Knaves

by Abbott, Alana Joli; Meadors, Melanie R. ;

  Usually this kind doesn’t gravitate to me. As I said, I am not your average villain’s cat, and they usually know they can’t handle the massive malevolence I bring to the table. These upstarts prefer to go with a younger short hair for their first regulation cat. I, in contrast, am infinitely more distinguished, with a luscious coat of jet black fur. Technically, they created a new category for me: “overlong long hair.” I have piercing yellow eyes. I have the second longest stare in cat history (the scientists, when not planning world domination, have created a Guinness Book of Evil World Records), and certifiably the loudest hiss of any cat alive (page 827 of section 2, the 14th edition).

  What I’m saying is, the very look of me convinces most of these newbies they couldn’t handle me. If one does get delusions of grandeur, I usually just have to issue a low growl and start the second longest stare, and they remember their place.

  This upstart, though, is completely clueless. My growl and stare produce no quantifiable results. I escalate to the fully extended claw swipe, and finally I break out Cat Secret Weapon #2, that record-setting hiss. This kid just throws back his head, crowned by its eight-inch-high curly Tower of Pisa that leans as he laughs. “Yeah, now I know for sure that’s the one I want!”

  Today definitely is not going as planned.

  Most times when I am chosen, my villain is ready for me. He often still has the accouterments from his late cat, so I ride home in a gold flecked carrier with caviar and bottled spring water, until I get to his lair and can retire to my cat house, usually multi-level with a modest two or three diamond encrusted food bowls throughout.

  Can you imagine, then, how humiliating it is being grabbed unceremoniously and thrown in a surplus cardboard box for god’s sake, with the logo “save one cat, save them all” printed on the side? Being shoved into the back seat of a faded brown ’98 Honda Civic, which I later learned was his mother’s? And then, how horrifying it is to arrive at his room in said mother’s basement, to be shown a pile of old and clearly unclean t-shirts as he says, “make yourself at home”? He then plops down at what I assumed was a desk underneath the mountains of gears, soldering tools, bits of wire, and other miscellaneous choking hazards, and promptly ignores me.

  Well, what would you do? The same thing I am, I’m sure—pee all over the t-shirt pile while staring at the kid. Cat Secret Weapon #3. While it mostly likely won’t be enough on its own to get me a return to the shelter, I’m sure it will result in screaming at the very least, if my past experience with villains is any indication. This will be the first link in the chain of destruction I forge around this impertinent boy.

  He doesn’t even notice.

  How is that possible? I stare at him for five straight minutes. He never even lifts his head.

  My tail thrashes furiously (kicking up dust as it does—when was the last time this kid vacuumed?). Momentarily at a loss, I watch him. When I first saw him, I was struck by his awkwardness, yet he is clearly in his element here. He even moves with a sort of grace, for a biped. His hands are little brown sparrows, their movements both purposeful and natural. I want to swat at them, for a number of different reasons.

  He works intently, oblivious of how dangerously close his towering hair is to the Bunsen burner’s open flame.

  As I turn my attention to the bed, contemplating if I have a second liquid assault in me, the door bursts open. A whirlwind in the shape of a ten- or eleven-year-old Black girl with massive afro puffs enters the room. She wears a black leotard with a gold tutu that battles with her afro puffs for circumference supremacy. She’s paired scuffed combat boots and an oversized ragged leather jacket to complete the outfit.

  “Are you ready to do the demand video now, Khalil?” she asks, as she begins immediately touching and moving almost everything on the overcrowded table, revealing additional layers of gadgetry, like excavating an archeological dig.

  “Stop touching that, and you know we’re not making the video until I complete the first phase of construction.” Khalil catches a falling box of broken light bulbs right before it hits the ground and shatters. Well, shatters more.

  The girl stomps a foot. “I know that! I just thought we could do a practice video, so we could review it and make sure everything is perfect for the real one. I even got dressed up for it!”

  “Yeah, um, about that. What exactly is it that you’re wearing, Mini?” he asks.

