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Chapter Text

"Lung cancer. Inoperable," says Walter White's doctor one day after he collapses in a coughing fit and is rushed to the hospital. He is not a smoker, he has never smoked, but he is an artist, and according to his doctor frequent and prolonged exposure to oil paint fumes containing carcinogens like cadmium have probably contributed.

The only thing he can think about is how he'll pay for his medical bills- he's an art teacher at J.P. Wynn High School, and his pay is theft. He has to work a second job just to keep his family afloat.

And when he dies- which he likely will, the survival rate for his cancer is so low that he might as well start planning his funeral- they will be destitute. His wife, son, and soon-to-be-born infant daughter will be left with nothing.

There is only one thing he can do.

—

One warm night in Albuquerque, Walter White pulled up outside of Jesse Pinkman’s house, stepped out of his silver Pontiak, and made his way into the backyard, hidden from the moon in the shadow cast by his house. It was dark. Nobody saw him. Nobody expected him.

Earlier that day, he’d seen his former art student escape from a house where he and a now-apprehended criminal had been producing an illegal- but highly sought after- genre of artwork now illegal by US law. In a split-second decision Walt had let Jesse escape, hadn’t alerted the authorities to his presence. Now he was here to reap the fruits of his labor.

Jesse, who had been hastily pulling a tarp over his car, turned towards the sound of gravel crunching underfoot. When he saw who was approaching, he ducked behind the tarp, red hoodie flashing in the night. Too late. Walter White had already seen him.

“I’m alone,” Walt said, approaching slowly, hands in the air.

His former student stood up and turned to face Walter, fear in his eyes and a blunt metal object in one hand. “How’d you find me?”

“You’re still in the school’s filing system. Look,” he added, because Pinkman had a tire iron in hand and the look in his eyes of someone who was weighing his options: run or fight, “No one’s looking for you.”

“Then why are you here?” The moon cast a bright light on Jesse's apprehensive face, his eyes hidden in pits of shadow.

“I was curious,” Walter shrugged. “I never expected you to amount to much, not with how badly you did in Art 101. I had to fail you. And now you’re…. making furry porn? I didn’t picture that.” He paused. “There’s a lot of money in it, huh?”

Jesse looked down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Like I said, no one is looking for you.”

“Look," Jesse started, head snapping up, "I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, Mr. White. I mean if you’re planning on giving me some bullwinder about getting right with Jesus, or turn myself in…”

“Not really.”

Jesse opened his mouth, but Walter cut him off. “Short speech. You lost your partner today. What’s his name, Emilio?” Walt took a few steps forward. “He is going to prison. The Department of Ethical Art took your money, your studio, your partner. You got nothing. Square one. But you know the business, and I know the fundamentals.” Jesse stilled, his shock palpable even from across the driveway. “I’m thinking maybe you and I could partner up.”

Jesse stared blankly at him for a few moments, then burst out in laughter. “You wanna draw furry porn? You? You and me?”

Walter said, “That’s right.” He didn't move.

“Wow," said Jesse, an incredulous smile crossing his face.

“Either that, or I turn you in.”

——

The next day, Walter White ransacked his school’s art supplies. Acrylics, oil paints, shitty frayed brushes and off-white canvases all tossed into a box and into his car. An old computer he hadn't used in years, a drawing tablet, a pen- all went into his car and into Jesse Pinkman's driveway.

“This ain’t art, okay? This is chemistry," said Jesse, once they'd started to lay down the ground rules of their operation. And because Mr. White had started chuckling, he added, “Art is chemistry! And the shit I draw is the bomb, so don’t tell me otherwise.”

Walter ripped into him, the inner critique Jesse hadn't seen since Art 101 baring its teeth and making itself known. “Your work is shit. I saw some of the stuff they brought back to the DEA. Neon green tiger balls? Really? Is this what kids are into nowadays? This inferior product is what passes as acceptable?”

“Hey, neon green is my signature, alright?" Jesse tugged at his gray flannel. "You don’t know shit about this market, what they want!”

“No, but I can tell that your composition is horrible." Mr. White smiled blithely, remembering the furry artwork that he'd seen cross the DEA's desk the previous day. Jesse's sputtered protests went unheard. "You have no sense of color theory, no brushwork. The market is clearly settling for an inferior product. If we are going to draw anthropomorphic beasts having sexual intercourse, we need to be better than our adversaries. We will produce an artistically whole and balanced product that performs as advertised. And we will dominate our competition.”

Jesse grinned. “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that. And what the hell is this, anyway?"

“Studio safety equipment," Walter explained. "We’re going to be using the good stuff- oils, turpentine, all of that. We need fume hoods and gloves for mixing paints. Oil paint fumes are toxic, in case you didn’t know that.”

"Most furry art's digital, yo," Jesses said, leaning back against Mr. White's car. "You sure we need this shit?"

"You and I will not produce an inferior product," said Walter. "Believe me, once Albuquerque's closeted furries recognize our talent, they will buy from us."

“Alright," Jesse shrugged, skeptical, "but it doesn’t stay for more than a day, okay?”

“Why? I thought we were going to paint here?”

“I dont shit where I eat, okay?" said Jesse, picking up a tub of acrylic paint and putting it down into the car's trunk again. "RV, that’s what we need. A Winnebago- I know a guy who wants to sell his. We’ll drive way out to the desert.” He looked south. "I'll call you when I'm ready. We don't meet here."

