Joining the menagerie

by Tym Greene

A young man wanders his college town, trying to find a new job. The local classic cinema seems to have an opening, but it turns out there’s more to the proprietor than meets the eye... and the more the young man learns the truth, the more things in town start to change. The fun is just beginning!

This story was a commission for spyketyranno. For a sketch of the family, drop down to the end of the story.

Kevin strode across the street, resisting the urge to slouch. He’d hoped to have been in a better place by now, but there were some things he just had no control over, and he had to accept it. The economy being what it was, he hadn’t been all that surprised when he was let go, but it had still been a blow. At least I won’t have to commute to the city anymore, he reminded himself, trying as usual to see the bright side of the matter.

Indeed, the thirty miles from farming town to big city usually amounted to an hour’s drive each way, given the congested traffic, and every day was like one of those math problems he hated in school: if he left two hours before his shift, it would take him half an hour to get to the downtown mall where he’d have to loaf around for an hour and a half until his shift at the multiplex began, but if he left even an hour later, he’d be lucky if he got to work on time. But now I don’t have to worry about that ever again, he thought hopefully. And if I can get a job downtown, I could walk to work every day instead! Wouldn’t that be nice?

His best collared shirt was stiff and snug from under-use, and he seemed to have gained a few pounds since he last wore his slacks, not to mention neither was made of fabric suited to the increasingly warm weather. So intent was he on striving to ignore his growing discomfort, that he’d stopped paying attention to his surroundings. A grunt in front of him made him blink and halt mid-step.

A thickset bearded man struggled to juggle boxes and keys in front of the old movie house; faded letters proclaimed it “The Menagerie,” just as they’d done for as long as he’d known the little town. He recognized the figure as the cinema’s owner, and—on a whim—rushed forward to help. He easily lifted the largest box from the surprised man’s grasp, allowing him to unlock the door and hold it open.

“Thank you, my boy! I realize they’re just popcorn buckets, but I’d hate to think of dropping them and having to throw away any that get crumpled.” He chuckled, stroking his grey beard. “I realize it’s silly, a dented popcorn bucket can do its job just as well as an un-damaged one, but we do have appearances to keep up.”

Kevin noticed the man’s demeanor sag as he said that. Adding warmth to his voice, he asked where he should put the box, “so they stay pristine and ready for your customers.” As he put the box on the concessions counter, to be unpacked and put away by the staff before the first showing, he came to a decision. He’d seen the “Help Wanted” sign tucked into the corner of the glassed-in entrance. Just as he opened his mouth, however, the old man spoke.

“My name’s James,” he said suddenly, thrusting out his hand, “James P. Beaston, and this is my cinema. Are you new to our little town, lad? I haven’t seen you around before, and I make it a point to pay attention to that sort of thing.”

Kevin took the hand and shook it. He noticed that not only were James’s nails rather pointed, but so too were his ears, standing tall above the ring of white hair that fringed his bald head. A snaggletooth canine poked out above his lower lip as he smiled, eyes twinkling behind half-moon glasses. In short, his cheerful round-bellied avuncular nature had some hard edges that Kevin found himself drawn to. So he explained that no, he wasn’t from the town or its environs, but he had gone to school at the university here—before getting a job in the nearby city’s mall-based multiplex. “I’d been so busy with my studies, and then work, that I never had time to go to the movies. Though seeing this place makes me wish I had,” he added with an appreciative look around the lobby.

“Ah, that’s a pity. Still, I admire the effort and dedication. So you work at the twenty-four-screen, eh?”

“Worked, sir.” A bushy arched eyebrow coaxed him onward. “I was let go just the other day. The economy.” Kevin shrugged. “So I figured, since I still live in the apartment I got while I was at school here, I might as well try to find a job in town, save on commute costs.”

“That’s very prudent, I—” But Mr. Beaston was interrupted by the greeting of a few employees coming in to start their shift.

There was something odd about it, but Kevin couldn’t put his finger on what was amiss as he watched them line up to say good morning, drop to all fours on the floor behind the old man, and press their faces to the seat of his pants before rising back up and heading to the break room and their lockers. He knew he certainly hadn’t sniffed the butt of his previous manager, that was something only dogs and other animals did... but for some reason he just couldn’t connect that thought to the sight of these men doing just that with James.

As he watched, and before he could react, one of the employees broke from the line and had nosed up behind Kevin. The shaggy older man gave his rear a heartily enthusiastic sniff, as though momentarily confusing this newcomer with the boss standing before him. Soon another and another employee came up and “greeted” Kevin before taking their turn behind James. Kevin blushed, feeling oddly as though he’d been welcomed into the family, so to speak.

Once the little parade had finished, James looked at his new friend and smiled, acting as if he hadn’t noticed the way the queue of workers had diverted to Kevin’s rump before returning to his own. “You know what, why don’t we get out of their way so they can work? You said you’ve never been in my cinema before, so how would you like a private tour?”

Now that he wasn’t focused on hefting the box, or watching the employees’ antics, Kevin was able to turn his attention fully to the cinema structure. Unlike the multiplex’s lobby, there were none of the animated LCD screens advertising popcorn and candy with tie-ins to the latest blockbuster; nor were there uncomfortable benches (which had only been placed to avoid an ADA lawsuit) nor hard-wearing industrial carpet in the faded jewel tones of the early 2000s. Instead gold and crimson and wood—actual wood—dominated the space, with plush velvet chairs scattered tastefully around the lobby and the concession menu board picked out in brass lettering. Warm incandescent lighting glowed, highlighting polished metal and lacquer.

Kevin had seen pictures of old movie palaces, Art Deco masterworks that were a riot of angular forms and stacked, repeated shapes; but, while this cinema shared the lavishness, there was none of the rigidity. Instead, classical columns supported the staircase and upper floor, and the carved mahogany frieze running the length of the lobby felt like it had been borrowed from some Ancient Greek temple. The domed ceiling was painted robin’s egg blue, and dotted with the puffy clouds one got on a perfect early summer day, with a massive chandelier serving as the central sun to the ersatz sky.

