Agent Hank Spittoon drove through clean, brightly-lit streets until he reached the seedy outskirts of town. He parked in a dark gravel lot, and when he stepped out, the smell hit him immediately. He knew he was at the right place. The din of grunting, squawking, and nonsensical arguing was a dead giveaway that he had arrived at a Creature bar.

There were only a few vehicles in the lot, most likely belonging to employees or country folk who wanted to gawk at the Creatures. Not everyone was comfortable with the idea of having their Creature removed from them, and Agent Spittoon was grateful for that.

The smell was unbelievable the closer he got, a combination of sweat, banana mush, and dog's breath. He felt sorry for the people who had to work in close quarters to the heady mix of what was referred to as "hormonal discharge". Spittoon admitted to himself that one Creature by itself usually didn't smell bad. But put them together, he thought, and it's inevitable that at least one of them will defecate on the floor, or they'll start copulating and spray that funk everywhere.

He came to a rope strung at waist height, and leaned against a sign strongly suggesting that humans stay away from this Creature hangout. He wished he'd brought his ear plugs; the racket of goblins partying in hell was giving him a headache.

The hangout was simply a concrete floor open to the elements, with a bar at one end where a human bartender served Kool-aid and fruit juice to the Creatures, who were sprawled out on tables and falling over chairs. Agent Spittoon never got over the sight of them: Short, squat things only a few feet tall, with round bodies and stubby limbs. They were usually furry, their cartoon-colored hair looking like dirty rainbows depending on how long they'd been away from their owners. He saw one with feathers, but that was rare. Their behavior was absurd. He saw one licking another's face, the beneficiary of which seemed to be hypnotized by the act. Three others appeared to be arguing, though it was a fact that Creatures could not speak. Agent Spittoon guessed that the little fellows were merely imitating their human progenitors. On a "dance floor" one Creature suddenly passed out, spilling her apple juice on another who squawked inconsolably. Agent Spittoon shook his head. Despite being an expert in Creature psychology, he had no idea if the Creatures truly became inebriated from drinking sodas and fruit juice, or were simply playacting.

They act drunk all the time, anyway, he thought.

A fight broke out. Agent Spittoon instinctively reached for his sidearm. Two creatures, an orange fatty and an equally tubby blue boy, spat and hissed at one another. One slapped the other on the top of his head, throwing his hair into disarray. A green Creature waddled up as if she, too, wanted in on the fight.

"Here, now!" shouted a human employee. "Stop that! Go on, now!"

With a long, heavy stick he pushed the Creatures apart. Agent Spittoon was impressed with the man's ability to rotate the Creatures so that they faced away from one another. Though they could be vicious, Creatures held no grudges. If you could get them out of each other's line of sight, they'd soon forget the quarrel.

"Looks like I made it before you, sir!"

Agent Spittoon turned and saw Agent "Buddy" Bishop waving at him.

"Take those earplugs out, son," Spittoon said by way of greeting. "We're here on a stakeout. Personal comfort comes second."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir!"

Agent Spittoon turned away so he wouldn't accidentally return the rookie's sheepish grin. "Anyway," he said, "any sign of the target Creature?"

"No, sir. The only red Creature I've seen tonight is the one dry humping that stool over there. But..." Agent Buddy stopped as he pointed out the Creature and, as if on cue, the stool broke and the poor Creature fell and rolled over, his hindquarters still pumping in the air. He let out a pathetic, high-pitched whistling sound. Agent Spittoon was annoyed to see Agent Buddy failing to hold back laughter.

Spittoon decided to go over operation notes to get things back on track. "Target in question," he said, "is the Creature belonging to none other than our boss, Gary Weinerspiegel, executive admin at Creature Dynamics. His Creature allegedly impregnated a woman's Creature at this site, making him liable for care of the child. Problem is, this place is miles away from his Creature's usual haunts. To be frank, Weinerspiegel is a rich and powerful man. The whole point of him having his Creature pulled out of him was so it could hang out at an upscale bar and impregnate the Creature of an equally wealthy female. Why would his Creature go to the trouble of coming all the way out here, just so it could knock up some poor yokel's dumbfuck Creature? That's the question, Agent Buddy."

