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Once upon a time a Canadian decided to run for president of the U.S.A. This was odd not only due to his nationality, but the fact that he happened to be a fox.
Now, this fox was a clever, as foxes are wont to be. For this fox had not always been a fox. Once he had been a man; a man full of hubris, who tried to do and manipulate too much.
One day he was working on some skiency biology stuff. (For this man was a skientist named Tiri before he was a fox, you see) Now the skientist was very proud. He eschewed the normal publications and research methods. For no, he was far above that all. His skience was better than their science.
So the skientist decided there was no one worthy of even testing his experiments on. For clearly no one else was quite so evolved as he. And besides, he was sure this was a harmless hair-tonic.
So it came to pass one day; he tested a beaker full of skientific swill. And oh, it was a horrid taste, all bitter and green in his throat. It did not seem to stop at his stomach, but seeped out through his body, oozing through his bloodstream, changing things. By the time it reached his toes, he could not stand!
And, oh no, he fell!
His head, it bashed against the corner of one of his skience machines. When he awoke groaning, the world appeared in mysterious shades, not like any colors he'd seen. In fact, it was like all color had been leeched.
He raised up his hands to his face, to perhaps rub sleep or grit away, but when they reached his line of sight they were not hands at all, but paws!
All covered were they in fur, thick and deep. So of course the scientist tried to let out an 'Eeek!'
But all that came out was a rumbly growl that modulated down to a whimper as he frowned around teeth that had grown all sharp and too long. Why he almost bit down on his own poor tongue!
His growl/whimper attempt at a shout did bring his research assistant out of the next room where she had been huddled among her papers and bottles and skiency stuff. He looked at her; pleading for her to understand.
For, you see, he happened to know: this Canadian girl could hunt. And with what he suspected was his new guis. He afeared his pelt could be seen as a prize.
But no, this girl (woman really, but our foxy scientist was one of those misogynist men when he was a man), she did not grab her gun. For she was too smart to do something so rash. She looked at the creature lying before her: a whimpering mass of red fur and torn lab gear.
It was a fox, of that she was certain. Seeing this, oh what were her options? She had a gun in her car, for her boss was most crazy. (If not for the grants she would have left in a hurry. But with the recession, she dare not leave security.) And so she brought a gun as insurance.
Now, she looked at this man-fox, and thought many thoughts as quick as she could. (Which was quite fast, for our heroine brave was more of a thinker than credit was gave.) She pinched her arm hard, and when she did not awake, began to look at the clues and deduce, this scientist brave.
She noticed the lab coat, the bottle drained down to the dregs. 'Foolish fox-man, oh look what you've done! How can I publish my findings on molecular mutations of the Canidae now? For you have drunk at least two the samples!'
She thought yet more thoughts, then continued aloud, 'You need to watch for reactions. Please notate each step in how this came about, you crazy skientist.' But when he did not reply, she left in a huff, as her mind had latched onto one more thought that needed attention now, oh yes, quick.
The fox-man still remained in his lab, unhumble. He stayed there a minute, pondering his fate and wondering how he was to explain this. Obviously it must be the result of his skience, and not the research of his assistant. How to take all the credit, and none of the blame? These were the things of which he thought, oh unscrupulous fox.
But he could not just lie there, he must get up! He swung his arms/limbs, above and about, in search of a paw hold to lever himself up. For he was determined not to scurry about like a rat. No, he never could/would do that. He exerted some force and bended his limbs. He attempted to stand, walk, run, free.
But in the end, all he could do was fall.
He fell with a crash upon a lab counter top. Beakers did shatter (they were from an inferior batch) and more skience substances were spread. Some seeped through his fur to reach his skin and did burn.
He hoped and hoped they would reverse the effects, or perhaps wake him up from this terrible dream. This could not be his life, for no one would award the Nobel to a fox, he was sure.
He tried again, determined to move. He twitched each muscle, took stock of the changes.
This would not stop him, oh no it wouldn't. He tied to calculate how best to stand. Then with a great heave he stood on two paws.
He did it! He internally crowed. (For the fox was not him, and so not worthy of an 'I')
He/I/the fox, whomever he was, he walked with shaking steps, his balance all off. But walk and walk he did, though not quite a run. Until he managed to reach the door to the lab. He looked at his hand, now a paw, then down at the handle.
His throat let out a growl. This was so not good. He knocked his head down. Twice against the door it pounded. As he leaned down again he did not strike a surface. The door was wrenched open, and what he saw astounded him.
For there before him, roused by his (now former) research asisstant, was a media circus.
The cameras and flashes, oh how they did blind him. People reached out, pulled on his fur, tugged his tongue.
Oh no, he did not like this.
He had strived for acclaim, acknowledgement for his skience. But not this, oh no, not cries of freak and fraud. (Later, of course the research assistant would claim, she did it for good.
She knew if he raised a rucus first, her science and logic would be ignored. Of course, this way did not work. For who cares for science when you have a distration of freakish proprtions?)
Fortunately for the fox, amid the stares and and camera flashes there were those who cared, not just for the freak, but for the fox. (Or at least so they told him, and some at least believed their own words.) They carried him away, not to another lab to be poked and prodded.
Oh no, not that. They carried him not to a lab. Instead they took him to a swank hotel. There he was pampered, whined and dined by talk show hosts and ministers prime. They all wanted to know what, who and how. (Not to mention the cost.)
For so many possibilities lay in the elixur he drunk. Be it weapons or furries, money could be made. So they payed for spa visits, for his pelt of hair to be combed out. Pampering and praising and cooing abounded, along with speech coaches and writing with paw instructors.
This lasted a full year, the high priced wooing. The fox he had spoken much of his skience. (For yes, in this time, a new voice he did aquire, which was gravely even though higher. But it was all his, and yes, he could use it.) Yet he did not, could not, give them any real answers.
While adulation was fine, he knew he needed to go back to the lab, find his notes and then read them. For the attention must have a price, you see. He needed to replicate the skietific draught to earn more pampering and professional ear sckritching.
But try though he might, he could not do it. The substance refused to be replicated. He tried mixing these things, that and those, but nothing came of it.
He knew this because, as he was as unscrupulous a fox as man, tested his brews on unknowing particpants. He slipped things into drinks and then watched. For let us not forget, this fox was not kind.
It was in that streak of meanness that lay the key. For he had forgotten all about her, you see.
The lab assistant, yes, her, the fierce one. For it was science, not skience, that worked wonders.
Her work, not his! And yet he could not even remember enough to grovel. An occurrence for which she was well prepared, with notes and evidence. (Not to mention her trusty rifle.)
Instead he just fretted, twisting his whiskers. This fox man was frustrated. Why would they care about him? Why, why, indeed? He needed that attention, along with its renumerations.
But then, oh then see, the fox did hit upon a plan perfect.
He summoned back the media circus, recalled the cameras and withstood the flashes. He grinned a fierce grin, showing just enough teeth, and announced to the world what next he would do.
He would challenge the bounds of what foxes can do and run for office! And not any office, no sir. He would be the president of the U. S. of A.
(This regardless of the fact that fox was not quite human, and much, much less his nationality: Canadian.)
Why look at his name recognition! The court battles to fight over animals rights! He would make such a stir. They would not think at all about his skience, now lost.
The fox then finished his speech, gave a bow and wink. He lifted up his face to the camera, toothy grin still in place, and said: 'The end,' for he knew he had won.