Midra Wysterne

*1*
	Midnight at Rusty's International Club.  A lithe young form sneaked out the 
back door into the alley and paused for a moment, listening carefully.  The ruckus 
inside continued as usual, and she started walking silently away.
	A voice rang out from inside the club: "Midra!"
She started to run, her gray cloak streaming behind her.  Midra ducked 
around the corner and pressed her back against the wall, covering her face with her 
hood.
A crash of breaking dishes reached her ears, and a blonde weasel staggered 
out the back door of Rusty's.  He tried unsuccessfully to stand there for a moment 
before he called out again, "Midra!  Come back!"  He leaned against the brick wall 
unsteadily, waiting for a response.
"Go home, Mr. Robinson," she replied from around the corner.
He took one step in the direction of her voice before having to lean against 
the wall once more.  "Fine!" he slurred.  "I'll go home...to my wife..." He followed the 
wall to the door and stepped back inside Rusty's.
Midra walked briskly to the front of the establishment and hailed a cab.
"Where to, miss?" asked the mouse inside.
"It's not for me," she replied as Mr. Robinson exited the club.  "This guy 
needs a ride home."
"No problem, ma'am."
Midra helped Mr. Robinson into the taxi and shut the door after him.  He 
looked up at her and said slowly, "You're a nice girl.  What's your name?"  She shook 
her head sadly and the cab drove off.
Wrapping the warm gray cloak more tightly around herself, Midra turned and 
began the long walk back to the dormitory.

*2*
When her alarm sounded at six thirty, Midra did not rush to get out of bed.  
There were still two hours until her first class; she could lie there, listening to the 
oldies, for a good half-hour before breakfast.
Like most felines, especially those at St. Frank's U, she detested Mondays.  
Monday meant that she got five hours of sleep the night before starting five full days 
of horrendously boring classes.  It also meant the beginning of another demeaning 
week as a waitress at Rusty's.  "Rusty's International Club," she often told her 
friends, "is just an excuse for rich people to get completely smashed in exotic ways."  
The hours were awful, the clientele was awful, and the uniforms, frankly, sucked, but 
the pay was excellent.  One week of the night shift could pay for two weeks' tuition, 
room, and board at St. Frank's, so she stayed on in spite of herself.
"Get up, sleeping beauty," said her feline roommate Chibin Mayberry, bashing 
her in the head with a feather pillow.
"Fine," said Midra, rolling off her bed into a pile of outdated news and fashion 
periodicals.  She pulled on a sea-green robe that clashed horribly with her soft gray 
fir and blood-red hair, and walked the familiar track through her messy domicile to 
the kitchen.  Chibin was already buzzing around making breakfast for...three?
"Why is there an extra plate?" Midra asked Chibin, fearing the answer.
A square-faced canine jock, wrapped in a towel monogrammed "MEOW", 
stumbled out of Chibin's bedroom, holding his hand to his aching head.  He sat down 
heavily in Midra's accustomed place and painfully sipped the black coffee in front of 
him.  The pained, hung-over, and stupid visage was all too familiar to Midra; this 
idiot sat behind her in Econ.  Every Tuesday, he cat-called her (pun intended) as she 
sat down.  He was also a regular customer at Rusty's.
Midra picked up a pan and a spoon and snuck up quietly behind him.  She 
leaned her muzzle sensuously close to his pointed ear and shouted, "I'M SORRY, BUT 
YOU'RE IN MY CHAIR!"
"What the f..."
"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, DERROK!"
He got up and ran out of the kitchen, Midra chasing him all the way with her 
pot and spoon.  As she turned back into the room, Chibin glared at her, arms 
akimbo.
"Why did you chase Derrok away?" she asked with an angry, yet ditzy pout.
"Because," Midra replied, sitting in the vacated seat, "you have to stop 
bringing home every drunken idiot who propositions you at work.  Derrok is a sleaze-
bag, a low-down scoundrel with the libido of three teen-aged males and the force to 
physically hurt you."
