angled, against his head. He growled. His lip twitched. Threatened, to curl and peel from his gumline.

‘So, where are we going?’

“Nowhere.”

He was staying.

And he was going.

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“Fuck off.” He snarled.

His body rigid. Tensed. His hackles bristled.

“Don’t fucking touch me, freak.”

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 It seemed his anger grew as the distance between them shrunk. Booker looked up at the blond's snarling face through his lashes, cold nose still nestled against thick fur. 

 “You're the one talking to a freak, freak.” He inhaled again. Yes - definitely familiar. “What's your name?”

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He snarled.

Snarled, with his ears pinned back, back against his head. Open-mouthed, with his teeth exposed. His lips pulled back.

“And I said fuck off.”

He shoved him.

His chest to his. His front legs against his. Taller than him, and inside his personal space.

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 More warnings, more snapped and flashing threats. Booker waited for a blow, for the sting of teeth to accompany the man's sharp words. 

 Nothing yet.

 The coywolf stepped back, their contact broken, half pushed by the other's display of dominance.

 “I'm hungry. Feed me.”

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Jesus.

He was dealing with a fucking overgrown puppy.

“Feed yourself.” He grunted. Already a half-step back. His ears pressed back.

He was fucking done with his shit.

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