He stepped closer for a better look at the sinuous forms contained in the band running from chest-high to the top of his head. They were elegant bas-reliefs, wondrously wrought, the sculptured figures of men and beasts—and beastmen—seeming to undulate, intertwined limbs making it hard for Kevin to distinguish where one ended and the next began. He was reminded of a sculpture—Michelangelo’s Battle of the Centaurs—which he’d once seen in an art book, all writhing muscular limbs and beard-topped torsos. It looked more like an orgy than a battle, he’d thought at the time, and now he came to the same conclusion. He was sure he spotted suggestive shapes between pairs of legs, and the grimaces of the faces—horned and long-eared, lolling-tongued and snouted—had a joy to their contortions, an alertness to their eyes. Kevin found himself reaching up to touch one of the faces, a laughing visage with twin curling horns above bushy eyebrows and a full beard beneath a thick mustache and wide animalistic nose. A fang poked up above the lower lip, giving him a lopsided look that made Kevin smile in echo of it.

His hand paused an inch from the carving, reluctant to mar its venerable surface. A sound made him look over, and he saw Mr. Beaston’s grinning face, thick mustache pricked by a snaggletooth and twinkling eyes lurking behind bushy eyebrows. “I see you like it too. That frieze has been with my theatre for... oh for a long time now.” A far-away look clouded James’s expression, and Kevin politely gave him time to reminisce.

“How long has the cinema been in your family?” He finally asked, trying to remember what he knew about local history. From the pictures he’d seen in the university’s library, the town seemed to have remained virtually unchanged for almost a hundred years, with the main street area only growing a little broader, cross streets branching into neighborhoods of shopkeepers to support the market needs of the surrounding farms. But in none of those faded sepia-tone photographs could he recall seeing the movie theatre, as though whenever someone tried to take a shot, they swiveled their camera slightly to one side or the other, keeping the building just out of frame.

The cinema owner stared calculatingly at Kevin, unmoving, with just subtle the flare of his nostrils to show he was even still breathing. A whiff of cinnamon blew across Kevin’s nose as he watched the older man watching him.

A prickling sensation like static electricity danced across Kevin’s skin as Mr. Beaston stared at him; oddly, he was reminded of the scene in the original Star Trek movie where the Enterprise was scanned by V’ger; he felt like the older man had seen to his very core. “My boy, I may have only just met you a few moments ago, but I feel I can trust you; I’ve gotten to be a good judge of a man’s character over the years, and yours... suffice to say you have the purity of heart and curiosity of mind one would expect from a child, and the dedication and honesty of the flower of manhood. In short, I trust you.”

Kevin stood silent, trying to process this sudden outpouring. A small and sour voice in the back of his head warned him to beware of the old man’s trickery, that obviously he was a shyster and confidence man, but there was a genuine warmth in the golden eyes that unwaveringly met his own. He felt a smile creeping across his face as he whispered: “Thank you.”

“I have also learned that, while there is value in circumspection, there are times when swift action must be taken. Naturally, it goes without saying that what I am about to tell you is a secret I’ve told to no one before, and it’s only my trust that you will keep it as safe as I have myself that allows me to even think of sharing it.”

There was an energy in the cinema owner’s gaze, an odd vibration to those gleaming amber irises that speared through Kevin like twin lightning bolts from Zeus. He nodded.

“I... “ James P. Beaston looked around now, as though afraid one of his employees might be eavesdropping, but they were all elsewhere in the cinema, diligently performing their duties. Kevin could hear footfalls and laughter and odd grunting, snuffling noises from the upper floor, as well as the snorting and sputtering of what seemed to be an old vacuum from one of the theaters in the back of the main floor. “I am nine hundred years old, give or take,” James said in a rush, as though afraid that the ludicrousness of his statement would make him falter. “I was born in a nameless little hamlet in the English countryside about 1086, as best as I can figure.”

The number rang a bell in Kevin’s memory, and though at first he couldn’t decide if it were the date of Magna Carta or the Domesday Book, he supposed that the latter was correct. He looked closer at the old man: sure there were crows’ feet around his eyes, and his posture had a bit of a weary slump to it, but nine hundred and thirty-six years’ worth? This was also the first time Kevin noticed that in addition to the fang-like snaggletooth that poked up from his bottom lip, James also had pointed ears, as though he were wearing elf prosthetics. “You... must have seen some changes, then,” he said politely.

Mr. Beaston’s laugh was as hearty as it was sad. “My boy, you have no idea. To be fair, there isn’t much worth remembering from those early years, apart from the differences between then and now.” He paused, as though a voice in his ear were reminding him of something. “Well, true and that’s not entirely accurate. You see, I was an old man, as you see me now—more or less—and tending my little farm by myself when... “

He stopped, waiting while an employee strolled past on all fours, nose pressed to the ground. Kevin stared, blinking emphatically, then alternately closing one eye, then the other: it was as though he were wearing a pair of trick glasses. On the one hand, the worker seemed totally normal, but on the other, there was something strange about the grey-skinned man using his long nose to suck up stray crumbs of old popcorn. Soon he made his way down the hall and to the theaters branching off it. James resumed his story.

“As I said, I was all alone when one night I heard a sound of weeping and whimpering coming from my hay loft; I was so poor, you see, that I only had a one-room cottage, with a space above for storing hay and wheat—that is, when the harvest was good enough for there to even be a surplus to store. I went outside and saw muddy tracks on the ladder, wide splashes that matched the broad footprints in the damp earth around me—and, on the ladder’s left side, something darker. With only the rushlight in my hand and the gibbous moon above, I climbed the ladder.

“If someone was injured it was my duty as a good man to render aid, though of course if he be a criminal or fugitive serf I would then be held accountable for abetting him.” He shrugged eloquently. “That was the law of the time, and if I had heeded it more closely I would not be here today.”

Despite the outlandish underlying claim, Kevin was so entranced by the story that he continued listening with rapt attention. He barely noticed that the old man had ushered him to one of the tasteful lobby tables, so they could sit comfortably instead of standing beside the carvings. “Whom did you find?”

“It wasn’t a who so much as a what,” James chuckled. “You see, in those days there were more wild creatures in the land than ever since. And one of them had been injured in a hunt... right here.” With trepidation, James P. Beaston pulled back his left sleeve, revealing a thin white scar that sloped across the inside of his wrist.

But before Kevin could remark on how strange it was that the man should have a wound in the same place as he said the beast had, James continued. “He was a monstrous creature, bigger than me, with four arms and a thick tail, and a heavy coat matted with mud and blood. Leaves and hay were sticking all over him and I could see the ribs beneath his lank hide. I had heard rumors of a nearby noble in a boar hunt who’d wounded the massive animal, but had been unable to deal it the final blow before he succumbed to his own wounds and had to be carried back to his demesne on a stretcher. I later found out that the slice was a lucky one, and the inept noble had simply fallen off his horse during the chase.” There was a bit more bite to the smile that plucked up the corners of his mustache, and a fire in the tender golden eyes.