  She looks down at her outfit proudly. “This is my evil-scientist-demands-video outfit, duh! You have to wear something that’s super scary, but still shows you have style.” She twirls to emphasize the latter part.

  As she comes out of the spin into a surprisingly good plié (one of my villains loved the ballet so much, he kidnapped a national troupe to force them to perform for him, so I’ve seen my fair share of quality pliés), her eyes fall on me.

  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, you got the cat!” The bouncing and handclapping look both more ridiculous and more adorable given her current attire. That’s not me being sentimental in any way. Just an impartial observation.

  “When did you get it? What’s its name? Is it a boy or a girl? Can it sleep in my room? Can I pick it up?”

  The barrage of questions distracts me from the fact that the last is actually rhetorical, as she swoops me into her arms. Typically, I have all kinds of defenses against this, as I have detailed previously (see: my record-winning hiss), but she moves so quickly, like, well, like a cat. Certainly that is not to say I don’t have a veritable arsenal to deploy on the rare occasions I am cathandled against my consent. The few who have previously been so brave or so foolish as to attempt this carry literal and figurative scars to remind them of their folly.

  But none had the evil genius of this oddly dressed girl, who uses her nefarious Spidey senses to suss out my only vulnerability. My Achilles paw, if you will. Part of being a villain’s cat is being impervious to normal petting. Where as a normal civilian cat would purr at an under-the-chin scratch or a base-of-the-tail pat, I feel nothing. It’s like my nerve endings have all been severed. But every stone has a crack. She scoops me up, her hand sliding to scratch just inside my upper left leg (the paw pit as we cats call it), while simultaneously rubbing behind my right ear in counter clock motions.

  How could she possibly have known? My entire body goes limp as I lean against her chest, powerless.

  Khalil answers her earlier barrage of questions sequentially. “I picked the cat up this morning since I had to go to OEV headquarters to get my ID picture taken.”

  He pulls out his official OEV member license, wearing the same proud grin he has in the photo, which is missing the top four inches of his high top.

  “The cat doesn’t have a name yet,” he continues, putting his worn wallet away. “I honestly didn’t ask about the gender—I mean does it really matter? It’s a cat that’s been fixed.”

  My eyes widen a little in surprise. Khalil has seemed fairly oblivious to everything happening around him up to this point. I would not have thought him capable of understanding that cats transcend such petty human constrictions as gender binary.

  “Also it’s a cat; it’ll sleep wherever it wants. And clearly you answered your last question yourself, Mini.” He nods to me in her arms. Appalled at the indignity of my position, I will myself to fight. But my body, overwhelmed with pleasure, just won’t respond.

  “I guess you’re right about the gender,” the girl muses. “But it does need a name. Like now.

  “And speaking of names,” her attention zeroes in on Khalil, “stop calling me Mini. That’s a baby name. I haven’t used that name in like, forever.”

  Khalil rolled his eyes. “Right, how could I forget. Sorry, Amina, Oh Grown One.”

  But Amina seems to have her sarcasm forcefield set to maximum, because she just nods like a benevolent monarch. She turns her attention to me, nary a break in the dual petting.

  “Now what should we call you?’ she wonders. She is contemplative for a few minutes.


  Then her eyes brighten and she shouts, “Wuzzie McCuddlekins!”

  She must be having a stroke. She’s shouting gibberish. Her brother should call the paramedics. Any second now her limbs will seize up and she’ll drop me, and I can make my escape.

  But Khalil’s high top bows solemnly as he nods. “You know, I never would have thought of that, but it does seem to fit the cat perfectly.”

  I cannot believe my ears, and as you know, cats have excellent hearing. I have been part of—nay integral to—dozens of plots to destabilize, control, and/or destroy the majority of the globe, and the name they want to give me sounds like a knock off Care Bears line?

  “That settles it,” Amina rubs her chin on the top of my head. “Welcome home, Wuzzie!”

  Typically, I would flatten my ears in anger, but that would interrupt Amina’s scratching of the right one. So I content myself with a terrifying eye narrowing.

