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"Shut it, bloodfur!"
The punch sends the adolescent red fox down into a puddle of mud, the damp soil staining his clothing, red fur, his white facial markings, and the darker 'teardrop' colorations on his muzzle. Laying on his side, the vulpine writhes a bit, his nose still burning from the earlier hit. He groans, and holds his muzzle.
"Aww, are you gonna cry Frankie?"
Frankie sniffs in an attempt to stifle his tears, his form still writhing on its side in the mud. A sudden, sharp pain in his back forces a yelp from his muzzle, his body twisting in order to hold a hand to the newer, more severe pain in the small of his back.
"C'mon dude, he's had enough!"
The fox continues staring at the ground, having mentally decided not to turn his head at his bullies. Another kick connects with his spine, the fox not yelping, but rather seething through his teeth.
"Stupid bloodfur."
Frankie's ear twitches as he makes out the sound of his attackers leaving the playground, the chain link fence clattering as they hit it on their way out. He waits until they're out of earshot, and shakily stands up, brushing the mud off his clothes and fur, his eyes welling up with tears.
"S-st-stupid co-corsac foxes..."
The fox runs his hands under his cheeks, attempting to rid them of the mud caked on his fur.
"Think they're better than me just cause I'm red..."
Frankie flicks his arms, the mud flinging off in random directions.
"I'll show them!"
The fox looks around, and notes the setting sun.
"Aw crap! I gotta get home!"
Frankie sprints out of the playground and onto the sidewalk, but soon recedes to a walking pace. A noise from the local TV store catches his attention.
"Have we a count of prisoners?"
"We haven't made the final count, sir."
Intrigued, the fox rushes over to the window of the store, excitedly watching the scene through the window. On the TV, a massive crowd of red foxes in tattered clothing and chains are sitting in a valley, surrounded by lions standing on guard in magnificent armor. Frankie stands on his toes, straining for a better look.
"By command of his most merciful excellency, your lives are to be spared!"
The foxes on the screen appear confused, and look to eachother. The lion who looks to be in charge speaks again.
"Slaves you were, and slaves you remain; but the terrible penalty of crucifixion has been set aside on the single condition that you identify the body, or living mammal of the slave called 'Vulpes'!"
Frankie stretches as high as he can go, while whispering:
"Oh no!"
The movie focuses on a particular fox in the crowd, his white markings and teardrop colorations displayed openly, Frankie looking on with a grin on his face. The fox in the movie stands up at the same time as the fox next to him, the other vulpine proudly stating:
"I'm Vulpes!"
Another fox in the crowd stands up.
"I'm Vulpes!"
A fox in the back of the crowd stands up too.
"I'm Vulpes!"
Soon, the silence brought upon by the lion guards is drowned out by foxes in the crowd claiming to be Vulpes. The film focuses on the true Vulpes, and displays a single tear falling down his cheek. Frankie stands down from the window, and runs his hands on his teardrop markings.
"I'm gonna be just like him, and, and, uh..."
The 'bzzt' of streetlights flickering on up and down the street halts the kit's train of thought, his ears flicking back and his tailing coiling between his legs.
"I gotta get home!"
-----
"Frankie Thomas Vixten, what are you doing getting back this late!?"
The kit stops dead in his tracks, slowly closing the door behind him while wearing a face of complete uncertainty.
"Uh, uh, I dunno."
The vixen puts her hands on her hips, and cocks a brow nearly to her ear.
"You don't know? You were just out there, how could've you forgotten already!?"
Frankie coils his tail around his leg, then nervously hugs it.
"I, uh, I lost track of time, I guess."
To the kit's surprise, his mother's angry look fades away, and is replaced by a warm smile instead. She takes a knee, and hugs the kit. The vixen holds the hug for a moment, and lets go, still looking her son in the eyes.
"Tell me, how old are you?"
Frankie bites his lip; the question wasn't hard at all, it's the wondering of why he's being asked that that gets to him.
"I'm, uh, eight years old."
"And how old is your brother?"
"He's, uh, five I think?"
"Exactly, when you're older you can stay out later, and when he's older, he can stay out later, okay?"
"Okay!"
Frankie's mother snorts, and stands back up, brushing off her pant leg.
"Your brother's watching some wrestling match in the living room if you wanna join in."
