Cotton Picking Hands

It was one of those 33rd century days where the sun beat down on the inhabitants of the Earth with one of the highly intensive beams of light for which it is famous for. On those kind of days, most of the residents of the city of Hugopolis, in the country that used to be known as the United States of America, tended to head up north to their cabins in the lake district, if finances permitted them such a luxury. It was especially important for them since, being canine beings, an outer layer of thick fur had implanted itself on their bodies, as it had for more than a millennium. In such situations, the only thing they could think of during the increasingly hot summers of future time was making sure they kept cool, quickly and constantly. Vis, the constant and continued use of the beach.

On this particular day, a group of young puppies had spent several hours grafting together sand, rocks and seashells in what, in their naïve youthful hopes, would serve as a lasting monument to their greatness for future generations. But it was destined to last not even for that afternoon.

Shortly after its completion, the castle, victim of fate as it was, was brutally stomped upon by a heavily booted foot, connected to a long brown limb, which was part of a matching set encased in a dark black bikini, monogrammed in white with the initials “J.B.” on both parts. Jefferson Ball, adventuress, businesswoman, and heroic savior of the universe (at least in her own mind) was on the prowl, looking to advance, for her own selfish reasons, her record of sexual conquests. And, for Jefferson, her own desires always came ahead of everyone else’s.

This is why she did not notice her treacherous desecration of the little kingdom of sand until she was abruptly surrounded on all sides by four miniature specimens of canine humanity, two of each gender, who furiously growled at her. This ended when Jefferson, pushing the darker fur at the top of her head up with a well muscled limb, growled back at them with a greater ferocity.

“Beat it, kids!” Jefferson said, with all the innate sensitivity that was available to her. “You bother me!”

“You stomped on our castle!” said one of the boys, a grey furred youth, with a subtle hint as to Jefferson’s malediction.

Jefferson, with all the strength she could muster through her blue eyes, looked at the ruined wreck of the castle very closely. Her response? An indifferent shrug.

“Tough!” she said, with as much sentimentality as before. “You should know better than to build it where people walk!” She pulled off her boots, shook out a considerable portion of sand, and then placed them back on her feet. “A body could collect enough sand in their shoes with you guys around to make up their OWN beach!”

Feeling a small pain in her left leg, she glanced down again, where a small white female was kicking at the leg with her own as if it were a blown car tire.

“Bully! Bully! Bully!” was all that was being said, but the anger encompassed feelings that were more profane.

Tired of being a target for such abuse, as it was cutting into her valuable boy watching time, Jefferson scooped up her miniature nemeses in one fell swoop, gave them a quick juggler’s toss, and deposited them back on the ground.

“Now get this, punks!” she snapped at them. “Jefferson Ball does what she wants, when she wants and when it is that she wants to do it. And I don’t appreciate being called out for little lapses of taste and judgment for every little thing I do! So if you don’t want little black eyes and little black lips, you get out of my way and get out of here!”

There was nothing for them to do, being small, defenseless children, but cry and run away, which was what they did.