Walt nodded. “Alright. I'll keep a low profile for now.” He flipped the car trunk closed, got into his car, and started the car In the rearview mirror, he could see Jesse watching him as he pulled out of the driveway. Then he turned a corner and he was gone.

—

Red rock, blue sky, puffy white clouds stretching for miles in all directions. There was nothing beneath the sky but sagebrush, dust and an off-white RV.

Inside the RV, Walter White and Jesse Pinkman stood in a sea of oils, acrylics, pastels and canvases, and one computer and drawing tablet powered by a generator. "Alright, let's make some commission examples, bitch!" said Jesse, pumping his fist in the air.

Walt clearly knew what he was doing. He handled a paintbrush like a fencer might handle a sword. Each brushstroke was deft like a strike to the heart and conveyed a great depth of meaning, giving shape to some oily, muscled furry torso or the flushed heat of its balls. Despite the fact that Walter White was drawing illicit pornography of an anthropomorphic animal, it felt good. It felt good to finally be skilled at something, to know art like the back of his hand. This was what his talent was for, not explaining how lines worked to uncaring, unfeeling high school students. This was his true calling.

After what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, Walter White stepped back, checking his masterpiece with a critical eye. On the canvas before him, rendered in loose, expressive brushstrokes was a fluorescent blue wolf, washed out with sunlight as it jacked itself off in a car seat in the New Mexico desert. It was exceptionally well-rendered. The black leather car seat let off heat; so did the anthropomorphic animal. It was a perversion of what art was. But it was the best thing Walter White had made in a long time.

"Jesus!" Jesse checked his phone. "That took you like thirty minutes!"

"Yeah," said Walter, playing it off.

"You're a goddamn artist!" Jesse gestured excitedly to the well-rendered porn, grinning vivaciously. "This is art, Mr. White!"

"Actually, it's just the basic fundamentals of design," Walter said, "but thank you, Jesse, I'm glad it's acceptable."

"Acceptable? You're goddamn Leonardo da Vinky!" He moved on before Mr. White could correct him. "Every furry freak from here to fuckin' Malaysia or whatever is gonna wanna try this. I gotta try this."

"No, no, no," he said empathetically, before Jesse could start pulling down his pants. "Absolutely not. We only sell it, we don't use it."

Thankfully, Jesse did not take off his clothes. "Okay, fine, Mr. White, we gotta sell it then."

Relieved, Walter nodded. “Jesse, where do you usually take your commissions?”

“Uh, Twitter, why?” He pulled out his phone. "I go by the Jesser on there. I'll, uh, post this real quick-" he snapped a photo of the porn- "use it as an example."

"I don't have an account," Walter White said.

"Making one's easy, yo. Just download the app and call yourself something that's not your real name. Don't use that location service shit, though," Jesse added, "the government's gonna get you if you do."

"Duly noted," his art partner said. And thus, the Twitter account @heisenberg was born.

—

A few hours of waiting later, Jesse's head whipped up from his phone screen, to which it had been glued to for the past several hours. "Someone DM'd me, Mr. White!"

"Jesse, what's a DM?" Walter asked. "Is that some kind of furry sex act?"

Jesse barked a laugh. "Nah, it's a direct message." He tapped the phone screen. “Hey yo, Mr. White, we got our first commission!” He read the messages aloud, and tapped out a few in return.

$$TUC0$$ has joined the conversation

$$TUC0$$: HEY MAN. I WANT YOU TO DRAW MY FURSONA SNORTING METH OFF MY DESK

$$TUC0$$: [Attached image: A character reference sheet depicting a sturdy striped and brown-furred American badger wearing a collared shirt striped with chains. The badger has numerous darker colored markings along its body, several prominent scars, and dark eyes. A cigar is perched in its mouth.]

J: uhhh itll be $500 digital and $1500-3000 in oils depending on the painting size

$$TUC0$$: ALRIGHT, I WANT IT DIGITAL.

J: k it’ll be a few hours

"Okay!" Jesse said aloud, having finished reading his dms with @tucosal_abuelita4ever aloud. "Let's get painting, bitch!"

They painted- or rather, Walter White did, because there was only one computer and two of them. For two hours Walter White bent over a drawing tablet, laboring over his very fur-st commission, carefully following the details of the badger's reference sheet, not leaving a single stripe or marking undetailed. When his hand cramped up, Jesse filled in for him, Walter critiquing him as he put ice on his aging wrists before ushering his former student aside to resume the drawing, rendering wood grain, fur, gold and methamphetamine with clear brushstrokes and a master's sense of color theory. Two hours, thirty photoshop brushes and forty-five layers later, the commission was complete.

Jesse informed the commissioner immediately.

J: done 🥶 ill sned the full pic once you pay

$$TUC0$$: ARE YOU PUNKING ME??

J: no way man we just need the money first alright chill

$$TUC0$$: YOU’RE FUCKIN PUNKING ME!!