Frankie chews on his jowl for a moment, then slinks into the living room, his eyes peered on the back of the couch. The fox plops down on the couch next to his brother, and eyes the TV.
"Hey Victor, what's goin' on?"
A bear on the TV does some sort of hold on a tiger, and throws the feline over his shoulder.
"Oh, it's a huge match between Backstreet Bear and Mysterious Mammal, and Mysterious Mammal's been gettin' whooped!"
Frankie squints, and focuses on the action on the TV. The punches, the kicks, the holds, everything just-
"Victor, when I grow up, I wanna be a wrestler like that!"
Victor raises his brow, and gives his brother a condescending stare.
"Really? There's never even been a fox wrestler in the WWF, how are you gonna do it!?"
Frankie snorts, and crosses his arms, holding his nose high in the air.
"I'll just be the first, duh!"
"Then what's gonna be your wrestler name?"
Frankie turns his nose down, and wipes the snooty look off his face, replacing it with a jowl-chewing expression of deep thought. A figurative lightbulb going off in his head, the older brother pumps his fist into the air to match his idea.
"I'll be Vulpes, the ancient hero brought back to life just to kick butt!"
"That,"
The younger brother stares back at the TV.
"That actually sounds really cool."
-----
8 years later...
-----
The bell rings as Frankie comes inside the corner store, carrying several crates of soft drinks. He sets them down with a huff, and wipes his brow, but not before flexing his arms; the past 2 years of training had done him well, his swole everything made heavy lifting that had been a challenge for the average fox an easier task.
"Hey Pops, is that it?"
A much older fox tugs on a cigerette, and blows out the smoke, flicking the butt into a trashcan. He glances inside the back, his eyes scanning the interior of the storage room.
"Naw, that's all. You got time to train tonight?"
Frankie pulls back the sleeve of his grey hoodie, and reads the face of his watch.
"Yeah, it's only eight."
-----
The chains rattle on top of Frankie's shoulders as the fox pulls an incredibly oversized tire, the vulpine gritting his teeth in effort.
"I-I don't think I can do it Pops!"
"Then you're not gonna be a wrestler!"
Frankie pauses, the alley silent aside from his panting.
"Huh?"
"You wanna be a wrestler!?"
"Yeah! 'Course I do!"
"If you want it, you gotta want it more than you wanna breathe!"
Frankie shrugs the chains back onto his shoulders, and begins pulling the tire again, the fox's grunts echoing through the alleyway.
"Now, what'dya wanna be!?"
The younger fox takes another step while lugging the tire, his eyes fierce with determination.
"The first fox wrestler in the WWF!"
"Bullshit! You're still breathing! You gotta put it before breathing if you wanna make it! Go!"
Frankie takes a deep breath, and holds it, lugging the tire the last yard before crossing the chalk line. As the tire crosses the line, the fox lets go of the chains completely, and falls to his hands and knees, panting while staring at the ground. Looking down at Frankie, Pops smirks, and offers him a paw up. The younger fox accepts the hand, and stands up, still panting. The older fox taps him on the shoulder, and gives him a warm smile.
"Out of all the dumbasses I've helped train, I've got the best feeling 'bout you kid."
-----
2 weeks later...
-----
Pops closes the last velcro strap on his padding, then looks up and gives Frankie the 'come at me' motion with his right paw.
"Come on boy, put my ass on the ground!"
Frankie stretches his fingers, the bindings on his hands not allowing much wiggle room. He adopts a fighting stance, and rolls his neck.
"If you say so!"
The younger fox moves in, and kicks out with his right leg, the motion connecting at his opponent's waist. While Pops instinctively rotates to his left to counter the impact, Frankie attacks with his left leg, ducking down and rotating with his leg out, going for the back of his opponent's shins. The resulting hit sweeps Pops's legs out from under him, the older fox literally falling on his rear.
"Sonuva bitch!"
Frankie, having already stood back up from his rotation, chuckles, and offers Pops a paw. Accepting it, the younger fox helps his trainer up, both of them chuckling at the ridiculousness of the fact.
"Hey Pops, what time is it?"
The older fox rotates his gauntlet around his arm, peering at his watch.
"'s 'bout nine, you gotta head home?"