“Of course, this was no boar but a beast of the old sort, that now only live on in carved gargoyles and the borders of illuminated manuscripts. He was tired, wounded, and leapt with terror at every hiss or pop of the fat in my rushlight. I blew out the little flame and cast it back through the hayloft opening, so it would land in the mud and could do no harm. It took a great deal of trust on both our parts, but I eventually managed to get close enough to see the injury. I had to tear a handspan strip from the bottom of my tunic just to have enough cloth to make a bandage around the thickness of his arm. A poultice would have to wait until morning so I could see to gather the proper herbs, but the bandage seemed to comfort him.

“And then, would you believe, he spoke! ‘Thank you,’ he rumbled through his mouthful of fangs, his voice low and rough from thirst and pain.

Acting on instinct, I leaned closer and put my arms around him. Have you ever been hugged by a creature with four strong arms, four hands to hold you and press you warmly to his chest? Well, even with one of those held apart to keep the wound from being touched, it was the first of many embraces we shared. Despite the mud and leaves and the smell of fear that lingered in his fur, I fell asleep in those arms that night.

“The next morning, as I went about gathering the ingredients for his poultice, I made sure to tramp all over his tracks, blending them into the mud, even a few yards into the forest from which he’d obviously emerged. Over the days I bathed him, tended him, fed him, and held him, and soon he had healed and regained his strength. He wanted to help, to lend his strength to the labors of working a farm in those dark times, to relieve my solitary burden, but I would not let him.

“The rumors going around, you see, meant that he had not been written off as the wild imaginings of the noble trying to cover his own incompetence. Folks had longer memories back then, and so long as they retold—and embellished—the tale of the four-armed monster that attacked a hunting party, there would be more hunting parties to look for him anew. But he was a wild animal, for all his kind intelligence, and used to the freedom of the forest; keeping him locked in my hayloft would have been as cruel as turning him over to the nobleman.”

“What did you do?” Kevin asked, eyes wide as he leaned forward across the table.

“I’m telling you, lad,” James chuckled, then his gaze fell as though at a painful memory. “I had hit on the idea of dressing him. It took stripping my scarecrow and patching in gussets of sackcloth to even begin to be big enough, but he now had a tunic and breeches to cover his nudity, and I showed him how to hide his lower arms within the body of the tunic, making it look like he was simply an overly-tall, overly-hairy, overly-bearded man.

“The only problem was that the ‘beard’ and ‘body hair’ were all blue. A bath in boiled beetroots turned him so dark a shade of purple that at a glance his fur looked black.” He smiled, obviously recalling details of that blood-red bath; likely more than just his hands had been stained by the dye that day. Then he shook his head: “But it didn’t matter. He still stood head-and-shoulders taller than anyone in the village, and there was no masking the mouthful of teeth whenever he spoke or smiled. The only reason we hadn’t been found out was the isolation of my little farm, and that couldn’t last forever.

Heaving a heavy sigh, he continued. “A few weeks after he’d healed, I was in bed with him, running my fingers through the fur of his chest. By the dim light of morning, I could see that the dye was fading, and there was a band of bright blue at the base of each strand. But even as I was thinking that it was hopeless to even try, I heard noises outside: the tramp of many feet, the rattle of wooden poles, the nervous chatter of people unused to mobbing. I told the beast to stay abed, to keep himself hidden, and threw on my clothes to face the crowd.

“The villagers had heard a rumor of my new farmhand, and didn’t buy my cover story that he was a wildman from the northern parts. They demanded I produce him; I noticed a few of my closer neighbors standing in the back of the crowd, unable to meet my gaze. Torchlight flickered across the familiar faces, making them look demonic and threatening; more beastly than the gentle creature cowering in my bedclothes.”

“Didn’t you try talking to them?” Kevin asked, on the edge of his seat.

“Of course, but those I could convince had no sway over the rest, and those in control would not be convinced.” James leaned forward, holding his hands up like a practiced storyteller. “Finally I agreed to go back in and bring out my farmhand, to prove he was not the monster with a bounty on his head. ‘He is a sound sleeper, so I may need a minute to rouse him,’ I bluffed, trying to buy as much time as I could. My little hovel had no windows, and no door but the one around which my former friends and neighbors had gathered, but that didn’t stop the beast: with a few punches he broke through the wattle and daub, and gave my house a back door.

“Hefting me onto his back and holding me with his lower arms, he loped forward on the remaining four limbs. He was fast, but the sound of our escape drew our pursuers, and the younger ones were more zealous than their elders, and were unburdened and uninjured; it was a near thing, and many times I despaired. Once back in the forest, he was able to dodge between trees, swing from branches, and generally use the more familiar terrain to his advantage.

“At last, we reached a clearing, free from pursuit, but tired and wounded. I held close to him as morning dawned around us and the dew cooled our sweat.” He paused, looking over his rapt audience. “I imagine you’ve never been near death, have you? Well, that night we both were, even moreso than when I first found him cowering in my hayloft. Perhaps there was something magical about the clearing we were in—an unnoticed fairy ring, or a standing stone hidden in brush—or perhaps it was the bond we’d grown to share over our days together, but whatever the cause the leaden weight of our limbs, the sharp and dull pains of our wounds, the throats ragged from gasping for breath, all of that seemed to lighten.

Like... like turning up the brightness on a digital image: soon the light swamps the darkness, obscuring details and making the whole blend into one flat glowing field.

“Once the light had faded and I was able to see again, I looked around. My friend had gone, all that was left were some tattered bits of cloth scattered around the dewy grass. Then I noticed that my feet were not my feet, and the hands I held before my face were not my hands... not to mention there were four of them. A voice in my head spoke—not so much in words, but in images and feelings—and together we realized we had somehow been combined. Human and beast blended into something new.” He paused, staring at his hand, flexing the fingers and staring at the points of his fingernails.

Kevin wanted to ask a million questions, but found himself sitting silent too, searching the old man’s face for a hint of a smile, a clue that this was just a tall tale. But the dam had burst, and there was no stopping the flood of words until they dried up on their own accord. So before he could speak, James started up again.

