The day began as it normally would do, with a magnificent ascent of the shining beacon we’ve come to call a sun. But for the citizens of a certainly overpopulated city, this spelled out the task of getting up and going to work. Our story is not focused on these boorish louts, but on the denizen of apartment 17, a small and (to a certain degree) well-kept living space. A shaft of light peered in through the window and crept up to the sleeping form. An alarm clock closely resembling a strawberry sounded its aggravating racket. The person underneath the blankets stirred at the noise, coughed, cursed under its breath and extended an orange furred, but still humanoid appendage and lashed out at the clock, ending its audio tyranny.

So began the morning of the being called Valmont; a male, twenty-three year old anthromorphic fox and an outsider citizen of the city referred to as Newgrounds. A man who has not exactly been popular with the residents and preferred to remain generally ignored. Being as he is, he was appointed a figure to be mocked and had been given various titles and labels like ‘furfag’ and ‘next-door-cat-raping-psychopath.’ A true living testimony to the fact that people judge before actually getting the facts straight. This was not to say he was friendless, but only with those who saw past his established heritage.

Dreading the Monday morning ahead, he rolled off the mattress and brushed down the singlet and boxers outfit he had fallen asleep in. Memories of what had transpired the night before were blurry and incomprehensible, so much so that by the time he’d finished attempting to make sense of it, he forgotten exactly what the date was (Not that this’d do him any good, but it’s something to be mentioned). All that he could recall was something about the tavern across the street, a bottle of what could be taken as an alcoholic beverage, a young woman whom he’d met and may have attempted to talk to and her boyfriend’s inhumanly large fist. Stumbling towards the area which in most cases would classify as a kitchen, he grabbed his mug off the table and lazily switched on the coffee machine in the fleeting hopes a heated beverage would wake him up. But before he could pick up his Mi Goreng, (an Indonesian brand of instant noodles) from the door a loud knock emitted. “Oh for Fulp’s sake…”  He mumbled to himself in an aggravated tone. “It’s six o’ friggen’ clock!”  He started to shout at the unseen doorknockers as he headed for his establishment’s entrance. “Go find a job, ya useless sacks of-” He would have finished this statement if it weren’t for the people bursting through the door in a violent and militant manner.

In less than a few short seconds, Valmont had picked himself up off the floor he’d been thrown to and began to study these intruders. These men appeared to be wearing a variant of the well known SWAT team suit and were each carrying standard issue assault rifles. For those who haven’t caught on, this was a small squad of ‘Tankmen.’ (The Newgrounds equivalent of the United States army, but with even less manner and weapon control) Before Valmont could do or say anything, the Tankman closest to him spoke.
“Oi, are you the man people around here call Valmont?”
       “Indeed I am.” Valmont casually replied.
“Excellent,” the soldier said before turning to the one on his left. “Ya see Henry? Third time’s the charm!”
       “Yes sir,” Henry responded without judgment of his leader’s navigation skills.
“Anyway; now that things have been cleared up, we need you to come with us.” The leader of the squad said with the most serious of faces. Valmont slowly looked down at himself, then subsequently at the Tankmen squad before asking his question.
“Can I put my pants on first?” The raising of their assault rifles and the sounds of three safety mechanisms being released with a simultaneous click did little to reassure him that they’d allow such a thing. “Five minutes,” said the one on the right, “and no more.”  With that; Valmont turned and began the seemingly impossible task of finding a pair of pants that weren’t torn to blue hell and back, rifles pointed towards his furry back. “It’s gotta be Monday,” he mumbled under his breath, “I could never get the hang of em…”