Frankie nods, and quickly puts on his hoodie, moving towards the front door of Pops's corner store.
"Seeya later Pops!"
"You better!"
The younger fox grins to no one as the bell chime signifies his departure, his arms outstretched and starting to unwind the bindings around his han-
"Ow, shit!"
A chain link fence rattles as, presumably, whoever shouted out gets shoved against it. Frankie's ears perk up: that came from around the corner. Leaning against the wall, the fox notes a few inches of binds hanging from his hand. He clicks his tongue, weighing the possibi-
"Do I have to repeat myself, agent orange?"
Frankie furrows his brow, and starts rewrapping his paw. As he rewinds, he peers around the corner, an-
A corsac fox grabs a red fox by the collar, and slams him into the chain link fence again, another corsac leaning against the same fence, casually smoking a cigerette.
"I said, give me your fucking money, bloodfur!"
Corsac fox, 'bloodfur', another corsac on lookou-
Frankie leans against the wall, his mind playing memories of the day he decided to be a wrestler. It's them, there's no way it's not. The fox starts breathing faster, his teeth gritted in anger. Putting a hand to his face, Frankie calms himself down, then comes around the corner, his paws in his pockets in order to hide the bindings, and his hood up and over his head.
"Look dude, I don't have any money on me, I swear!"
The panicked voice makes Frankie pause mid step, it almost sounds just li-
Victor, pinned against the fence by the lead corsac, looks down the sidewalk and spots Frankie, his face developing a look of curiosity, before-
The lead corsac fox slaps Victor across the face, and pushes him harder into the fence.
Frankie seethes through his teeth, his former calm pace turned into an animalistic sprint.
"Look me in the eyes, bitch. Ain't no one coming to help you, bloo-"
Frankie grabs the corsac fox by his right arm, pushing the corsac's right shoulder away with his other hand. The corsac, forced with fear of disloating his arm, lets go of Victor, but to no avail: Frankie continues the motion, and rotates the corsac's arm around even further, a gross 'pop' signifying the dislocation of his arm. The older brother goes even further, using the corsac's own weight to throw him over his shoulder, the red fox dropping mid-fall to emphasize the impact.
"I'll getcha, you sonuva bitch!"
Frankie rolls backwards over the fallen corsac fox, and stands back on his feet, noting the fox who was previously smoking a cigerette running at him, fists clenched. Frankie goes into a fighting stance, and swings out with his right leg, the impact landing at the waist. The corsac turning to the right, the older brother sweeps with his left leg, the corsac's legs coming out from under him. Rather than leaving the combo at that like he did with Pops, Frankie swings a left hook, the hit connecting with the corsac's jaw, the momentum of falling only multiplying the force of the punch. The corsac falls to the ground, out cold, while the previous corsac writhes on the ground, holding his dislocated arm. Frankie looks up from the sidewalk and at his younger brother, who had frozen in shock, still against the fence. The older brother flicks his arms, and taps his brother's shoulder.
"What did you think I was doing all those nights, smoking nip? Come on, head home, I'll be following."
Victor nervously nods, and walks off, his body visibly shaky from what he's just witnessed. Pulling his hood back up, Frankie takes a knee next to the corsac with a dislocated arm.
"Th-the fuck do you want?"
Frankie puts his paw on the dislocated shoulder and gently presses down, the small motion's pain becoming audibly evident by the seething of the corsac.
"Oh, I just want you to know that, um, if you fuck with any Vixten again, I'll do you in much, much worse."
The older brother takes the pressure off of the corsac's shoulder, the injured fox looking up at who did him in.
"F-Frankie?"
Frankie steps up from his knee, stretches his arms out, calmly walking across the street. To his surprise, Victor's there waiting for him.
"Hey Frankie, that was really, really bad ass."
The two start walking alongside eachother, the older brother shrugging, and looking away into the night.
"Ehh, I got one by surprise and the other one telegraphed his shit. Not really impressive."
"Yeah, but, you broke-"
"Dislocated."
"You dislocated that guy's arm, then you literally threw him, and you're saying that's not bad ass?"
Frankie rolls his eyes, still looking down the road rather than looking at his brother.
"Like I said, I got the jump. Not much you can do there."
Victor gently elbows his older brother, the fox finally looking at him.
