$350 OBO

VOL. 47


Haven no longer appropriate for small children

Havenites were shocked, dismayed, and strangely aroused on Friday the 6th when their beloved home was completely destroyed, forever. In its place is an entirely new map (that's almost exactly like Haven). Its name? Hawthorn.

Hawthorn is named after Nathaniel Hawthorne, a 19th century American author who wrote about scarlet letters or gables or something. Boring colonial-era romance stuff. It is assumed that the name is a sarcastic joke.

Hawthorn is also a mature map, where violence and "crude language" are officially encouraged. This has disappointed many of Haven's "gentler" denizens, who, being gentle, quietly relocated to Naia without much of a fuss.

The remaining sadistic, murderous criminals are described by Hawthorn's entrytext as "Furcadia's rough crowd." Rough, indeed.

"We've always been down on that Haven group," purred Felorin, as he lovingly stroked the pelt of a kiwi he had recently killed. "I had actually planned on renaming it 'Heathen HellHole of Horror', but that was too long."

We asked the opinion of fake Hawthorn resident Patsy W. Rivenslaw. "I am glad Furcadia finally characterized us as how we are in actuality. We are both rough and tough. I advise that you not mess with us, sir. We are from Hawthorn, the most uncouth area of Furcadia. Observe while I speak an expletive." Our reporter then covered his ears and said "La la la" for a while.

However, the name and theme are not the only things that changed. The dream is now lushly forested, much in the same style as Naia Green, the most family-friendly of the main maps. This has confused many. Or maybe just me. Anyway, it now looks like a nice place to have a picnic, so I think that's what I'll do. I just hope I don't hear any swearing.



Furc under attack by conga lines, and speaking of lines, this headline sucks

by Jackclaw

Right after the new "kitterwing" update, a rapid assault consisting of conga lines stormed through Allegria, destroying every piece of furre in its path. Spearheading the operation was the new bovine species. Their aggressive capabilities and the tendency to stay in groups made them easy leaders of a line. After sprouting from the north shore, they made their way to the Main Hall - NE then to kiwis island. They had a brave battle with the kiwis, eventually defeating their outpost.

That victory was a double-edged sword: The Kiwi threat to AI was gone, but the conga threat grew. As the conga battle raged on, soon taking home isle and other small spots, a small siege grew near the area and main hall. The conga lines used their bovine assualt forces as battering rams, taking one room after the next. Then one furre turned to dark magic. He found a lost scroll under a rug in the doorway and spoke the magic words. Then a huge explosion commenced, practically wiping out every furre in main hall on the spot.

All of the bovines were then teleported to Imag, and AI was saved. In Imag they grew in size and teamed with a large group of white lab mice that had escaped from a Hawthorn lab. Their lines grew bigger and bigger, and soon they engulfed all of Imaginarium. But as time wore on, some of them died, got bored, or had to go to the toilet IRL and their forces were depleted. By the time of 2 hours after they arrived in Imag, they were practically gone. Their presence is still there in Imag, but mostly in AI, which they have recaptured. Oh, and folks; I took over Imag. Kisses! Mortgage rates near historic lows. Refinance $200,000 loan for as low as $771/month (This last part wasn't part of Jackclaw's article, it was just tacked onto the end of his email. We decided to keep it anyway.)

Jackclaw is the Vice President of Finance at CorporationCo Inc., and wears a suit at all times, even when bathing.


Did you know?

Did you know that Kitterwings are capable of swallowing their prey whole? First they release a venom into their prey until it is paralyzed. Then the Kitterwing begins to consume the carcass, unhinging its jaw if necessary....


Alts for sale

We are selling the following alts for fresh livers. You have no idea how fast El Borracho goes through those things.


The Spleenmonger

Social Butterfly



Confused Super Furry Animals fan

The Lemming

Furcadia on drugs: slightly weirder than normal Furcadia

Fear and Loathing in Lost Lake

by Hunter S. Tomcat

I was somewhere around The Hollow on the edge of Allegria when the drugs began to take hold. Creatures too weird to be mythical filled my vision as I navigated unsteadily toward my target. This was going to be a tough story.

Late last night I'd received an urgent call from my agent. "There's an Anime Convention at Lost Lake tomorrow. They need someone to cover it." "Cash in advance. Unmarked golds," I replied. With the money in hand there began a frantic rush around the underworld of Naia in search of supplies.

A young purple dragonette answered the door. "I'll need catnip, Ketamine, ether, speed, LSD, peyote — lots of it. Enough for a whole weekend," I explained. "Here's 800 gold. Fill me up." The pills and powders turned out to be bleach — but it was good bleach. A few stops later I had the rest of my supplies and was ready.

At last, after much wandering, I arrived at my destination. Lost Lake: famed throughout Furcadia as a G-rated safe haven, in reality a den of depravity. I threaded my way between the varied and vicious denizens of this hideous cave-like building with its cages and chains, the stench of sweat and blood filling my nostrils. At last I found a seat between two huge barred enclosures and gazed at the pathetic wretches within.