  It occurs to me that I’ve belonged to so many villains, but I’ve never actually been given a name before, atrocious as this one is. Once the transmission demands were done, I was typically plopped unceremoniously onto the ground and left to my own devices, ignored until the next worldwide appearance.

  Something unfamiliar flutters inside me. Obviously a reaction to the generic cat food brand at the shelter—my constitution is not suited to such plebian cuisines.

  Amina leans over Khalil’s shoulder. “So when is it going to be ready?”

  Khalil sighs and pushes back from the desk. “Well, as you know, the prototype is complete and fully operational…”

  “Like the Death Star!” Amina giggles.

  Khalil smiles, clearly proud of his little sister’s nerd reference. “Yeah, just like the Death Star. But now I’m waiting to hear back from OEV about financial support to complete the full scale version. I had to turn in like eighteen forms in triplicate.”

  “And the real one is going to be big enough to affect the whole world?” Amina asks.

  “Yeah, but not the whole world at once. Since it will be in orbit and accessing a network of satellites the OEV has hacked into, it will only affect the parts of the planet within its range. But I’ll program it with the earth’s rotation so that it will eventually get everyone. I decided to start with this hemisphere though, just in case it gets deactivated by some ‘hero’ before it’s completed a round. I figure the U.S. is the country that needs it most right now.”

  I look back and forth between them, my curiosity almost unbearable. What is this new weapon that has the potential to affect the entire earth? What are their ultimate fiendish plans? I have to know.

  And don’t do the curiosity and the cat thing. Just don’t.

  “Oh,” Amina says, as if reading my mind. “But Wuzzie doesn’t know what we’re talking about! We should show them the pro-type and how it works!”

  “Prototype,” Khalil corrects. “And I’m not sure it would even work on an animal,” he adds skeptically.

  Amina rolls her eyes. “I know the word, but I like calling it a pro-type, cause that means you’re a pro! You’re official now, with your OEV membership and everything.”

  Khalil ducks his head and grins. “Thanks, sis.”

  He pulls her in for a hug. Which means, since she is still holding me, I get sandwiched between them. Normally, I would make them pay for that, but it catches me off guard again. I also realize Amina stopped petting me in my spots a while ago, and yet I feel no compunction to get down from her arms. Clearly I am more fatigued by this whole affair than I thought.

  Khalil digs around in a chaotic drawer of papers until he pulls out a messy roll of blueprints. He lays them on top of the desk (and everything covering it, so it looks more like a 3D relief map).

  From here I can see plans for a giant globe with protrusions and an opening. Two extended knobbed rods are labeled as “sensory inputs,” and the curved narrow opening, “beam port.” Apparently it is curved so as to provide better coverage in connection with the curvature of the earth. At least, that’s what I read on Khalil’s blueprints. And of course cats can read.

  He also pulls out what looks like a laughably small super soaker water cannon that has been spray-painted silver then dropped into a vat of glitter. Pride fills Amina’s eyes, and I am fairly certain who is responsible for the exterior design.

  Khalil points the tiny glittered barrel at Amina, which is also at me. I start to squirm and claw. I am not sure what exactly is going to happen, but I have been the subject of other “tests” by my villains. I still have a bald patch I have to lick the fur over to cover. I am never doing that again.

  Amina holds me up gently. “I understand why you’re scared, Wuzzie, but you don’t have to worry about anything. Khalil’s already used it on me and on himself, with nothing bad happening. My brother would never do anything that might hurt me. And also he is an amazing scientist, like the best! Like the very, very best!”

  Khalil subconsciously runs his hands up the sides of his high top, smoothing any errant hairs and ensuring it stands tall and proud.

  I typically never trust anything humans say. Primarily because every single one I have met lies to everyone all the time. And I’m not just talking about the villains; that’s a given. Heroes have lied to me, too. I remember the first hero I met, who “rescued” me. It had been an exceptionally bad defeat for my villain. The secret lair caught on fire when the doomsday device blew up. Flames burned everywhere. I cowered underneath the desk, terrified, smoke clogging my lungs and blurring my vision. I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve never been more terrified in my life. I was barely out of being a kitten, and none of the other cats at the shelter had prepared me for this possibility.