"C'mon, give yourself some credit, you looked like one of those mammals on the WWF!"
-----
Another 8 years later...
-----
Frankie wipes his face down in the mirror, and adjusts the cape that makes a key part of his entrance costume.
"Alright me, WWF debut in a few, remember, you're Vulpes here; the ancient war hero, brought back to life! Cheesy, but good."
The fox gently slaps himself in the mirror, and goes into his fighting stance, throwing some mock punches at his reflection. As he pulls back a left hook, a gruff voice from the doorway grabs his attention.
"So, you're the first fox wrestler in the WWF?"
Frankie's arms go slack, his ears twitching in the direction of the voice. He turns around, and spots a bear in the doorway, the ursine showing signs of aging but with former glory underneath.
"Yeah, that's me!"
The bear approaches the fox, his figure towering over the vulpine. Instinctivly, Frankie clenches his hands, but to the fox's surprise, the ursine offers the vulpine a massive paw.
"Welcome to the Federation. Name's Kody Snarlov, but the fans know me as-"
Frankie excitedly accepts Kody's handshake, a smile beaming on his face.
"Backstreet Bear. Man, I watched you when I was a kit!"
Snarlov snorts, and tucks his hands in his pockets.
"No shit, huh?"
The fox tightens the red ribbon that serves as a belt for his tunic, his smile unwavering.
"Yeah, hell, the first match I saw was you and Mysterious Mammal! You threw his ass!"
The kodiak bear chuckles, and pulls back the sleeve of his suit jacket, reading the face of his watch. Snarlov taps Frankie's shoulder, and points to the door.
"It's time, go be a superstar."
Rolling his shoulders, the fox tugs on his bindings before leaving the locker room and entering the space before the entrance ramp. A booming voice fills the stadium, the tinny reverb of the PA system showing it's effects.
"And for tonight's main event, we have the debut of the first fox wrestler in the WWF! Ladies and gentlemammals, make some noise for..."
Frankie closes his eyes, and takes in a deep, deep breath.
"Vulpes!"
The fox lets out his breath and opens his eyes, starting his walk onto the stage and down the entrance ramp. Orchaestral music plays from all around, and fireworks launch off from the sides of the ramp, their colors filling the night sky above. The sound of cheering just barely overwhelms the pyrotechnics, but not without some audible booing. Spotlights focus on the fox, their light brilliantly displaying his costume: A blood red cape to complement his fur, his chest bare, the white markings matched with a snow white tunic held by a belt of similar color to the cape, and white bindings on his hands and feet to top it off. Frankie pumps his dominant hand into the air, prompting a response from the announcers:
"A southpaw? We haven't had a southpaw in the WWF for ages!"
"That's right Corey, you gotta wonder, what other trends is this guy gonna set? First fox, first southpaw in a long time, he's already on a roll, and he hasn't even started!"
"I dunno Rich, but let's watch and find out!"
Sliding under the ropes, Frankie enters the ring, and takes residence in one of the far corners, the fox casually sitting on the top rope.
"And now, for Vulpes's opponent tonight! Ladies and gentlemammals, make some noise for..."
The lights near the entrance ramp dim to near darkness, some edgy guitar cords playing through the stadium's sound system.
"Bobcannibal the Animal!"
A bout of cheering erupts from the audience as Frankie hops off the rope and squints, trying to get a better view of his rival. A bobcat wearing a simple sleevless tee and athletic shorts comes down the ramp, a scowl on his face like none other. The announcers take note of his expression:
"Hey Byron, don'tcha think Bobcannibal's lookin' more mad than he usually is?"
"I dunno Rich, but I did see McMahorn having a talk with him before this match, so, I'm assuming here, don't quote me, but, I'm assuming that that talk wasn't a nice one."
The feline hops over the rope, and leans against a turnbuckle across the ring from Frankie, making a motion of pulling something down towards the fox.
"Funny how you're an ancient hero, 'cause you're gonna be history after this!"
The vulpine chuckles, and goes into character, proudly smiling at the bobcat and retorting:
"If we'r-"
Bobcannibal points at Frankie, and cuts him off:
"Shut it, pelt!"
The fox drops his proud stance, moving into his fighting stance instead, his jowls raised, ears back, and brow furrowed. A bell from above rings three times, signalling the start of the match. Frankie growls, and takes a running sprint at the bobcat.