"Well, maybe you need a scoundrel of your own," said Chibin, stabbing a fork 
through three pancakes and shaking them onto Midra's plate.
"Excuse me?" said Midra, bristling her whiskers.
"All I'm saying is, it wouldn't hurt you to bring a boy home every once in a 
while.  Loosen up!  Have a little fun!"  Chibin tossed a pancake onto her own plate 
and started smearing it with low-calorie spread.  
"I hope you're not referring to the incident with Mr. Robinson.  He's a married 
weasel, plus he was drunk off his..."
"Not just him!  I get calls from dozens of hot guys every week, asking who 
that hot feline waitress is."  She paused for a second.  "It's you."
"I know," said Midra.  "I just don't want to spend my years at St. Frank's in 
bed if I'm not seriously ill or injured, that's all."
"We're in college, Mi.  These are supposed to be the best years of our lives!"
"And which one of my nine is designated for a slow, painful demise?" asked 
Midra sarcastically, opening Chibin's newest Modern Furre Female and wincing at the 
fashions of the day.
Chibin scoffed and tossed her long, silky black hair.
"Stop doing that," said Midra.  "It scares me."
"I'm just practicing for tonight," she replied.
"Oh God, what's the theme?" asked Midra, crossing her fingers and screwing 
up her face in wishful agony.
"España!" said Chibin.  "Break out your castanets, sweetheart."
Midra slammed her head into the table, but then raised it again with a non-
descript consenting look on her face.  "Meh," she said, sipping her herbal tea, "it 
could be worse."

*3*
It was worse.
"Change of schedule, Mi," said Chibin as Midra entered the costuming room at 
Rusty's that night.  "Rusty's having an old friend in, and he just loves the Middle 
East."  She gagged sarcastically and rolled her eyes.  "Fasten my top, will you?"
Midra angrily did up the two flimsy frog hooks in the back of Chibin's gold-
sequined brassiere before donning her own revealing garb.  "Poor Chibin," she 
thought to herself, pulling on the net "pants" over her red jeweled bikini.  "At least 
I'm not a dancer."
Dancers like Chibin had the worst job at Rusty's.  They had to maintain a 
"sensual composure" on stage while dozens of rowdy, drunk, rich males whistled and 
shouted at them.  This was the reason that males like Derrok and Mr. Robinson 
bothered to come to Rusty's night after night.  (Females attended strictly during the 
day, for a quick drink during a lunch break or a very short dinner date.  Even the 
many lesbians of St. Frank's preferred higher-class establishments.)  Scantily clad 
waitresses served them standard fare and alcohol while they watched even less-
dressed girls sliding all over the stage to stereotypical music.
Every night at Rusty's had a foreign stereotype behind it.  Last night had been 
France; Midra wore a maid's outfit, complete with short skirt, frilled petticoats, and 
fishnet stockings, while Chibin and her fellow dancers danced the can-can.  Arabia 
and Bavaria were common themes.  On nights when a classier clientele was in town 
(businessmen, visiting professors, etc.), a visit to Japan (school-girls and short 
kimonos) or Spain (flamenco dancers and gypsy ensembles) might be in order.
Midra reached into the old bingo roller and pulled out a lottery sheet.  
"Please," she whispered as she unfolded the paper.  "Please, please, please...mrrr... 
stupid..."
Instead of the coveted "greeter" or the slightly lower "barmaid", she had 
selected, for the sixth week straight, "sorry, play again soon", meaning that she was, 
once again, the booze wench.  She growled as she pinned her nametag to the upper 
part of her very tight top and slipped business cards into the lining of her "pants".  
Then, resigned to her sad state and reminding herself of the pay, she plastered an 
alluring smile on her face, smoothed her tail, and walked out into the chaos of 
Arabian Night.

*4*
"Midra!"
