Red Fur

The den was large, about 40-foot by 40-foot. That's a lot of feet, for something that looked like a hole from outside. In fact, it was some sort of old factory room - the hole in the cliff face yielded a small cavern, through which they had drilled. A few feet later, they had smashed through the wall into this store-room. The factory had been closed for some time, I gathered, and this room - the door boarded up and covered on the other side, long forgotten.

This is the kind of thing Communist
Koalas would use. I stole it from
Someone's spreadshirt. It wasn't
about Communist Koalas.

 This suited the Koalas fine. Around the walls, they had hung flags - hammers and sickles adorned their abode, yellow symbols of the proletariat emblazoned red backgrounds of metaphorical proletariat blood. The Koalas sat around, preparing weapons, polishing their guns and checking their equipment. Their leader, a huge beast with anger in his eyes and a knife in his paws, looked at me. His was the glare of every worker oppressed, every oppressed mass that yearned to be unoppressed and massing. He lifted the knife to his mouth, his eyes still fixed on me. He licked the blade, running it across his tongue, blood dripping from his maw onto his matted fur.

 I shuddered. Captured by 1/3 mad, 2/3s insane lunatics, Revolutionary Communist Koalas, that was all I needed.