-----
An aged vixen squirms in her seat, cheering on her son in the ring. A tigress next to her takes note, and taps her shoulder:
"Exciting, huh!?"
The mother glances away from the action, and wipes a tear from her eye.
"That's my son down th-"
A loud smack and reverb of the ring's ground shaking fills the arena, accompanied by the commentators' annotations:
"Oh, Vulpes just got kicked down from a running start! That's gotta hurt!"
Looking away, the vixen stares briefly at the empty seat next to her, frowning.
-----
Darkness fills the corners of the fox's vision as he feels himself being lifted. Shaking out of it, Frankie comes to terms with the situation; Bobcannibal is holding him up by his sides. Reacting, the fox claps both the bobcat's ears, the feline letting go as he recoils from the hit. Frankie takes a knee as he lands, but still has the initiative, Bobcannibal still holding his hands to his ears, his footing off balance.
"Wow Rich, Bobcannibal is dazed and confused after that hit!"
The fox takes another sprint to the Bobcat, this time grabbing his right arm and pulling; while pushing away the feline's shoulder. The move forces Bobcannibal to move back. Frankie pushes his hold, using the feline's own weight to throw him over his shoulder, the cat crashing down with a thud.
"Jeez! He can't be feelin' right after that Michael!"
Frankie pumps his left fist into the air, the crowd roaring as he does. Bending down, the fox gathers himself near the feline. Audibly smoldering, the feline slowly stands up, a rage on his face like none other. The vulpine lashes out from his stance, and kicks Bobcannibal in the ribs, halting his motion of standing up. Moving on with his plan, Frankie sprints into the rope, and bounces off, using the momentum to further his pace as his jumps, and lands, his left foot square on the back of the feline's head, a vicious stomp coming straight down.
"Oh! Bobcannibal is gonna feel that in the morning for sure!"
The crowd roaring, Frankie takes a slower walking pace around the edges of the ring, pumping his fist into the air. Quickly glancing over his shoulder, the fox starts to shout to the audience:
"'Shut it', he says! Wow, seriously, you'd think that being in the WWF would teach you a lot abou-"
An unexpected impact from behind sends the fox reeling, unable to do anything as he feels himself picked up, and thrown out of the ring.
-----
The tigress cringes as she hears the smack of the vulpine hitting the ground, then spares a quick glance at the wrestler's mother, who grits her teeth and squirms nervously.
"Come on Frankie, kick his ass!"
"Sorry I'm late!"
Pops slowly makes his way to the empty seat, the old vulpine having adopted a cane a few years ago.
"Pops, you came?"
He sits down, and tucks his cane between his legs, eyeing the match.
"And miss this? I spent nearly ten years teachin' that kid what's what!"
The vixen furrows her brow.
"What about your store?"
Pops dismisses the question with a wave down.
"Oh, it's fine, Victor's holding down the fort."
-----
Frankie writhes on his side, the cold ground providing a contrast for his rapid heartbeat.
"Wow! Bobcannibal just threw Vulpes outta the ring and right in front of our table! Can'ya believe that Byron!?"
"Can't say I do Corey, but I'd be amazed if he can go on after that!"
Bobcannibal drops down from the edge of the ring, and grabs the fox as harshly as he can, forcing the vulpine into a headlock. Frankie weakly grabs at the feline's arm as the bobcat begins to whisper in his ear:
"The only reason I'm even fighting you right now is 'cause that grass breath McMahorn threatened to pull my contract,"
The fox gargles a bit as Bobcannibal tightens his grip around his neck.
"And there is no way in hell, that I'm losing to a bloodfur tonight."
Frankie grits his teeth and elbows the bobcat in the nose, the shock releasing him from the feline's grasp. Bristling, the fox immediatly goes on the offensive, striking Bobcannibal's waist with a right kick. The cat grunts in pain, and turns to his right as if expecting another hit from that direction. Kicking again, Frankie sweeps his left leg under the feline, Bobcannibal starting a less-than-gracefull fall. The fox swings a left hook as the cat drops down, striking the feline square in the jaw, some teeth flying out his muzzle.
"Was that his teeth Rich!?"
"I think so Byron, Vulpes is retaliating to the max right now!"
