A man sits bolt-upright in bed, shaking like a struck drum amidst the faint violet of a snow-covered night filtering through the dusty metal blinds. This scene plays out many nights, though on most nights as he sits, steaming slightly, sweat rapidly cooling in the chilled air of the basement beyond his blankets, it is simply fear that triggers a break in his restless tossing slumber. Fear of many things, rational things, yes, like death and poverty, or the pipes freezing to burst and fill the walls with icy waters and black mold. But more pressing are the crippling phobias of discovery by his peers of the sorts of websites he frequents or text-based multi-user adventures he partakes in. Prejudices of those who simply do not understand the beauty and poetry of the shapes and forms dancing behind his eyes or across a computer screen. He fears judgement and, perhaps, retribution, though socially he risks little in the way of repercussions aside from occasional glances now and again from among the world of strangers beyond his door. No, this night is different, this sobering snap from sleep brought on not by fears or any sort, but by anger. Ignoring the frigid concrete floor, he shuffles in the dim pre-dawn echos of light to his pride and joy, his one gateway of safety beyond the damp grey walls, his computer. The machine is already on; it is always on and ready and at the bidding of its master, and even now it waits patiently for his command. With haste, he activates the screen, artificial light penetrating the gloom to confirm the source of his anger.
He was right to awaken when he did. The world is wrong, and he alone must chime in against the transgressors.
Someone has said something mean about furries on the Internet.