The shout of recognition came from all corners of the club.  Midra put on a 
coy smile and gave her adoring public a quick twirl and bow before visiting Wester.
Wester Imnadray, the white rat who led the band at Rusty's, was in the 
middle of a piano solo when she made her way through the crowd.  He turned his 
head to her, still playing.
"How's it looking tonight, Mi?" he asked her.
"I hate this place," she responded, gesturing at her outfit.
"Rusty's pal is over yonder," Wester said, looking at the far left side of the 
hall at a gang of vulpine, canine, and musteline males, mostly middle-aged or older.  
"And I see Rusty has joined them," he added, noting the coyote who had his arm 
around one of the foxes, pointing at various dancers.  Wester gave Midra a 
meaningful look.  "He told me to tell you that he wants only the best for his old frat 
buddy, and that meant you."
Midra scoffed angrily.  "You are so lucky no one hits on you."
"Hey, I wish!" he said with a sly smile, returning to his harmonic minor music.  
"Try to send over that young red-head for me, would ya?"
"If he's at Rusty's," she said, walking off with her tray and order slips, "I 
doubt he's interested in guys."
"I can hope!" Wester shouted back.  "Not like he's paying much attention to 
the stage!"
Midra was puzzled, and examined the table's population more closely.  Three 
raucous foxes, two heavily panting coyotes, two arguing weasels, Rusty, an older 
wolf and...a young, red-maned gray wolf who was, in passionate boredom, staring at 
the ceiling.  He was at least her age, perhaps a year or two older.  The older wolf, 
presumably a relative, tried to direct his attention to the stage, the menu, the 
waitresses, but the younger only shifted his attention to the floor.  "Maybe Wester's 
right," she said to herself as a very intoxicated feline stared directly at her chest.  
She slapped him back into his seat as she passed ("Burn!" shouted his fellows).  
"Maybe he is gay..."
"Welcome to Rusty's International Club," she said as she arrived at the table.  
"Can I get you gentlemen anything?"
"A round of cold ones for my friends here!" said Rusty to Midra, slapping his 
vulpine friend on the back.  "It's on the house."
"Better make sure they're really cold," said the fox with a wink to Rusty.
"Ah yes, wouldn't want a one that wasn't cold," said Midra with a slight smirk.  
"I almost had one once.  Man, I really dodged a bullet there."  It was true.  Midra 
avoided alcohol like the plague.
The older furres laughed at her joke.  The young wolf, however, shifted his 
gaze back to the ceiling without so much as glancing in her direction.
"What about you, m'boy?" asked the older wolf.  "Your first taste of the 
nightlife, what'll it be?"
"Diet Coke," he said with an apathetic hand motion.  The others laughed at 
him, but he continued his study of the architecture.
"Thank you!" sighed Midra internally as she wrote down his order.  Finally, a 
customer who wouldn't need her to call him a cab, who wouldn't chase her through 
the kitchens or follow her into the locker room on a drunken impulse.
"Anything else?" she asked, laying out the specials menu on the table.  Bend 
and snap, she thought.  Lure them in.  God, do I hate my job.
"Couple orders of wings," said Rusty, "and...the Special for our young 
apprentice.  That'll be all for now."
"All right, I'll be right back with your drinks," she said, turning to go, walking 
away with the accustomed swivel of the hips that she put on for the customers.
"Ahem," came Rusty's small cough.  She turned back, and he tapped on the 
table.
Midra suppressed the urge to growl and dealt nine business cards on the 
table.  "If you need anything, my name is Midra."  She looked up at the ceiling and 
recited, "I am a student at St. Francis University, and my turn-ons include Irish 
accents, well-read gentlemen, and true basses.  Enjoy your evening at Rusty's."  
Then she turned and walked to the bar.
Handing the order to Kali, this week's barmaid, she leaned on the bar and 
crushed a pretzel in her hand.  Rusty soon joined her as she waited for the wings to 
come out of the kitchen.
"Look, Mi, you know I respect you, right?" he said.