“We—I now, though it took a while to get to the point where we stopped thinking of ourselves as separate entities—hid in that forest or a long time. He showed me how to live off the land, how to stay hidden, how to survive. But I wanted more... we both did. So with practice, we found we were able to shift back to looking like me; we purloined a few clothes and slunk through the forest to a different town, a larger one where we could hide among the crowds of traders and travelers. But the longer we stayed in my form, the stronger he got, until one day he burst through our clothes right in the middle of the market, and we had to scamper away like the animal we’d suddenly become, before anyone could strike up a pitchfork mob.

“We figured out that we needed equal time—as man and monster—if we were to have control over when and how we changed. So we tried again with different clothes and a different town, and this time made sure that come nighttime the door was locked and the windows barred. Once all was secure, I could let the beast take over. Mostly he enjoyed sleeping in a big soft bed under a warm quilt before a roaring fire... but some nights he needed to stretch his legs. I hit upon the brilliant idea of becoming a troubadour, with a costume of blue and yellow: that way if anyone caught us changing, we could fob it off as trying out a new trick for our act. There were some close calls, however; London’s 1666 Great Fire left little time to change back or get dressed, but as it turned out we were fireproof.

“The beast’s influence gave me strength and agility, and our combination must have changed us on a deeper level: we did not age. So I traveled the western world that way, bouncing from great hall to market square to cathedral steps, learning languages and customs as I went, learning—or making up—songs and stories. We were happiest when we were entertaining folks, putting smiles on faces and bringing joy, that sort of thing.” He was smiling too now, as though wistfully remembering some long ago court whose timbers have since turned to ash, the feel of worn flagstones under his feet as he cut capers and juggled pippins, the sound of adult guffaws and children’s laughter.

“I didn’t go back to Wessex until 1900, when I had decided to come to America. I figured: one last visit, one last view of my old hovel and the village and the forest. But I had moved around so much in the intervening centuries that I never really realized how much one place can change. By reckoning against the hills and the distant steeple of Winchester Cathedral (which had been brand new when I’d left), I was able to find the right spot. Of course my house and fields were gone, but so was the forest, so was the dirt road of the village and all its little houses, buried under a golf course on the outskirts of the town that had seemed like such a distant and bustling metropolis when I was young.”

Kevin placed a hand on the other man’s knee, feeling the warmth and strength beneath the worn fabric. His eyes met James’s and held their gaze, as though silently saying: “It all sounds like a fairy tale, but... I believe you.”

James cleared his throat, looking away for a moment. “Well, anyways, I came to America, and decided to try settling down for a change. It was an era of building, and a downtown opera house fit right in. I performed a few roles, but then I had to ‘retire’ and spend my efforts on managing things instead; now that photography existed, the chance that someone might see my picture and realize I was physically unchanged from the Méphistophélès I sang twenty years ago... or, huh, nearly a century ago now.” He again met Kevin’s wondering stare. “That almost feels like a bigger secret than the whole merged-with-a-beast thing,” he said with an ironic chuckle, “but regardless, I know I can trust you.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s kinda a big pill to swallow, but whether I believe it or not, I promise to not tell anyone.”

“Hmm.” A scowl passed across the bearded face at the revelation that he still hadn’t convinced his audience. Standing, he motioned for Kevin to do the same. He continued his story as he led the younger man through the building and upstairs. “Pretty soon opera fell out of favor, so I switched the venue to vaudeville, then to regular theatre—even in the thirties Shakespeare could draw a crowd (or maybe just because it was cheap and air-cooled). But by that point the real popular entertainment was in films. Without the need for live actors, we didn’t need the extensive backstage, nor storage for sets and props, so I re-structured the whole building to hold multiple small theaters.”

“Wait, so this is the same building that... you... built back at the turn of the century? The last century,” Kevin got a nod as confirmation. “That explains why it looks so beautiful.”

They had reached a small door at the end of a dark hallway, with an old wooden star—its gold paint faded but still glimmering—mounted in its center. “This is my office,” James said, unlocking and throwing it open.

Feeling as though he’d been welcomed into the sanctum sanctorum of this temple to entertainment, Kevin stepped through.

It’s like walking into Sherlock Holmes’s study, he thought, looking around at the dark leather furniture, the plush couch on one side, the big heavy desk, wooden wainscoting and crimson wallpaper, and even a fireplace with crackling logs. A few concessions to modernity showed themselves in the old PC that hunkered on one side of the desk next to a big-numbered pushbutton phone. In short, the trappings of an old gentleman’s workspace.

Then he actually looked at the decor, and realized that the framed pictures were handbills for old operas and music hall shows (as well as a couple of original posters for a few of the beastlier films, like Gremlins and Ghostbusters, that Kevin himself loved), and a few oddments that deserved closer inspection.

Beside a newspaper clipping announcing the opening of The Menagerie, a frame held a page from an illuminated manuscript: the blackletter characters formed more of a texture than a text, but the border was filled with a blooming bouquet of flowers, and a set of figures taking up the bottom margin. They formed a standard cross-section of medieval society—the monk, the beggar, the noblewoman, the knight—but they were all staring at the right-most figure, who was obviously cutting capers to entertain them. A minstrel or troubadour, with the traditional bell-tipped jester’s cap, and a blue and yellow garment that almost made it look as if he had four arms and a tail, though surely that was just a trick of the cape’s folds; but the face was unmistakable.

Kevin turned and stared at his host, seeing the matching mustache quirk up in a grin, and the same gold eyes twinkling. There was a resemblance, too, in the lithographed cast portraits incorporated into the design of the operatic handbills. Were it not for the story of James’s history, Kevin would have thought that the similarity of all the smiling faces around him was merely the result of strong genetics in the Beaston family. But there was no denying that—taking into account the varying skill of the different artists and the stylistic idioms of their time periods—each one was James.

“Of course, this all could be an elaborate hoax,” he said aloud, as though forced to play devil’s advocate. “I’m sure you could have commissioned someone to do these up in Photoshop, printed them out on tea-stained paper... “ His lopsided smile showed just how ludicrous it seemed to him: after all, while the details could have been manufactured, to what end?

James’s smile was pulled taut into a grimace of discomfort that faded to the accompaniment of a series of pops. Kevin looked down, watching as the older man’s toes pushed out from his shoes, bursting seams and rending leather. A sigh of relief rumbled out of James’s chest as he shook off the tattered remnants of his shoes, flexing his legs and turning his pants into similar shreds of fabric that hung around his waist like a grass skirt, giving tantalizing peeks at the taut crimson boxers beneath.