After a few minutes I noticed that some sort of squirrel in one of the cages was is staring at me. I became paranoid as The Fear rose within me. Can she she tell I'm on drugs? Is she a narc? My eyes shifted from side to side. Taking a handful of assorted pills from one of my pockets, I dry-swallowed them to settle my nerves. In minutes I was drenched in sweat as the new collection of illegal narcotics added to those already surging through my system, along with the bleach. I adjusted my dark glasses -- known as "tea shades" in the drug subculture, these hid my bloodshot dope-fiend eyes. The designs on the carpet began to swirl and pulsate. I looked at the squirrel again — she was turning into a snake! I was right to have been suspicious. Good thing I came prepared for this. Taking out a hip-flask I downed a shot of bourbon. I was almost ready to start work.

Soon I became fascinated by the way the metal bars of the cage before me were weaving and twining, the possible narc forgotten for the moment. Steel has life, I thought, it grows and moves, just like ... tentacles ... My reverie was interrupted by a bump from my left. Jerking in surprise, I turned and peered through the dark tea-shades at an indistinct form on the seat next to me. An ... octopus? The furre's form melted and flowed in my hallucinatory vision. "Squid country ..." I muttered.

"Squid country, sir?" the octopus inquired. I peered intently at the femme, forgetting that her words were mere repetitions of my own ramblings. "What's that you say? We're in squid country? This is bad craziness. Very bad." I

brushed droplets of sweat from the soaking fur of my brow and fumbled at my belt for a weapon. Fortunately for those nearby, I'd left that at home. Or somewhere. I looked around sharply, movements jerky — his dark glasses making everything difficult enough to see even before the news from my eyes reached the drug-befuddled brain. "There's one now!" Finding no weapon, I took up the hipflask again and chugged a few more mouthfuls of the burning liquor.

The octopus — or maybe it was a feline — spoke again. "They're out to get you, you know. It's only a matter of time before they find you. Who knows ... maybe I'm one of them." I blinked behind my tea-shades. "You know about them? What can you tell me?" This could be the lead-in for the story he'd been paid to write. Admittedly the story was supposed to be about the Anime Convention, not this den of slavery and ... octopi ... but my reporter's instincts had led me to the right place, as I'd known they would. I pulled out a small, battered notepad and began to scribble illegible hieroglyphics. "Who sent you? What's your name?"

"Oh? Who wants to know? Why should I tell you? You'll know about us then. We can't have that ..." Whispering softly in my ear from behind, "You do the things you do, to smell the way you smell. Why shouldn't I destroy you here and now for it? You can call me the devil." I nodded, scribbling more scratchy, indecipherable scrawls into my little notebook. "The devil, you say?" Writing it all down. Whether I, or anyone else, would be able to read it later on was questionable. Nevertheless, this was the break I'd been waiting for. These facts, or whatever version of them I managed to remember the next day, would find their way into the totally unrelated story I was writing on some publisher's expense account. The public had a right to be informed! "What do you know about the snakes?" The important questions came first.

"Snakes? Snakes? Ah yes ... well, right now they seem harmless. But in four months time, they'll be as big as an adult dragon. I'll send them off to consume lambs and lions. Then, to devour souls of the innocent. Yours will be the first. You'll become my personal bitch boy." I made notes as carefully as I could under the circumstances, what with the paper changing shape and the pen trying to wriggle out of his grasp. "Giant snakes ... dragons ... devour souls of innocent ..." I muttered. This was the real deal, and while I believed every word, such was my concentration on the story — and the disorder of my brain — that I felt not the slightest fear. "Just as I thought."

I nodded to myself, happy that once again the pursuit of truth and the profession of journalism had been well served. Digging in my pockets, he found and downed another handful of random pills to reward myself for a job well done. The interview already forgotten, I decided to look for a bar. I needed a drink.

Hunter S. Tomcat was only commissioned to write about the new fish icon...


Two of the April Fool's Day color-coded gangs. Photographs by Sigh and Kiyichichi.

MEOW squad sent in to quell uprising

by Kiyichichi

ALLEGRIA ISLAND—Many a time in AI a group of people wearing the same colors runs around screaming "WHEAR MI COLORZ LOL" multiple times, usually resulting in a Guardian coming and giving them the riot act. But on April 1st, a major riot broke out between the "Golds" and the "Hobos", neither of which had very nice colors. Guardians were called, but they could not quell the insanity that was AI with their mighty ejecting powers.

Bystander cURRIA, who was eagerly awaiting the next issue of The Muskrat, was questioned. But before she could answer, a mob of gold-colored furres ran her over and she was gone. Also, so were the Golds and the Hobos. But then, a new color mob had popped up, calling

themselves the 'Billies', although mob leader Billie was unavailable for questioning due to massive spamming.

The Billies made a great line through the center of AI, causing distress and lag for all. A chair was thrown for no reason soon after the line was formed, and another fight broke out although no one seemed to care. A team of blue-clad furres known as the MEOW squad by no one went in and ran back and forth between everyone, causing colors to be swapped all over and making people confused to the point of where they just wanted to eat cookies and drink mass amounts of alcohol. Ex-Billie/small child Sigh was questioned after this, responding with a long scream and running away like a girl.

Kiyichichi just wrote this the other day. No, really!