J: yo chill!!!

$$TUC0$$: WHERE’S MY METH-SNORTING FURRY SHIT, HUH

HEISENBERG has joined the conversation

$$TUC0$$: ??? THE HELL ARE YOU

Heisenberg: I’m J’s partner.

$$TUC0$$: I REMEMBER THAT BITCH

J: im literally still here biatch

$$TUC0$$: SHUT IT MULE BOY

Heisenberg: Please calm down. I can assure you we have your commission ready.

$$TUC0$$: YOU DONT GOT JACK

Heisenberg: If you don’t send the money, there will be consequences.

$$TUC0$$: SHUT IT BISNATCH, COME FUCK WITH ME AND FACE ME LIKE A MAN

Heisenberg: IP. 92.28.211.234 N: 43.7462 W: 12.4893 SS Number: 6979191519182016 IPv6: fe80::5dcd::ef69::fb22::d9888%12 UPNP: Enabled DMZ: 10.112.42.15 MAC: 5A:78:3E:7E:00 ISP: Ucom Universal DNS: 8.8.8.8 ALT DNS: 1.1.1.8.1 DNS SUFFIX: Dlink WAN: 100.23.10.15 GATEWAY: 192.168.0.1 SUBNET MASK: 255.255.0.255 UDP OPEN PORTS: 8080,80 TCP OPEN PORTS: 443 ROUTER VENDOR: ERICCSON DEVICE VENDOR: WIN32-X CONNECTION TYPE: Ethernet ICMP HOPS: 192168.0.1 192168.1.1 100.73.43.4 host-132.12.32.167.ucom.com host-66.120.12.111.ucom.com 36.134.67.189 216.239.78.111 sof02s32-in-f14.1e100.net TOTAL HOPS: 8 ACTIVE SERVICES: [HTTP] 192.168.3.1:80=>92.28.211.234:80 [HTTP] 192.168.3.1:443=>92.28.211.234:443 [UDP] 192.168.0.1:788=>192.168.1:6557 [TCP] 192.168.1.1:67891=>92.28.211.234:345 [TCP] 192.168.52.43:7777=>192.168.1.1:7778 [TCP] 192.168.78.12:898=>192.168.89.9:667 EXTERNAL MAC: 6U:78:89:ER:O4 MODEM JUMPS: 64

$$TUC0$$: YOU PISSING ME

$$TUC0$$: THE FUCK 😾

$$TUC0$$: ALRIGHT ILL PAY

$500 has been transferred from $$TUC0$$ to Heisenberg

Heisenberg: And another hundred for my partner’s pain and suffering.

$100 has been transferred from $$TUC0$$ to Heisenberg

J: alright sending now

J: [Attached image: In a dark and somewhat dingy room, an anthropomorphic brown-furred badger with a cigarette held casually in one paw leans down against a desk, snorting crystal meth. Stacks of money surround him. There is a gun protruding from his waistband, and he is wearing a golden chain. Two bodyguards menacingly stand on either side of the desk. The composition is arranged as if the viewer has entered the badger’s office, and is about to face him while he’s high on meth.]

$$TUC0$$: BOO YAH

$$TUC0$$: WOO

$$TUC0$$: THIS KICKS LIKE A MULE WITH HIS BALLS WRAPPED IN DUCT TAPE! THX MAN

J: glad you like it bitch :)

$$TUC0$$: NORMALLY I’D FIND YOU AND KILL YOU FOR PULLING THIS SHIT, NOBODY DRAWS FURRY PORN IN THE SOUTH VALLEY BUT ME

J: …

$$TUC0$$: BUT THIS IS SO FUCKIN GOOD THAT I WON’T!

$$TUC0$$: PLUS YOU GOT MY IP ADDRESS SO 😸

Heisenberg: I see the product was to your satisfaction.

Heisenberg: Perhaps we can do business in the future.

$$TUC0$$: HELL YEAH IT WAS. I'LL SEE TO THAT.

Heisenberg has left the conversation

J has left the conversation

“Alright bitch!” said Jesse, saving their masterpiece to Walt’s desktop as a PSD. “Yo, mister White, maybe we don’t have to draw dog dicks after all! That furry seemed okay with non-sexual art!”

“Jesse, I’m not so sure about that. There’s a reason that furries are a particularly underground subculture-"

The phone in Jesse’s hand lit up with a notification, then another. Jesse checked his Twitter handle. “Yo, Mr. White, check your Twitter! You’re blowing up.”

Walter sighed and unlocked his phone- he . Astonished, he scrolled through his DMs- he had three or four asking whether his commissions were open- and checked his follower count: 20. Other than the handle “Heisenberg”, his profile was blank. He checked his notifications again, and his eye caught a mention from @tucosal_abuelita4ever.

$$TUC0$$
@tucosal_abuelita4ever
SHOUTOUT TO @HEISENBERG AND @THEJESSER FOR THIS PUNKASS ART OF MY FURSONA!!!

He’d attached their drawing of his badger fursona snorting meth- it was well received. The comments were raving and the retweets were many. Walter didn't know much about Twitter, but the more people who reposted their art, the more people who'd see it, right? Exposure was good. He knew that.

“So, what now?” Walt asked, looking to Jesse for guidance. His former student was much more experienced in this market than he was. “How do we proceed?”

“We paint some more, bitch!” Jesse grinned. “Hand me your phone, will you? I gotta check out those DMs you’re getting- thanks,” he added as Walt handed it over. “These are fucking nasty,” he said, clicking through a few of them.

“Then let’s get to work.”

—-

The operation went surprisingly smoothly.

But three weeks, several studio sessions, and several thousand dollars later, Walter noticed something strange on Jesse’s Twitter profile, something that struck fear into Walter’s impassioned heart and stole the breath from his cancerous lungs.