  The hero barged in to grab the jewels my villain had stolen. I raced forward, so relieved that help had come. I climbed the hero’s trouser leg. He screamed and swore, shaking his leg. But I clung to my only chance at salvation like a burr in my overlong long fur. Finally the hero promised to adopt me if I let go. Said it in such a sweet calming voice. Said we would live together, that I’d have the biggest cat tree and all the treats I wanted. I was so happy, I released my claws and curled up in his arms, purring in between coughs from smoke inhalation. But of course he lied. He took me straight to the shelter, threw me down and didn’t glance back once, no matter how loudly I cried for him to come back, my dreams fading like smoke.

  So no, I never trust anything a human says.

  But as I stare into Amina’s earnest eyes, I don’t know why exactly, I stop fighting.

  “Good Wuzzie,” Amina murmurs as she scratches under my chin.

  She nods at Khalil. He suddenly turns around and holds out the gun, now pointed towards all three of us. He backs towards us, until we are all lightly touching.

  “It’s easier this way,” Khalil says, I guess for my benefit since Amina clearly understands.

  “It’s like a science selfie! Smile, Wuzzie!” Amina presses her cheek into mine as Khalil pulls the trigger.

  A beam of blindingly bright light shoots out of the barrel and bathes us all.

  It takes minutes for my vision to clear. As it does, I feel a sudden wave of nervousness. My tail twitches furiously. Did it work? I want it to work. I’m pretty sure it worked. But what if it didn’t? Does that mean I’m a failure?

  Confusion fills me. Why am I so anxious? I am not at all invested in this gadget functioning properly. I don’t even know what functioning properly means in relationship to it. I know all of this, and yet I feel like it’s my entire life’s work on the line.

  As I focus on the feelings, I realize something strange. The feelings have a direction—like they are pouring into me from a point of origin. My eyes flick towards Khalil. He smiles, relieved, and the nervousness recedes. I am overcome by a new wave of excitement and pride. I don’t remember the last time I felt either. It’s not unpleasant, I suppose.

  “Mini, it works! I can feel impressions from Wuzzie! Not as strong as with you. More just vague feelings. But I sensed Wuzzie
was confused, then I sensed understanding, and maybe a little awe trickling through now?” Khalil looks at me.

  I turn my gaze away and flick my tail. Now that’s taking it too far. I am intrigued, perhaps, but what cat wouldn’t be? However, no legitimate cat would ever be in awe of a human being. Unless said human was made of cat treats.

  Khalil laughs and pets my head a couple times. “Ok, I must have been mistaken, not awe.”

  Feelings of amusement flow from Amina. “Yeah, you must have been wrong, bro. And also, I said don’t call me Mini!” She glares at Khalil, who throws his hands up defensively.

  “It’s so funny,” she continues, after confirming Khalil is properly chastised. “Like you said, I get senses of Wuzzie’s feelings, but they feel blurry, like they are wrapped in a blanket. With another human, it’s so clear and sharp. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, getting flooded with all their feelings, and sometimes even their exact thoughts if they are super strong.”

  “It’s like you’re Deanna Troi, not Luwaxana,” Khalil quips.

  Both Amina and I just stare at him, unblinking.

  “You know, from Star Trek? The Next Generation? Cause she’s half Betazoid? She’s an empath? But can only sense vague and mostly useless things that are pretty obvious? Like when someone’s shooting at the ship and she’s all like, ‘Captain, I sense hostility?’ Hello, anyone?”

  A very long moment of silence breaks when Khalil mutters, “Whatever.”

  “But anyway,” Amina continues, drawing out the end of the word, “It’s nice, to feel your feelings, Wuz Wuz, even a little bit. I’m glad you aren’t scared to be here anymore.”

  Again I flick my tail. I wouldn’t say I was ever scared per se…

  Amina laughs. “Ok, Wuzzers.”

  This is going to take some getting used to.