"You want something," she replied, not looking at him.
He broke his professional manner and dropped his shoulders, then said 
quickly, "I need you to give the kid the Special."
Midra snapped her head around to him.  "We had a strict understanding about 
that," she said.
"I know..."
"Pull Chibin offstage.  She loves that stuff.  Can't get enough of it."
"I can't.  See, Barry asked for you..."
"The kid doesn't seem like the type who'd ask for that."
"No, Barry's my old pal from college.  They, uh...they think there's 
something...wrong...with the kid..."
"Then get Wester to do it," she said with a sarcastic shrug.
"It's not just that.  See, his uncle wants him to be more like us, and, hey, 
who doesn't want that?"  Before Midra could answer, he continued, "He doesn't 
drink, he never goes to parties..."
"Sounds like my kind of guy."
"Be serious, Mi."
"I am."
Rusty straightened up again and looked Midra square in the face.  "Look, if 
you don't do this, you won't work here anymore."
"What?"
"I can't have uncooperative workers on my staff."  He cleared his throat once 
more.  "Give it to him, or you're fired."
"Can I at least talk to someone who does that, and get reacquainted with 
exactly what I have to do?" she asked, trying to stall.
"Order up!" called Kali from the other end of the bar.
"You've read the manual.  Go to it," he said, retreating into his office before 
she could object.
Midra angrily picked up the trays of beer and hot wings, balancing the diet 
cola on the edge of a plate, and headed back to the frat table.

*5*
Swssh, swssh.
The two trays slid gracefully onto the table from three feet away, stopping 
exactly on either side of the wine list.  Midra took four mugs in each hand and, 
bending sensually across the wide circular table, drew her hands toward her, 
releasing a pint in front of each "frat boy".  She then swiftly lifted the trays and 
pulled them out from under the plates of wings, which landed exactly where they 
had been only a fraction of a second beforehand.  The diet Coke, she slid across the 
table to the young wolf, who had now begun humming to himself as he examined the 
find molding around the baseboards.
This was her passion.  Midra was, indeed, the best waitress at Rusty's, and 
had developed several trick shots for special customers and large groups.  She was 
met with applause by tonight's gang, and decided that she would hate to give it up...
"Here it comes," snickered one of the weasels, elbowing the coyote to the 
right of him.
Midra slowly walked behind the young wolf's chair and wrapped her soft tail 
around his neck as she slid one long, silky leg across his stomach.  She swung the 
other across so that she was lying across his lap with a sexual smirk on her face, 
then touched his chin and turned his face to hers.
She nearly dropped her jaw in shock.
He was beautiful.
The young wolf's eyes were a deep shade of hazel-gray.  He had a delicately 
pointed muzzle which culminated in an ebony nose.  His hair, only visible as "red" 
before, was now a tumbling stream of curled auburn locks, shimmering with gold 
where the low light hit it perfectly.
But his face was filled with sadness.  He doesn't want to be here, she knew 
instantly.
Midra suddenly realized that she had been gazing into his eyes for a full five 
seconds.  The table's other inhabitants looked quizzically at her.
Improvise!
She turned to the wolf's uncle.  "Your nephew," she said, "is quite a special 
case.  I think he might need a little extra treatment."  She winked at him, crossing 
her fingers behind her back while the others started chuckling knowingly.
Midra grabbed the youth by the collar and pulled him backstage.  At that 
moment, Rusty came in to check on his old friends.
"Well," said the boy's uncle to Rusty, "the Special sure has changed since I 
last came here."
"It has?" questioned Rusty.
Barry, the fox, stopped laughing for a moment and said, "Your waitress just 
dragged Allyn into the Back Room."
Rusty looked shocked for a moment, then shrugged and struck up a 
conversation about how college girls these days would do anything for a few bucks.

*6*
Midra slammed the door of the Back Room and locked it behind them.
The boy grabbed her hand and kissed it.  "Thank you!" he said fervently.