“Jesse, what is this?” Mr. White asked sharply.

“It’s my fursona, yo!”

“No,” said Mr. White. “Jesse, that is the Nesquick rabbit. Jesse, we are going to get sued for copyright infringement.”

So they called Saul.

Saul Goodman was one of the trashiest, shadiest lawyers in New Mexico, but as Jesse had put it, they needed a criminal lawyer, not just a criminal lawyer. And he was apparently well-versed in copyright law, a bonus in Walt’s book.

So one Monday afternoon Jesse and Walter walked into Saul’s office and sat in loud, shitty chairs in a crowded room of loud, shitty clients, held at the mercy of blunt-smoking potheads and crying babies. When they were finally called into Saul’s office and Jesse shut the heavy wooden door behind him, the almost-silence was a relief incomparable to any other.

Except for the emo nightcore remix blasting from the desk at the center of the room.

A man with a receding hairline leaned back in his Corsair TC100 Relaxed gaming chair, black dress shoes propped on his desk. Against a tacky backdrop of the US Constitution flanked by tall marble pillars, he was the picturesque image of Saul Walt had seen in the commercials, except he was wearing a bright pink Hello Kitty headset.

Walter cleared his throat. “Hello, my-“

“Hold on, I can’t hear you!” Saul Goodman said, removing his Hello Kitty headphones. “Saul Goodman, speedy justice for you. Please sit,” he said, ushering them into the green cantilever chairs in front of his desk. “What can I do for you two today?”

Walter looked Mr. Goodman in the eye. “We need your advice on a possible copyright violation we may or may not have committed.” He paused. “It is of a… sensitive nature, so-”

Jesse reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a color print-out of a stylishly dressed bunny chugging milk. “If I say the Nesquick rabbit is my fursona, can the guys at the company sue me?”

“Jesse!” Walt hissed, but it was too late. Realization dawned on Saul’s face.

He grinned Saulishly. “You’re furries? Don’t worry about it! That’s illegal anyway, it’s not like Nestlé’s going to go after you any more than the government will.”

“I,” Walt spat, “am not a furry. I am an artist.”

“Oh, so you make furry pornography?” Saul said casually. “Hey, no worries! Several of my clients are furries, UwU. I know furry law and copyright law like I knew my ex-wife, inside and out!”

Neither of the men at his desk laughed. Jesse only nodded, confirming their lawyer's suspicions. Walt opened his mouth to reprimand him again, but then a violent cough tore through his lungs- he made a sound like a sick and dying car- and he had to brace a hand on the desk so that he wouldn’t double over.

Saul shot a look of concern at Walt from across his desk. “Woah, you alright there, buddy? Did I uh, rustle your jimmies?”

“I’m fine,” Walt snarled, batting his hand in Saul’s general direction. “No cause for concern.” He straightened his back and removed his hand from the desk. “Where were we?”

“The uh, Nesquick rabbit,” Jesse said helpfully.

“Right, the Nesquick rabbit.” Walter leaned forwards. “Now, the legality of furry pornography aside, you’re telling me that Nestlé can’t sue us if my business partner here uses it as his- fursona?”

Saul chuckled. “Oh, no, they absolutely can. But let me make it clear to you, Mr… remind me your name again?”

“Barlow,” Walt said quickly, before Jesse could interrupt.

“Mr. Barlow, what you are doing here is absolutely illegal. The Anti-Furry Defense Act of 1998 outlawed all furry conventions, costumes, and of course, pornography, in the free and funky US of A.” He spread his arms wide as if to evoke a soaring eagle, or perhaps a pair of spread legs. “But hey, I’ll bet my left nut it’s making you ‘hella cash’, as the kids say.”

“I know,” said Walter. “And yes. We’ve made quite a bit of cash. Which, if you attempt to tell the government about us, we will hire a hitman with.”

“Oh yeah?” Saul leaned back in his gamer chair, eyebrows raised. “Good luck with that. Unless you’re hooked up with the right guys- and I can do that for you- you’re going to hire an undercover cop.” He waved his hands. “But there’s no need to worry about that, Mr. Barlow. If there’s one thing I respect more than the Constitution, it’s lawyer-client privilege. What you say here to Saul Goodman stays with Saul Goodman, cause it’s saul good, man.” He flashed a finger gun at Walt, who did not move a single facial muscle in response. “Wow. Tough crowd, am I right?”

Walter considered something for a moment before saying, “If you aren’t going to inform the government about our operations, you must know that I’m not actually Mr. Barlow. I’m Walter Hartwell White, and he-“ he pointed to Jesse, who had pulled out his phone and was texting one of his friends- “is Jesse Pinkman.”

“Hey! Not cool, man!” said Jesse. "Okay yo, if Mr. White gets to tell you my real name, I get to tell you that he's using the name Heisenberg on Twitter," he said, grasping at any further leverage against his drawing partner.

“You’re using Twitter?" Saul Goodman leaned towards them, elbows on his desk. Walter couldn't tell if his hair was falling forwards or if his cheap toupee was slipping off his head. "Oh boy, you must be really struggling. Hell, you two must be in hell.”

“Uh, actually,” Jesse began, “we’re-"

"Our distribution methods are slow and ineffective," Walter admitted. "But I'm not sure how that's relevant to you."