Frankie grabs Bobcannibal by his collar, and holds him close, their noses almost touching. The feline gives the fox a crooked, bloody smile:
"Oh, bloodfur's got some moves, huh?"
The vulpine's jowls vibrate as his growls, and viciously swings the feline around by his collar, moving towards the announcers' desk:
"H-hey, what's Vulpes doin' coming over here with Bobcannibal?"
The fox forcibly heaves the feline onto the announcers' desk, the trio of commenatators rolling back in their chairs. Still dazed, Bobcannibal slowly moves his head up, his eyes squinting in some attempt to recongize what's going on. Interupting the motion, Frankie throws a right, punching the feline square on the nose, knocking his head back down.
"Rich, you have any idea what Vulpes is plannin' on doin'!?"
"Can't say I do Corey, but he better not ruin my hat!"
The rabbit announcer glances at Rich's corner of the desk, and spots a cheesy and spiffy white hat with golden tassels on the crown resting on the outer edge of the table.
------
The vixen cranes her neck, staring down at her son getting back into the ring.
"Pops, did'ya ever teach him anything like that?"
The older fox chuckles, his form rolling back in its seat.
"Can't say I did; I wonder whatever that cat said ta' him, cause he's gonna be sorry for it."
-----
Frankie mounts the top of the turnbuckle and pumps a fist to the audience, much to the excitement of the announcers:
"Byron, is he gonna do what I think he's gonna do!?"
The fox shouts a primal war cry and jumps off of the turnbuckle, landing elbow first on the bobcat's chest. The force demolishing the table underneath, the crowd erupts in incredible torrents of cheering.
"I dunno Rich, were you expecting that to happen!?"
Both the fox and the feline writhe on the ground, the vulpine notably griping around more. Shaking, Frankie stands up, and places his hands on his knees, panting from the exertion.
"Since they're both outta the ring, they're gonna have to go back in for the pin for the win, right Byron!?"
"To be honest Corey, I've forgotten myself in all this excitement! This has gotta be the first time we've had our own table destroyed in a match! But, answering your question, yeah, Vulpes has gotta drag Bobcannibal the Animal back in the ring if he wants the win!"
The fox looks towards the announcers and gives them a thumbs up. Stiffening his recovery form, Frankie grabs the feline by the collar, dragging him back towards the ring. Huffing, Frankie slings Bobcannibal on his shoulder, and heaves him into the ring, the fox climbing under the ropes afterwards.
-----
Frankie's mother stares on, her jaw dropped in shock.
"Pops, what the hell did you turn my Frankie into?"
Pops removes his cigar from his muzzle, a hearty laugh breaking out.
"One bad ass motherfucka', that's what!"
-----
Frankie takes hold of the unconscious bobcat's leg, and pins it upward, the feline's shoulders both touching the ground. A timberwolf wearing a striped referee's shirt runs over, and slides onto the ground.
"1!"
"2!"
"3!"
The bell from above dings 3 times for the second time that match, signifying the end. Frankie lets go of the knocked out cat, and stands up, pumping his fist in the air to the tune of the crowd chanting:
"Vul-pes! Vul-pes! Vul-pes!"
Standing up in cheer, the vixen and Pops shout out their support, their voices drowned out by the thousands of others in the stadium.
Finally, Frankie throws both fists in the air, ending the chanting of his name; the audience devolving into a mass of hollering.
-----
5 minutes later...
-----
A female otter dressed in a rather fancy outfit smiles to the camera, speaking into her microphone:
"We're here backstage with Vulpes, the winner of tonight's main event. Vulpes, your debut tonight ended with a move that left the announcers standing! Now that you look at it, how do you think it went?"
The camera zooms out to include Frankie in frame, the fox wearing a off-hand smile; the rush of victory still running in his veins.
"It could've gone better, I guess. I did look really cool doing it though."
The otter snorts, and turns the microphone back to herself:
"Okay, last question before we let you go; do you see a good career for yourself ahead of you in the WWF Universe?"
Frankie's off-smile twists into an outright smirk, the fox eyeing the camera lens.
"Good? I think you mean great. And to answer your question: You bet I do."
Turning the microphone back to herself, the otter speaks towards the camera with a distinct smile on her face.
"Back to you Rich."
-----