Mr. Beaston seemed to be holding his breath, his shirt pulled taut across an overlarge chest and bulging shoulders. “Well,” he gasped from the exertion of teetering on the brink of his transformation, holding it back by sheer force of will, “you wanna see the rest?” Kevin nodded wordlessly, and stared as the cinema owner raised his arms, straining the seams of his shirt. Two bulges formed just below the hollows of James’s armpits, pushing easily through the gaps. Shaking off loose threads, a second pair of arms emerged, their nails already pointed like the claws growing in on the preexisting hands and feet. He stood to better rid himself of the shreds of respectability.

Body hair thickened, sprouting over the few previously un-hairy parts of the older man, grey gaining saturation and splitting into blue fur with yellow stripes banding arms and legs and back. His already preternaturally-tall ears lengthened and rose, flicking and swiveling from the upper corners of his head, below twin lumps that sprouted inward-curling horns. By some trick of engineering—Or magic, more likely, Kevin thought—the half-moon spectacles stayed perched on James’s nose, even as it pushed forward into a short snout. The golden eyes glowed, beaming down from easily a foot higher in the air, still tender and warm despite the short glossy fur surrounding them.

Kevin was reminded of nothing so much as the soulful eyes of Chewbacca, beautiful and expressive despite, or because of, his animalistic tendencies. The man standing before him was even more beastly than the Wookiee, with four strong arms, four nipple-capped pecs, a thick tail he hadn’t even noticed growing in, and horns standing proudly above his head. “I... I see why all the doors here are so tall.”

“Merely a lucky side-effect of grand architectural designs, I’m afraid. I’m almost never in this form when I’m here... well, not in the main areas anyways.” He reached for a framed print in thick olde English type, advertising Channel crossings with performances by famous singer “Jameſ Beaſton.” With a single claw, he delicately tipped it askew, causing a panel of wainscoting and wallpaper to pop out and swing forward.

A lush room was revealed, even more masculine than the previous space. Tones of forest green and aubergine dominated, with a healthy dosage of gold and black accents. In the far corner a heavy bedstead lumbered, built of solid mahogany from the look of it; blue and yellow hairs clung to the otherwise-white linens, leaving no question as to who’d been sleeping there. Bookcases surrounded the bed, overladen with tomes old and new—Kevin wasn’t sure, but he suspected the set of identical glossy blue-bound spines on a bottom shelf were Hardy Boys volumes—and a small kitchenette in the opposite corner seemed appropriate for an older man living alone, even one with a beastly appetite. A well-worn leather couch hunkered before the reverse of the office’s fireplace, the flickering glow showing a few claw marks in the wooden legs and arms.

Even as James ushered his guest in, Kevin noticed a display case built into one of the bookcase’s shelves next to the bed. The firelight glinted off golden edges, and glowed on metallic swells and bulges. Unable to contain his curiosity, Kevin stepped closer for a better look: the case contained what appeared at first glance to be trophies—like Oscars and Emmys—abstract standing figures in gold, each set upon a wooden stand with a bronze plaque. But there was no denying these weren’t actual trophies. One had a spiraling shape like a unicorn’s horn, one had a distinct ring around the middle of its cylindrical length, one had a bulbous knot at the base, and several had spikes and nubs in unusual places. “These are dildos, aren’t they?” He blushed at his own forthrightness, but stood firm.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” the beastly older man rumbled, a hungry look on his furry face, before he seemed to come back to himself. “I, um... well, I’ve had companions over the years, but especially these days there’s too much risk of discovery... and it’s amazing what you can buy on the Internet. Some of these look very much like what my beastly half remembers from... romps in the primeval English forests,” he added sadly, as though recalling long lost loves.

Given the size and inhuman shape, Kevin had no doubt that they could poke buttons in the older man that no normal person could, and felt his ardor flag. Then James stepped close, pressed a hand to the human’s chest and pulled him closer with the other three hands. They kissed, and Kevin felt his sap rising once more—especially with the hot firmness that pressed against his thigh. His hands roamed over the fluffy back, feeling muscle and fat beneath the shaggy hide, even just the ebb and flow of James’s breath was arousing, each movement confirming his reality.

They took their time, holding one another, the beast’s breath cinnamon-hot on the human’s face, his taste like fire in the mouth, his tongue thick and gentle as it jousted. James’s claw snicked through the remaining fabric of his waistbands, and his many hands made light work of Kevin’s clothes, leaving them piled on the floor amid the tatters. Fur pressed against skin and—almost without realizing it—they had reached the bed, the springless mattress solid and silent beneath their combined weight.

Kevin rolled to one side, taking in the massive frame of the beast before him: legs spread to accommodate the width of his tail, belly like a heaped scoop of blue-raspberry sherbet with stripes of lemon ice along the side, and of course the mighty shaft that pointed at the ceiling. Seemingly half equine and half canine, it had a swelling knot pushing back its sheath and a broad flat head that throbbed with each heartbeat. He ran a hand delicately down its length, feeling the heat and firmness of the skin, a cool-hued pink like the nipples and nose so far above it. “There’s no way I can... fit... this... “

“I... wasn’t suggesting you would, not yet... “ It was James’s turn to be hesitant, looking at the man reclined beside him. “I want you, Kevin... I want you to fuck me,” he finished with a bestial growl, obviously letting his animalistic side take over; for a momentary flash, his eyes turned feral and there seemed to be too many teeth in that hungry maw, but it quickly faded and he was again harmless as a teddy bear. That’s when Kevin noticed the pursing hole beneath the taut-pulled balls, pushed forward by the tail’s position: a donut of flesh that glistened smoothly in the firelight.

A bottle of lube was plucked from the bookshelf beside the ersatz trophy case and passed from hand to hand to hand and then given to Kevin. He took a moment slathering the beast’s tailhole, reveling in the simple tactile feeling as much as the promise of what was to come. The skin was soft and warm, and grew hotter with his touch, quivering muscles forcing themselves to relax, to let his fingers and then his whole hand slide in.

Every inch, every curve, every fold, got his attention; I know I’m using too much, way more than I’d need, he thought, but he didn’t care, it felt too good to stint. Lubed-up fingers re-stiffened his shaft, and he slid in.

He expected to feel like he was rattling around inside the beast—the proverbial hot dog in a hallway—but James’s hole was able to clamp down until it was just as snug as any normal human Kevin could have topped. As he sank, his belly pressed up against the fluffy balls and rigid shaft, and the tail he straddled curled up beneath him to press against his back, pushing him deeper into the beast’s hole. After a moment to find his rhythm, he looked up into James’s face: the half-moon spectacles were still perched on his short snout, and the eyes behind them lidded and unfocused.