“Hey! What if that is relevant to me?" said Saul. "Let’s just say I know a guy who knows a guy… who knows another guy. I’ll try to get a hold of him.” He winked at the two men in front of him, and flashed a shiny grin.

When they exited Saul Goodman's office, having learned some fun facts about money laundering, the furry porn market, and a bunch of other things Saul had dumped on them, Jesse felt in over his head. Walter felt more powerful than he ever had in his life.

They were going to destroy Albuquerque's furry porn market so bad.

Chapter Text

In the weeks after their debut on the furry porn market, Walter and Jesse’s business thrived.

Jesse picked up Mr. White’s techniques remarkably quickly. He did a hell of a lot better in a practical environment than he had sitting in a high school classroom, and his work showed it. With the correct motivations, he was a true artist.

But Walter wasn’t satisfied with their digital work. As he scanned the PSD files of lions railing tigers with huge purple strap-ons, he was sure that his true calling was traditional artwork. He was sure that Albuquerque had an untapped market of furries who wanted their porn traditional- they were simply unsure where to acquire it.

To make things worse, the CEO of Twitter, Peelon Shusk, had made some changes to the platform which had decreased the user base and made the platform much more unsustainable. So Walter and Jesse had established a Patreon account, and then a Tumblr blog; unfortunately, they’d been banned from the latter platform in about a week. But more than that…

“Jesse, our revenue stream is drying up,” Walter said. “New commissioners aren’t DMing us anymore.”

“Shit, I think we got shadowbanned, yo!” said Jesse. “It’s a hundo percent the furry porn.”

After Jesse explained what ‘shadowbanned’ meant, Walter slammed his hands down on the desk and said angrily, “I thought Twitter’s guidelines allowed the presence of pornographic content?”

“Nah, well, they’ll get you anyway, man. Also could’ve been the Patreon links we posted, yknow?”

Walter’s face contorted and he let out a long, racking cough. “We NEED to draw!” he snapped. God, Jesse still didn’t know he had cancer. He had an expiration date; soon he would be dead, and he had a family to support. “We need to get our product out now, goddamnit!”

Jesse blinked, surprised. “Woah, chill! We can paint more tomorrow, it’s late. You gotta get back to your family, right? I got it under control. Meantime, I know just the guy to talk to.”

—-

The guy he needed to talk to was Krazy 8, Emilio Koyama’s cousin. The Emilio Koyama who’d been locked up by the Department of Ethical Art like a week ago. The Emilio Koyama who had been arrested while Jesse was banging a hot neighbor chick. And Jesse had fled the scene, hadn’t backed up his fellow artist. But hell, it wasn’t like Kraze knew that.

When Jesse pulled up in front of Krazy 8’s house, it was pitch black outside and there was a wild party in full swing. A furry convention, more like; he could see animal-headed silhouettes swaying wildly inside the house. Fuck yeah, this was his typa scene! There’d be some nice stuff inside, some hot babes, maybe even some MILFs, but he wasn’t here for that. He was here for Krazy 8. Sauntering towards the house, hands tucked into his hoodie, he pushed the door open and stepped into the chaos.

The music thumped so loud Jesse could feel it in his bones; the smell of alcohol mixed with vomit and weed and furry sex. Kafkaesque, man. But in like, a hot way.

Jesse shouldered his way between a wolf tripping out on mushrooms and a red panda doing cocaine off a hooker’s asscheeks. “Fuck, where’s my man at, yo?” he muttered, searching the gaudy crowd for a sign of his contact. At last Jesse caught sight of him near the multicolored strobe lights, training some guy in a German shepherd fursuit. Probably some weird fetish, Jesse thought, and there was a ninety nine percent chance he was right.

“Hey, yo!” said Jesse, making his way through the crowd. “Kraze, how you doin’ my man? You got a new dog, right on man. What’s his name?”

Krazy 8 didn’t look up, still focused on training the furry, which was on all fours on the linoleum.

“Yeah, I had a guy like that once,” Jesse lied. “Maybe like twice as big. Super hot. Now me personally, I would train him to go straight for the, uh, nutsac.”

Krazy 8’s head snapped towards Jesse. “Shut your mouth and show me your money.”

“I ain’t buying, ese. I’m selling.” Jesse reached into his hoodie pocket and held out his phone, open to him and Walter’s shiny new commission website, which had a tasteful furry orgy on the front page.

That caught Krazy 8’s attention. “Heel,” he told the furry, and took the phone.

“Tell me that ain’t the finest yiff you ever laid eyes on. Go ahead. Try it.”

Krazy scrolled through the images, expressionless. To pass the time, Jesse thought about weed and MILFs. Finally, Kraze wandered off to the bathroom with the phone.

Jesse moved to pet the furry. “Hey poochie, how you doing?”

It leaped up, snarling wetly through the soft mesh of its head. Jesse jumped back, caught a malevolent gleam in the human eyes visible though the suit’s cartoonishly large ones. Jesus, maybe there was a better reason why Emilio’s friend kept this thing on its knees.

He turned to see Krazy 8 returning from the bathroom, zipping up his pants. “Boo-ya! See, what I say?”

“It’s alright,” Krazy 8 shrugged. He kept the phone at his side.

“Alright? It’s alright? Yeah, it’s alright.”

“So what, you back in business?”

“Hell yeah I’m back. With a vengeance. Vato loco, gotta make a living. And with your cousin gone away and all and…” Jesse sucked in a breath. “And listen, homes. About that. It really broke me up about Emilio. That dude is like my brother. He okay, you talk to him?”