"Well, sir… maybe the Creature was in love?"

Agent Spittoon gave the rookie a deflated expression. "I doubt it, son. No, his Creature was most likely brought here. Or enticed to come here. We need to find out how. The why is pretty obvious: Get your Creature impregnated by a wealthy man, and you're set for life."

"Sir, I get the feeling that you don't really like Creatures."

How could Agent Spittoon respond to such an accusation? It was true that things ran more efficiently than they did in the past, and a lot of that was thanks to the pudgy little freaks getting drunk on orange juice and soda pop. Economies were stable, and crime was greatly reduced. But Agent Spittoon didn't like that the process of drawing Creatures out of humans was becoming less controversial. How could any person ever subject themselves to the medical procedure that pulled the emotional, creative, and primal forces out of them, thus forming what was called a "Creature" and leaving the human a purely rational being?

Hank Spittoon shook his head. It was unnatural. People who had their Creatures drawn out lost all interest in sex, in art, in friendship, in anything adventurous. But then again, they also didn't get involved in crime, or war, or unhealthy habits. They became methodical employees, and helped build good, stable societies, but Hank Spittoon considered them little more than automatons. On their way to and from work in safe, sterile office buildings, those hyper-rational people stepped over Creatures passed out in the street, dirty little freaks worn out from nights full of fighting and fornicating. They fed and washed their Creatures when they came home, and when two Creatures got on well and one ended up pregnant with a human child, the human progenitors would tend to the mother's needs. But Agent Spittoon saw little that was Norman Rockwell in those arrangements. He didn't care what any psychiatrist said; you couldn't pull a human baby out of something that looked like a retarded Pokemon and still be considered sane.

He was convinced that their civilization - no, their species - was headed for disaster by depending on Creatures. It was his job, as a special agent of the Bureau of Creature Affairs, to keep people safe from these menaces before they became a menace.

"Handling these little goofballs pays the bills," said Agent Spittoon. "I don't have to like them."

"Ah-h-h, I don't know, sir," said Agent Buddy. "They're kind of cute, though, aren't they? And none of their owners seem to have any complaints against them. I mean, people who are anxious, worried all the time, depressed, or dealing with stuff that's tough to handle… all they have to do is have a Creature pulled out, then all of a sudden they get to coast through life. Just go to work, clock in, clock out, you know? Life's a breeze… at least, that's what they say."

Agent Spittoon turned on the rookie. "Buddy, you be straight with me, now. You're not thinking of having a Creature pulled out of your ass, are you? Tell me the truth."

"Well…"

Agent Buddy laughed, embarrassed at being cornered, and the veteran lawman shook his head. "Damn it, son, don't ever do something like that to yourself. You listen to me! Life's not worth living if all you do is survive. When you're on your deathbed, you won't care about the easy times. The shit you're crying about now, that's the stuff that'll seem great when you're ninety and some slack-faced doctor with a Creature out whoring and stinking of grapefruit juice is about to pull your plug. These Creatures… God damn it, Buddy, they're just no good."

At that moment, an orange Creature somehow pulled a table filled with drinks on top of itself. The edge of the table hit it in the head, and everyone stopped and stared, mesmerized as one glass after another fell and hit the ground, a heavy rain of clinking chaos. Once all the glasses were empty and rolling on the ground, the Creature put a thick mitten on top of its head and cried out in pain. Wailing like a child, even Agent Spittoon felt his heart go out to it.

Agent Buddy giggled. "Look, sir - I think you hurt its feelings!"

Several employees strolled up to the orange Creature and knelt around it. "He-e-ey there," one of them said. "It's okay… it's okay…" The Creature held on to an employee, mouth wide open, tears pouring down its face. "It's just a bump on the noggin. You'll be okay, little guy. You'll be okay."

Agent Spittoon turned away. "Very funny, rookie. Very funny. Just keep an eye out for the target, will you?"