Until they saw the younger human looking at them. A sly look crossed the blue-furred face, and he curled his long body forward, using all four arms to prop him up, inching closer until his lips met Kevin’s. Again Kevin’s mouth was filled with the flavor of cinnamon, and he realized with a moan that the scent, the taste, was coming from the beast. He felt a surge of energy and suddenly there was a second flavor, sweet and hearty, mingled with the fire on his tongue. His loins, too, felt altered, as though his shaft were taking up more space, his balls swinging lower with each thrust.

Kevin tried to pull back, to look down at himself, but as he leaned back his mouth stayed locked to James’, as though his very body were loath to break the kiss; instead, his face stretched longer, becoming a muzzle even longer and more animalistic than the older man’s. His neck too felt like it was stretching, his torso swelling and growing, giving each thrust more power, filling his lungs with more air. He ran a hand down his body, but it was like he was wearing a costume—one that was part of him—skin had been replaced with fur and scales, and the shape beneath that cover wasn’t human-shaped anymore.

Each pull and push with his hips met more resistance, too: not from any clenching or hindrance on James’s part (indeed, from the moans blasting hot and spicy through the kiss, the older man was having the time of his life), but because there seemed to be more of Kevin with each thrust. Unusual protrusions caught on the muscular ring, required that much more effort to push through, as though Kevin’s cock now resembled the inhuman toys in the display case. He realized what that second flavor was: apples. A deep breath confirmed it: while James’s body seemed to exude concentrated cinnamon essence, Kevin’s was now producing the flavor of sweet apples; their kiss was hot and rich as any dessert he’d tasted, and the air flooding in through his big wet nose now smelled like a bakery on overdrive.

The sensations were overwhelming, and again he looked into the golden eyes of the man beneath him, felt the tongue jousting with his, smelled and tasted the cinnamon apple of their combined musk, and with one final push felt his knot—for what else could it have been?—slip inside. He was hilted in James, and the old man’s cock was hot and twitching, squished between their bellies.

A moan filled his lungs with spicy air, and hot stickiness splattered his chin. The muscular ripples from James’s orgasm squeezed Kevin’s monstrous shaft, tugging and gripping in all the right places. With a roar he finally broke the kiss, throwing his head back as twin momentary pains speared his back; as swiftly as they appeared, the twinges passed, and he spread his wings as he came, draining his beastly balls for the first time.

Covered in sweat and lube and cum, they collapsed together, the bed creaking under the weight of two great beasts. Once they’d caught their breath, once pulses had slowed to a more reasonable speed, they explored Kevin’s new body, fingers and palms confirming that the blocky jackal muzzle, the broad draconic belly, the horns and wings and beastly paws were all real. James paid special attention to the shaft that so recently had been filling his nethers, fingering over the stacked spade-shaped ridges of its underside, the spike-rimmed and pointed head, and the smooth-swelling knot that had locked them together for those long moments of pleasure.

Kissing the younger man briefly on his canine lips, James blushed, then chuckled. “Not bad for a nine-hundred-year-old, eh?”

“Sir, I can honestly say that was the best time I’d ever had... so I guess I’ve got the job?”

“Job? My boy even before... all this... I wanted to make you a part of what we do here. But now, now that you’ve changed, I’ve half a mind to make you my heir. In fact, the other half of my mind agrees too.” A low growl confirmed that the two souls merged within James’s body were unanimous. “What do you say to being... a Beaston, grandson?”

For a man of James’s standing, it was easy enough to file the adoption papers, making Kevin Rodgers Beaston his new grandson and heir... once he had shown the younger man how to revert back to human form, of course.

That had taken a long time, especially since the two had had no desire to leave the bed, even sticky and sweaty as they were from that first romp (and a good deal of playtime afterwards). There was something so nice about lying there, embracing, caressing, and kissing languidly: just two monstrous men sharing simple physicality together.

At one point Kevin had drifted off to sleep, curled up against James’s belly, and woke to find the older beast stroking his furled wings and singing. His voice was low and resonant, like a cello dipped in melted butter, shaping ancient words that sounded as alien as they were soothing:

Lullay, myn lykyng, My dere sone,
Myn swetyng.
Lullay my dere herte, myn owyn dere derlyng.

Kevin actually drifted back to sleep again while he waited for the song to finish. When he woke once more, he craned his neck forward to kiss James—a chaster peck than the deep mouth-sharing they’d enjoyed earlier—and they set about returning to some semblance of normal. To their surprise, they found that Kevin could wear James’s clothes, a suitable-enough fit until he could bring his own spares in case of accidental bursting.

The same scenes were repeated almost daily—though he quickly learned to recognize the signs of impending change and either tamp it down, or at least strip naked first—and Kevin found himself spending less and less time at his own apartment, and more time with his new GranDad. This included much time spent in the practical tasks of running a movie theatre, and Kevin’s previous experience served him in good stead. It did not, however, prepare him for his coworkers.

Now that he was a Beaston and a beast himself, he was able to see through the glamours James had subconsciously erected over the years to help him hide. Some things were easy enough to understand: the fact that he lived at the cinema, the tendency for camera-holders’ aim to slide sideways, and the owner’s unchanging look all faded like filters dropped from Kevin’s vision. At the same time, he also realized that the odd behavior he’d noticed (and shrugged off) in the employees on that first day was not so odd when one took into account the fact that none of them were fully human any more.

One of those first days, as an elephant-trunked man patrolled the lobby, sucking up bits of litter, Kevin had asked James about it. “It’s a side-effect of... well, me.” The older beast suspected it was something to do with the magic of his joining, much the same as his longevity; first there was an increased camaraderie between the men in his presence, then little acts of lewdness or romanticism per each individual’s tendencies, then—with a long-enough exposure—came physical changes. He pointed to one of the employees, an older man with a canine nose above his greying mustache and a terrier’s tail that flagged beneath his apron strings, “Hank’s been with me for almost three decades. I visited him at home once, and it turns out he sleeps in a doggy bed and eats off the floor... and his husband loves doggy style.” Realizing what he’d just said, James blushed, but didn’t retract his statement.

Mind whirling with the revelation—and with the mental image of GranDad, the demi-dog employee, and the husband (perhaps a little Rottweiler-ish himself) in various canine-inspired positions—Kevin didn’t pursue the line of questioning. Then the popcorn machine beeped and he rushed to tend to it. Despite each employee seemingly giving their beastly all to the various jobs involved in keeping the theatre running, Kevin had noticed that the The Mirage was perennially understaffed. He suspected it was because James wanted to expose as few people as possible to prolonged contact with his transformative aura.