“Yeah, I talked to him,” Kraze said venomously. “Said when the feds came you were out sticking it in some neighbor lady.”

Jesse laughed. “Hey, you know, I got lucky twice.”

“I don’t know, man. Emilio, he thinks maybe you dimed on him.”

Behind him, the furry snarled.

Jesse spread his arms. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey, that is bullshit. That is bullshit, Krazy 8! You know I should kick his punk ass for even thinking that. You know what, next time you talk to Emilio you tell him for me, alright?”

The furry stood and removed its mask to reveal Emilio’s hateful face.

“Why don’t you tell him yourself?” Kraze asked. “Made bail this morning.”

Emilio threw the fursuit head to the ground. “Go ahead, pendejo. Kick my ass!” He and Krazy 8 closed in on Jesse, backing him into a glass wall. The German shepherd fursuit brushed against Jesse’s arm. No access to the crowd. Jesse caught sight of a gun sticking out of Kraze’s waistband. No escape.

With a snap of his hand, Krazy 8 pistol whipped Jesse with his phone. His vision darkened, the side of his head smarted. “Where did you get this? Hmm? Cuz I know your little punk ass didn’t draw it.”

—-

When the car rolled up outside Walter White’s camper van, he was buck naked in the desert and pulling on his turpentine-stained painting clothes.

He heard the music thumping from the car’s interior long before he saw it, but he didn’t bother hiding. A few vehicles had passed by already, and none had bothered to stop. Walter didn’t think this one would be any different until he saw the fursuits.

There were two of them, two furries who pulled up in a red car in a spray of desert dust, unrecognizable beneath a thick layer of fur and foam: one, a German shepherd, and the other, a wild dog. The AC was on high enough that Walter could hear it above the music.

The wild dog got out of the car and immediately burst into laughter.

“Damn, man,” the furry chuckled. “What are you, some kind of nudist?”

Walt just stared.

“That’s some fine-ass furry porn you been painting there, ese.” How did he know that? “How bout you come work for me?”

Walter finished tying his painting apron. This must be one of the contacts Jesse had promised. “I’d be willing to sell it to you, if the price is right.”

With one gloved paw the furry motioned to his friend, who passed him a plastic bag full of cash. It caught the high sun, glinted artificially. When he held it up for Walter to see, he nodded in approval.

The wild dog tilted its head, and for a moment Walter looked to the car. “You out here all by yourself, huh?” The German shepherd in the car turned its head, and from beneath the fursuit its eyes caught Walter’s.

It jumped out of the car, ripping off its head to reveal a man- the man Hank had arrested at the stakeout the week before: Emilio Koyama. “Hey, I know you!” he barked. “He was there when I got busted. He’s with the DEA!”

Walter cried out in protest and Jesse Pinkman tumbled out of the backseat and onto the hot desert soil, wriggling his legs free from a loose ziptie, his hands still immobilized. He stumbled to his feet and screamed, “RUN, MR. WHITE, RUN!”

“Goddamned rata snitch, motherfucker!” spat Emilio, reaching into his fursuit and pulling out a gun. “Hey, maybe your fursona should be a fuckin’ rat instead of that Nesquik rabbit bullshit you’re always mouthin’ off on!”

Sprinting away from them, Jesse yelled, “Yo man, you said you liked my fursona!” Then he tripped and bashed his head on a rock. His body went limp.

Emilio strode over and cocked his gun at Jesse’s head. “I say we cap ‘em both, Kraze.”

Walt heard the click of the wild dog’s gun. He feebly raised his hands in surrender as if they’d protect against a bullet, but he was trembling so much he couldn’t raise his arms above his shoulders. Cool metal pressed against his temple, and when Kraze saw how much he was shaking he let out a harsh bark of laughter. He peeled off his fursuit head and whistled. “You really draw that batch of yiff?”

Walter nodded.

“You’re a goddamn genius. It’s a damn shame.”

He clicked the gun’s safety off.

“Wait! Wait a minute. Listen to me, I’ll teach you my techniques, huh? What do you say? You wanna draw like me?” A string of coughs broke Walter’s sentence. “You let us both live and I will teach you, huh?”

To his surprise, Kraze nodded. His gun pressed harder into the side of Walt’s head. “Move.” He followed his prisoner into the RV. Emilio kicked Jesse in the ribs and turned to follow them.

The two furries wolf-whistled when they saw the van’s interior. It was neat, kept almost neutorically clean for a painting studio, and while Walter’s captors ogled the traditional work hung from the walls Walter headed for the easel.

Hands shaking, he lifted his brush and dipped it slowly onto his pallette. Yellow ochre, burnt sienna. It made an acceptable earthy orange. He applied a few strokes of paint to an anus and brought the brush to mix the paint again. Finding it unsatisfactory, he took his palette knife and began to methodically mix the pigments.

Kraze pressed the gun to his back. “Move it, homes. Ain’t got all day.”

“Wait,” said Walt. He took a deep breath. “Before you kill us, do you want some chips and dip?”

“Sure,” said Emilio and Krazy 8.

“Thank god,” Walter said. “I thought they’d rot.”

He disappeared into the back of the RV and presented the two with a bowl of bright orange cheese dip and a bag of tortilla chips.

