Expansive Imprint

          There are faux pas, and then there are faux pas. Certain things one absolutely did not do. For example, if you are touring someone else's "artist loft" as they call it, you are careful. You do not touch things. If you do touch things, you certainly don't go trapsing around with little regard to the owners property. If you do, go trapsing around, you certainly have the dignity and respect to be careful and graceful with your trapsing.
         So leave it to Jonesy, A rather large bovine of a particular aloof nature and expanded waistline, to not only arrive at Alex's loft uninvited, but to begin touching everything. Statues the grey fox had built with meticulous care - carving the details out of clay using his very own sharpened claws, Paintings that weren't quite dry yet, and even had the audacity to sit upon what he thought was a "stool" that turned out was Alex's very first art project.
         "You absolute ingrate," Alex shouted, pointing down at the ruined mess. "How could you!"
         "I...I'm sorry," Jonesy said, bolting upright quickly.
         Now, before I begin telling of the next events I must clarify that in all due respect, Alex had told him to stop by anytime in the past. And it certainly wasn't Jonesy's fault that Alex had such a small work space. His "Artist Loft" existed in the upper attic room of a cheap and old home, once owned by an eccentric old hound who enjoyed her clutter. No one called her a hoarder, but when she died everyone did question why she needed decades of copies of old locally distributed magazines and newspapers. Or why in the world anyone would keep a couch that was in such poor condition, it regularly "swallowed" any poor victim who sat in the middle of it.
It was small and cramped crap is what I'm saying, so it's only understandable what happened next.
Jonesy bolted upright, shouting apologies and stepped backwards without looking where he was going. His hoof landed on a broken easel (another victim of Jonesy's visit) and tumbled backwards, arms pinwheeling, his massive posterior crashing down upon something soft, and half formed.
         A cry rose in Alex's throat. His ears flattened on his skull. There was a snarl on his muzzle and a twitch to his tail that Jonesy had never seen before. Before you could shout "Don't say it!" It was out of his mouth.
         "You complete imbicile! You stuttering graceless bafoon! How dare you come trampling around my Artist Loft! You destroy everything you touch, you bull-headed idiot!"
         Jonesy winced at every word. His ears folded back at the slur. "I am a bit of a klutz. I'm sorry for that," he mumbled, his nose pointing downward. "I never mean to break anything. I always pay for everything I break. Does that warrant insulting me with such ugly words?"
         Alex took a deep breath, and sighed, blowing the air through his muzzle. His lips rippled a bit as he did so. "Look, I'm sorry for saying it." He replied. "But you positively destroyed my shop! And right as I was about to give a prestigious critic a very important glance at my latest..."
         *BING BONG* The doorbell chimed, interrupting the vulpine.
         "work!" He shouted. "Oh my God what will I do?"
         "Uh....I'll clean up!" Jonesy stammered. "Go downstairs and stall them!"
         He flew down the steps, racing towards the front door as the door bell chimed loudly again. Past the living room with its boxes of stuff still piled up, ready to be hauled away at some future date. Past the relatively clean kitchen, through the dining room, over towards the front door. Alex winced as he heard a rush and tumble of things from the attic being thrown together. As he put his paw on the knob to open the door, there was a great Crash that came from upstairs. He half expected to hear Jonesy's deep voice declaring "I'll pay for that," as he opened the door.
         "Why Olivia," Alex said with a smile. "I didn't expect to see you here so soon!"
         "Oh," she said, "Is it not two thirty?"
         The vulpine grasped her paw delicately and shook, before bending down to give her a kiss on the knuckle like a gentleman out of his own time. The professionally dressed vixen had a bored look upon her, as she stepped inside the door with her nose held high, and ignored the gesture. "Please, Alex," She grumbled. "Just show me to the piece."
         "B-but," Alex began as Oliva pushed past him with the barest of a flick of the tip of her tail. "Don't tell me you're one of THOSE guys, Alex. I know the way up."
         "B-but, I was going to make tea and discuss," he began, following closely behind her as his tail quickly began to tuck between his legs.
         "And don't patronize me, young Todd," she sneered, dragging out the word 'Todd' to make it sound like the deepest insult. "Just show me the piece. I haven't got all day!"
         "But, I need to talk about the inspiration! Prepare you for what you're going to witness here." Alex stammered, all the way up the steps.
         "Please," Olivia groaned, rolling her eyes as her ears folded backwards. "One does not need preparation for good art. If I need to be prepared for it, I need to..." she stopped, at the top the stairs to the art loft. Jonesy sat back in the corner, opposite of the art piece, waving politely, a pile of things shoved behind him. Opposite of him was the sculpture of a vixen. Her hand was raised in the air, as if struggling beneath a weight. Her body had been smashed by pair of massive cheeks and a thick, bovine tail. Her top and legs were still discernable; looking as if she had been in mid-pose at the time of the incident.
         "I...I..." Olivia stammered. "I'm speechless."
         "I can change a couple things," Alex said as quick as he could. "I can re-sculpt it if you just give me a little more..."
She rounded on him, her eyes flared with anger, her ears folded into her fur. "You will do no such thing!" She snarled. "You will not! You will fire this piece, and present it as is! It is perfect, you hear! Once you got something perfect, Todd, you DO not touch it."
Alex dropped his mouth open in surprise. Of all the reactions he was expecting, this was certainly not it. Laughing maybe. Snickering perhaps. The knowing nod of someone who has seen the worst an artist can possibly do, the quiet scribbling as the greatest possible insults a critic could muster is written down as fast as their brains could work. All of that he expected. But not praise.
         "But what do you call this piece?" She asked, her head tilted quizzically.
         Alex glanced over at Jonsey for a moment, taking in his massive waistline, his shy nature, and said the first thing that came to mind: "Expansive Imprint."