“You know, they’re all working like dogs for you,” Kevin said one evening, propped up on one elbow in bed.

“I know, and it pains me. Dogs and elephants and hogs and bears and it pains me. I’ve altered the very fabric of their reality by my very presence. I’ve often thought it would be better if I were to just go live in a cave in the woods somewhere. So much of the past centuries I’ve spent trying to live as a human, perhaps it’s time to live as a beast instead.”

Kevin pulled his new GranDad close, raking clawed fingers gently through blue and yellow fur. “But if you were a beast in the woods, we wouldn’t have met! And your employees, I know you feel guilty about having changed them, but have you really looked at them? They’re happy! They love this cinema, they love working for you... I’m pretty sure most of them love you too. That’s why they work so hard, because they want to, because you give them a reason to come in each day. And if they sniff your butt and suck up floor popcorn and pee with one leg lifted, so what? They obviously don’t care about little stuff like that, not if it means staying here with you. I mean, I’ve lost how many shirts and shoes already? And I don’t care a bit.”

James blushed, his tall ears canting back as Kevin kissed his nose, then an inch or two lower. The conversation became more non-verbal after that, as Kevin put his tongue to use. By the time they both lay spent and sticky in one another’s arms, they were too tired to do more than snuggle up and fall asleep, the mingled scents of cinnamon and apples soaking into the bedsheets.

They didn’t have time for further conversation on the topic for a while afterwards, but Kevin—emboldened by his new role as heir to the Beaston legacy—kept his eyes open for any opportunity to hire new staff. So when he saw a familiar face chatting with one of the current employees, he leaped at the chance.

Svenbjorn, a literal bear of a man, had been hefting big boxes of concessions through the cinema’s open front doors, and had obviously caught the eye of a pedestrian on the street. Svenbjorn stood, holding his load like it weighed nothing, muscles rippling under his furry arms and back, as he chatted with a handsome middle-aged man with a thick thatch of raven black hair. By the time Kevin had reached the front, the other man had left and Svenbjorn had resumed his task. There was a sadness in the bear-man’s deep brown eyes and a frown on his mostly-human face. “Poor guy,” he muttered in his rumbling voice as Kevin loped past.

He raced through the entrance and spotted the older man slumping his way down the street. “Harold? Hey, Harold!” he shouted, causing the shaggy dark-haired head to turn just as he was about to round the corner. A closer look confirmed what Kevin already knew: this was indeed Harold Clawson, who had been working at the same downtown movie theatre as Kevin. He’d been something of an old hand at the place, having been there for nearly a decade. And now—to judge by the dress clothes, the folder of photocopied résumés, and the overall slump—it would seem that he’d been let go too.

“Kevin, that you?” Harold Clawson asked, after a moment of peering through the glasses beneath his wild black brows. His face lit up, and he stuck out his hand. “It is you! Been a while, you’re looking... actually really good.”

The handshake pulled into a hug, and the hug lasted for a moment or two longer than it otherwise might. He could feel the tension in his friend’s back, and the small release of it under his hands. Harold looked as uncomfortable in his ill-fitting dress clothes as Kevin had been, that fateful day, and for the same reason: he too had been looking unsuccessfully for a new job.

“Yeah, they’ve been getting rid of the ‘deadwood’ at the multiplex,” Harold explained. “They figure replacing humans with automated ticket machines and scanners and vending dispensers is a lot cheaper in the long run. So I guess deadwood like us is left to find a job that still accepts old-fashioned human workers.”

Well, I don’t know about the human part, not if I have anything to say about it, Kevin thought with a devilish smile as he gestured for Harold to pull up a piece of architecture and sit beside him. Shaded by the classical columns of the old Main Street bank, they caught up. Apparently Harold had recognized Svenbjorn from his visits to the city’s bear bars; he’d found the ursine man both alluring and enticing, but Harold had been looking for something more substantial than a quick hookup, no matter how handsome the potential partner was.

A few years previous Kevin had accompanied Harold to a bear bar as well. It had never been a date, just friends with similar tastes in men going out to admire and ogle; Kevin had often regretted not having asked Harold out on an actual date, but now that things had changed so drastically he had a different idea in mind. “I actually may have a job for you,” Kevin said, placing a hand on Harold’s knee. He explained about the cinema, and how the owner of The Menagerie was looking to hire more staff.

“What, cleaning out trash cans and mopping the bathroom? I appreciate it, but I was hoping for something a bit more... “

“I was thinking more of a... management role.”

Harold couldn’t believe his ears, but Kevin wrapped him in another hug and reassured him that it was no joke. They walked together back to the cinema. Kevin pulled James aside and explained the situation, as well as his idea. The older man’s eyes sparkled and his horns began to sprout. “Of course,” Kevin added with a kiss on James’s darkening nose, “I want the final decision to be yours, GranDad. You can see into him, see if he’d be a good match for us, for our cinema... “

James agreed, and strode forth after putting a stern look on his face. “Kevin here tells me you would be a good match for the assistant manager role. You’d be in charge of employee morale, training new hires, and scheduling shifts. Are you still interested?”

“Yes sir, absolutely. I did a great deal of that at my old job, though they never gave me that title officially. I’d work very hard for you, sir.”

“That’s good to hear, son.” James’s demeanor softened, and he looked every inch the old man he was as he gestured towards the staircase. “Let’s continue this in my office and take care of the formalities.”

Kevin would have followed them, but was approached by Dunstan, one of the employees stationed at the ticket counter. He blinked owlishly at Kevin as he confirmed details of the show schedule. “It looks like there are two-hoo shows scheduled for five-thirt-hoohoo in theatre four.” Kevin grinned at the avian man, holding back a chuckle when the head turned almost right around as his golden eyes followed the path of one of the smaller employees (a rabbit man who worked concessions and ensured there were always plenty of jellybeans).

“Dunstan, you always keep us on our toes. I’m glad you spotted that; imagine how crazy it would be if we tried to play the Blade Runner re-release and Sing 2 at the same time!” He laughed, but couldn’t deny how intriguing it would be to see cartoon animals in a gritty cyberpunk setting. I’ll have to ask GranDad if his magic applies to inanimate objects as well as people. And speaking of GranDad... Kevin’s ears had been growing longer without his attention keeping them fully human, and he could now pick up the sound of rhythmic grunting filtering down from above. He directed the owl-man to take care of the scheduling conflict and headed towards the stairs.