They dipped the chips into the dip and nibbled at them in a way Walter wouldn’t have expected from men who were holding him at gunpoint; Emilio even went back for more dip.

Then he doubled over and vomited on the floor. “The fuck was in that, pendejo?” Krazy 8 screamed, leveling his gun at Walter, but then he bent double and started retching so Walter sprinted for the door and knocked over a neatly organized table of paints. A violent crash sounded behind him. He leaped from the van and slammed the door shut and with a loud bang a bullet punched a hole in the door. Three more shots sounded, so close Walter’s ears rang, and he shook with fear, body pressed against the door with all his might.

He knew what he’d done to these men. That was no ordinary chip dip; that was oil paints and turpentine. These men wouldn’t survive very long with a hefty dose of heavy metals in their throats and intestines.

There was yelling from inside the RV, retching and vomiting that turned into gurgling. Walter took in deep, gasping breaths in tandem with the dying men. The sounds in the van rattled on for a long time before it went silent.

Fuck! He’d killed two men. Two people were dead because of him. If someone else found them right now, two dead men and millions of dollars worth of furry porn in his van, he’d spend the rest of his life in prison.

In a panic he ran to Jesse, grabbed his unconscious body and dragged it into the RV. He tried not to look at the two lumps of fur and cloth on the floor of the van, the heads poking out of the comically large fursuits, the oils and turpentine staining their fur red like they’d been shot to death instead of eaten away from the inside.

Walt hit the gas, and the RV lurched forwards, hurtling through the desert; Jesse’s body lolled in the passenger seat and Kraze and Emilio slid across the floor slick with turpentine. The RV skidded round a corner and hurtled off-road, porn flying from the walls and staining red and orange and slicking wet with turpentine. Walter flung himself from the RV as soon as it stopped, gun in hand.

He was close to tears. “Shit. Shit!’

Sirens wailed in the distance.

He grabbed his camcorder from his apron and stood fumbling with it in the middle of the desert. He pressed the Record button with a soft click.

"My name is Walter Hartwell White," he began. "I live at 308 Negra Arroyo Lane, Albuquerque, New Mexico, 87104. To all law enforcement entities, this is not an admission of guilt. I am speaking to my family now."

He swallows hard. "Skyler… you are… the love of my life. I hope you know that. Walter Jr., you're my big man. There are going to be some things that you'll come to learn about me in the next few days. But just know that no matter how it may look, I only had you in my heart. Goodbye."

If Skyler ever saw what he’d been drawing, would she be able to recall him without thinking about furry porn?

It didn’t matter. Walter had made his choice. He’d done this for his family, and he would face the consequences.

Sirens whooped in and out, close by. The camcorder clicked off.

Walt set the camcorder next to his open wallet and gazed for a moment at the smiling face on his photo ID card. Its plastic shell rippled in the heat, a distorted reflection of himself from only a few weeks before- before everything. J.P. Wynne High School, Albuquerque Unified School District. He'd been an art teacher, not a criminal.

He pulled a pistol from his underwear and pointed it at the road. It glinted in the hot sun as flashing lights rounded the corner ahead. He wasn’t afraid to shoot any cop who came his way.

He thought of Skyler’s harrowed face, the way she’d look at him in court when she knew what he’d done. The way his son would no longer smile at him and refuse to meet his eyes when he stared desperately from the defendant’s stand, handcuffed and dressed in orange.

Fuck, he couldn’t do it.

He stuck the gun to his throat and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Walter blinked, fumbled with the gun’s safety and with a BANG a bullet hit the ground and he jumped back, terrified. He dropped the gun and raised his arms, awaiting a fleet of police cruisers with their lights flashing blue and red.

Then firetrucks rounded the corner and honked at him to get out of the way. Walter scrambled up the bank and towards the RV just as Jesse stumbled out.

“What happened?”

Walt didn’t respond.

“Hey! What’d you do to them?”

“Heavy metals, present in even the least toxic of oil paints, mixed with turpentine, creates a corrosive substance. Ingest even a teaspoon, and…”

He bent over and puked.

“We gotta, we gotta clean this up.” He wiped his mouth and headed for the RV.

——

They got as far as Jesse’s backyard before one of the corpses started moving.

Krazy 8’s body twitched. Walter smacked him with a bucket and he went limp.

“Shit,” Walter hissed.

Jesse said, “Ay, the fuck are we supposed go do now?”

Gingerly, Walter poked Krazy 8 with a foot. “He’s practically dead. I don’t think he’ll last another night. The heavy metals should continue to corrode his stomach.” Walter looked up. “The other one, he’s-”

Jesse looked to Emilio, a little sick. “Yes.”

After some lengthy discussion and a fateful coin flip, they decided that Walt should kill Krazy 8 and Jesse dispose of Emilio’s body. Walter would take care of Krazy 8’s corpse once his soul had fled this mortal coil.

They ziptied Krazy 8 to a post in the basement, took the body and the fursuits into the yard and under a tarp, and separated to take care of the mess. Neither men wanted anything to do with eachother, and Jesse prayed to whatever sick fuck of a god was watching over them that Walter would leave him alone after this. He could make good money on his own; he didn’t need a babysitter.

Unfortunately, Jesse quickly discovered that he didn’t know how to get rid of a body.

——

So he called Saul (again).

It turned out that Saul was no longer taking calls, and that he’d have to text him.