Midra stopped herself from swooning at his soft kiss, his beautiful voice, his 
bouncing locks...
"For what?" she asked, playing the innocent.
"For getting me out of there!" he said, smiling and kissing her hand again.
She let her act down and slid down the door, exhausted and angry.  "I hate 
this place.  It's good to see that someone else agrees with me, for once."
Midra shivered.  There was no heat in the Back Room and the drafty windows 
let in the cold December air.
"Are you cold?" asked the boy.
"A bit," she said.  "Rusty's not all that considerate about costuming."  She 
waved a hand in mock demonstration over her revealing clothing.
He took off his jacket and put it over her shoulders.
"Thanks," she said with a small smile, brushing the hair out of her face.
"Where are we, anyway?" asked the boy, looking around the room at the odd 
décor.  The room contained a pink armchair, a small refrigerator, and a rather large 
bed.  The windows were covered by red silk curtains which fluttered slightly with the 
breeze from outside.
"The Back Room," she said.  "I would have brought you to the kitchen or 
something, but this holds up the act better."
"Act?" he said, cocking his long, pointed, perfect ears.
"They think that we're..."
"Ah."  There was a pause.  "So, how is it?" he asked, turning to her with a 
slight half-smile.
"What?" she asked, confused.
"They're going to ask questions when I get back out," he explained.
"It's good," she said, reciting in a bored voice.  "You were nervous at first, but 
she told you that she was very experienced, then she showed you that neat trick 
with her legs and (this is where you wink, nudge, blush, whatever) you had a great 
time."  She stretched out her tired arms.  "It's the standard story that anyone tells 
when they didn't get any, but no one else ever knows that."
"How do you know all this?" he asked.
"I'm a cat.  I hear a lot of things, especially around here."
"Ah," he said again.  Another pause ensued.  "Well, if we're supposed to be 
getting intimate right now, I guess an introduction is in order.  My name is Allyn," he 
said with a mock bow.
"Midra," she said, extending a hand to him.
"Midra," he asked, shaking her hand (what a strong, beautiful handshake!), 
"would you be at all interested in meeting some time?"
"Sure!" she said.  Too eager! she thought.
However, this did not deter him.  "When are you free?"
"My last class on Friday ends at two, and then I have four hours until I have 
to be here."
"Oh, do you go to the University?" he asked.
Midra laughed.  "You really weren't paying attention, were you?"
"I wish I had," he said, smiling at her.  She let a small purr escape.
"So, was, uh, any of that stuff true?" Allyn asked.
"What stuff?"
"In the excuse?"
She laughed again.  "Well, you're definitely not nervous, and I am not at all 
'experienced'..."
"Me neither," he said.
"But," she continued, "we are having a great time...and I can do a neat trick 
with my legs."
Just then, there was a knock at the door.  "Al, m'boy, how's it goin' in there?"  
Allyn put his head into his hands.
Midra cleared her throat and screamed breathily, "He's a GOD!"
Allyn stifled a laugh as the raucous drunken laughter of the frat brothers 
came through the door.
"They'll probably want you back now," she said quietly.
"I guess so," he said, reaching for the doorknob.
"Wait," she said, "you don't look like..."
"Ah yes," he said.
"May I?"
"Of course."
Midra undid the top buttons on his shirt and adjusted the bottom so that the 
buttons did not line up with the holes.  She then fetched a spray bottle from the 
windowsill and moistened his hair and body fur, ruffling it in odd directions.  Midra 
did the same to herself, tore her net pants (maybe she wouldn't have to wear 
damaged costumes), and slid the strap of her brassiere off her shoulder, still wearing 
Allyn's jacket.
"Hey," he asked when she finished, "can you show me some time?"
"Show you what?"
"That trick with your legs?"
She put her sensual air back on.  "Maybe," she said as she turned the key in 
the lock and grabbed the handle, leaning on Allyn's slender, firm form.  "Start 
panting."