By the time he reached the office, things were quiet again, but the mingled scents of cinnamon and cherries wafted out from beneath the door. Kevin knocked, calling out, “GranDad, how’s the interview going?”

The knob rattled a few times, as though someone were trying to open it with boxing gloves on, then slowly turned. As he stepped inside, Kevin saw a big black form behind the door, built thick and low like a predatory cat, but the beast’s head was hidden. With a wet sound, the hulking body stepped back, revealing Harold’s face. He was stretching his jaw and licking his lips. “Man, opening a door with your mouth is hard. I’d say I miss having hands, but... that would be a lie,” he chuckled, then looked up at Kevin. “Howdy, son, I’ve gotta say I never thought getting a job would be this involved, but I’m not complaining. How do I look?”

He stepped further back into the center of the office, letting Kevin see his whole body. Harold really did look like a big cat, a chunky panther padding around on whisper-soft paws, but instead of a muzzle, his human face peeked out from a mane of black hair and beard that shifted into fur halfway down the thick feline neck. A pair of wings were tucked up above his back, and between his paws a long pink shaft dribbled onto the floor. It was tapered, with a conical head, and—given the way it swayed back and forth and rubbed against the fur of his foreleg—was clearly prehensile; it also had a beach-ball-sized sac to match, not to mention the sheath that was nearly as wide as Harold’s whole torso.

James stepped up behind the quadrupedal man-beast and laid a lower hand on his rump. “You were right, Kevin: Harold is exactly the sort of person we were looking for in the assistant manager role. Say hello to your new dad, Harold Clawson Beaston.” The sphinx purred loudly and bucked his hips into James’s hand.

Blushing and half-surprised that the old beast had taken it so far, he knelt before Harold. “I’d always thought you had that dadbod look going for you,” he whispered in the tall ear, “but I never would have dreamed you’d be my dad. Well,” he added, dropping one hand to caress the pink shaft, stirring up the strong aroma of fresh cherries with each spurt of precum, “dad with benefits.” He leaned forward and kissed his former friend, tasting cinnamon on Harold’s lips that could only have come from the eldest Beaston.

It was a potent enough combination that Kevin hulk-burst right out of his clothes without breaking the kiss. His wings split his shirt and his shoes were torn asunder by size 26 feet—not counting the claws—while his pants and underwear fell to the dual onslaught of tail and cock. His shaft drizzled Harold’s as he crouched to keep their faces level, and Kevin’s apple-scented fluids further sweetened the office’s already-sugary air.

James ushered them both further in so he could close the door and hide their romp from any passing staff member; Kevin found himself wondering why his grandad bothered, since he suspected that the employees would have loved the show (and would have loved to join in, too) if they were only given the chance, but the silky-soft fur of his new dad proved to be too pleasantly distracting. He ran his hands across the body, feeling thick muscle and thick fat: Harold’s new physique was that of a pampered pet tiger, a fluffy pillow with a solid core.

Kevin couldn’t take it any longer. His canine nostrils could smell the concentrated essence of James coming from beneath Harold’s thick tail, and he wanted nothing more than to add his own to the mix. Finally pulling back from the kiss, leaving Harold’s long tongue panting now that it wasn’t swathed in Kevin’s muzzle, he strode around the quadruped and dropped to his knees. This put his pointed and ridged shaft at just the right height to slide into James’s already-used tailhole, spreading him open with ease. “Wow, Dad, I didn’t think you were such a bottom,” he whispered, leaning forward so his whiskers would tickle the panther’s ear.

“Anything for... my family,” Harold moaned, his wings fluttering and clawless paws gripping the carpet. His own cock shot a healthy dollop onto the carpet before him, and he backed up against Kevin’s hips, sliding his ring across his son’s knot with practiced—and well-lubed—ease. Kevin was unable to resist popping his knot in and out a few times, his vision blurring from the pleasure, as though having the bulb at the base of his cock squeezed were biologically programmed to be an arousal trigger.

After a few pops, he felt the wave crashing over him and gripped Harold’s hips with both hands, holding him in place like the cocksleeve he was, pumping him full of cum to mix with James’s still-warm load. As the rush of orgasm faded, Kevin found himself wondering if the Beaston family could lay eggs; with as much seed as Harold was filled with, he could easily have pumped out a dozen football-sized ones. The mental image made Kevin’s cock twitch even as he slid out of his new father’s hole.

The office now smelled like an exploded dessert shop, apple and cinnamon and cherry scents so strong they were almost tastes, and James lumbered forward with towels in each of his four hands to help with the cleanup. To his surprise, he found that the carpet in front of Harold was soft and clean, as though his constantly leaking precum were specially formulated to be a leave-in carpet cleaner and conditioner.

They also discovered that, no matter how he tried, no matter how calm and un-aroused he made himself, Harold couldn’t change back. A few of their tries resulted in the fur fading away from his body, leaving him with a thick thatch of black bodyhair, but he retained his wings and tail and quadrupedal feline stance; and even then the fur came rushing back like a wave bursting through the walls of a sand castle. “I’m sorry, you two,” he apologized, hanging his head.

“It’s all right, son,” James soothed, running his claws gently through the fur on Harold’s back. “I’m sure if you keep trying you’ll get it. Until then we can keep you in here, let you sleep by the fire. And then after we close the cinema for the day you can come out and walk around.”

“Like a guard dog?”

“Well, heh, a guard cat, but if you keep producing fluid like that, having you ‘snail trail’ your way around the floor would probably be great for the carpets.”

“Whatever you say, Dad,” Harold nuzzled his head against James’s hand, having well and truly accepted his place in the middle of the Beaston family tree.

Kevin looked between his new dad and grandfather, feeling like his brain was pointing at a possible solution, but he kept his mouth shut. Instead he focused on using the towel to clean every drop of mixed cum from the creases of his shaft before it slipped back into his sheath. He resolved to continue thinking until he came up with proof that his idea would work.

No sense in being hasty.

The main characters of my recent commission for spyketyranno with their original human form and their final beastly form (for this part of the story anyway), as well as their ultimate names.

From right to left:

• James P. Beaston, “GranDad”
• Kevin Rodgers Beaston, the protagonist of the story
• Harold Clawson Beaston, James’s newly-adopted “son”
• Darren Rodgers Beaston, Kevin’s newly-adopted “son”

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