J: yo what do we do

J: me and ??/heisenberg??? just killed a man

J: another in thr badement

J: need help getting rid of them

Saul’s response appeared on the phone screen a few minutes later.

SAUL GOODMAN: Maybe you should just dissolve their bodies in acid ^-^

J: tf??// how th e bitch am I supposed to do that??

SAUL GOODMAN: Look it up, silly!

“Fuck,” whispered Jesse as he opened a WikiHow page instructing how to dissolve bodies in acid. “Okay, Jesse,” he muttered. “You got this.”

Scrolling through the shitty little drawings of smiling people placing dead bodies in tubs until they were nothing more than bones and brown sludge, Jesse found his answer. He needed concentrated sodium hydroxide to dissolve the body- lye, apparently. It came in drain clog remover. That was easy enough to find. He was pretty sure he had some at home.

The body would have to be placed in a tub. The upstairs bath in his aunt’s house might work. Alright, bitch. Awash in relief and dread, he strolled casually into the garage, grabbed Emilio’s body by the armpits, and dragged it out from under the tarp and upstairs. His former friend’s head lolled against his chest. Nausea rolled in Jesse’s stomach and he resisted the urge to throw up.

Think about milfs, yo! he told himself, and that was enough to get Emilio’s body into the tub without throwing up. But then he saw his former friend’s empty eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, and he stumbled to the toilet and threw up.

“Just meat, is all. Just a bunch of meat.”

Who knew furry pornography was this dangerous? He’d have to dispose of the fursuits too, dammit. Did he leave them in the yard? Fuck!

Jesse ran downstairs to get the fursuits- those were the most dangerous. A dead body was one thing, but a furry? The DEA’d have him in an instant. Plus, the fursuits were soaked with blood. Not a good look.

One of them was missing. Did Mr. White take a souvenir or something?

“Eh-hem,” someone coughed, and Jesse whipped around, pulling the tarp back over the fursuit. One bloody paw stuck out, and he slid in front of it to hide it from the middle-aged blonde woman standing at the gate.

“Yo, lady, whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying, yo.” It was great that his favorite weed dealership had recently switched to using MILFs as dealers- it made Jesse want to buy from them a whole lot more- but today, he didn’t have the heart to purchase anything.

“My name is Skyler White, yo,” said the woman, and Jesse’s mind shattered. Fuck! She didn’t need to be related to Mr. White. It could just be a coincidence. “My husband is Walter White, yo- uh huh,” she said, noticing Jesse’s petrified expression.

She paused. “Do not sell MILF pin-ups to my husband.”

Jesse gaped. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

Once Mrs. White had stormed off, informing Jesse that she had a brother in the Department of Ethical Art whom she’d set on Jesse the instant he tried to sell to her husband again, Jesse pulled out his phone.

J: ay your GODDAMN WIFE SHOWED UP!

J: thought she was a weed dealer but then she said she was your wife??

J: i almost blew our cover homes

Heisenberg: What? How?

J: she told me to stop selling you MILF pinups when she was all up in my shit

J: howd that happen huh

Heisenberg: Jesse, this was a misunderstanding. She was suspicious of our business dealings and had found text messages from you. I had to lie to her about something.

J: MILF PINUPS?

J: you have a brother in the goddamned DEA and you never told me?

Heisenberg: Brother-in-law.

J: oh that’s so much fucking better!

Heisenberg: And for the MILF pinups, it somehow seemed preferable to admitting I draw furry porn and killed a man.

Heisenberg: Anyway, we have more pressing matters to attend to. Did you take care of Emilio?

J: yea. dissolved him btw

Heisenberg: How?

J: https://www.wikihow.com/Dissolve-Bodies-In-Acid

J: his bones r still there tho

Heisenberg: That’s acceptable. We can bury his remains in the desert on our next studio session.

J: aight great. you know i always dreamed about melting bodies when i was sitting in your boring shitty class. never thought i’d be doing it with your assistance huh

J: have you got to kraze yet

J: hello?

J: mr. White?

——

Walter White coughed, tripped, fell down the basement stairs, and with a very loud crash the plate he was carrying broke and he hit his head so hard he passed out.

He woke up fifteen minutes later to an indifferent Krazy 8. He made him a new sandwich (since the old one had glass shards in it), unlocked his cuffs so he could eat properly, and sat down to talk.

To disguise his identity he’d donned Jesse’s bootleg Nesquik rabbit costume, which he’d been using as a fursuit. It didn’t matter, because Jesse had already let Walter’s full name slip out of his furry mouth while jacked up on crystal meth and furry porn.

Halfway through their meal Krazy 8 lunged at him with a glass shard and Walter got behind him and strangled him to death with the zip tie he’d been chained with.

Gasping, “I’m so sorry,” Walter slid to his knees and Krazy 8’s lifeless body slumped to the floor.

He pulled out his phone and through the thick mesh of Jesse’s fursuit typed out a message.

Heisenberg: Done.

——

In a shitty office in a strip mall a few blocks from the courthouse, Saul Goodman flipped through his address book, dialed a number, and put a phone to his ear.

There wasn’t an answer; the call went to voicemail.

“Yo, yo, yo, 148-3369, representing the ABO. What up, biatch? Leave it at the tone.”

Saul cleared his throat. There was a beep. “Saul Goodman speaking.” He smirked. “I think I found your guy. Come to my office with Heisenberg and I’ll give you the details.”