“‘Winter came. Times were hard. The war in Europe was over, but now everyone was dying from the flu. Including Chloe’s mom. Her old man became a drunk. One night he came home roaring drunk, much worse than usual, and didn’t find a hot dinner on the table. Instead, he found me in Chloe’s lap. She was reading a Jane Austen book and forgot the time. Well, her old man swore he’d teach her to never forget his dinner again. He grabbed me and ripped the book out of Chloe’s hands and shoved us both in a bag and tied it shut. Chloe begged and begged her father to stop, and then he hit her. I couldn’t see it, but I heard the slap and I heard her hit the floor. Then I was carried out of the house.
“‘It was freezing cold and the man walked for a long time. Then we stopped. A moment later I was weightless, and then I wasn’t, and then I landed hard. Pretty soon, ice water covered my paws. There was no place dry to put them. My teeth were chattering, I was so cold. Little by little, the water crept up my legs. I arched to keep my belly dry, but the water kept rising. When it got to my chin, I stuck my nose up into a little pocket of air at the top of the bag. I knew it was no use, though. I knew I was going to drown. Then the water went over my head.’”
Old Me whistles real low and quiet-like.
“Turns out the bag was made of thick paper. When it got soggy enough, Ground Zero was able to claw his way out and swim to the riverbank. And that purple ribbon he was holding and crying over? It was a hair ribbon. That psychopath had taken his own daughter’s hair ribbon and used it to tie her pet kitten and her favorite book in a sack so he could drown them both in the river.
“Ground Zero kept that ribbon. Every day he’d look at it, and every day it told him he was worthless. Ground Zero passed that message to his kittens, and they passed it to their kittens, and on down the line, each generation getting the same message beaten, burned, bit and chewed into them: you’re worthless.
“By this time, everyone was sobbing. We piled up around Ground Zero and 79 cats had an epic crying jag. Forgivenesses were made. Hugs given. Then, one by one, we all went home. I was about to leave mom when she asked me if I had even one happy memory of her. I thought about it a long time. A really long time. In the end, I had to say no.”
Old Me shakes his head. “Ouch.”
“Kid, you haven’t died inside until you literally hear someone’s heart break. Mom got up and dusted her paws and turned to go inside her house. Then I said “Wait!!!” Mom stopped and turned around, her eyes just streaming with tears. ‘I don’t have the heart for another knife, son’ she said. I took her paw and stroked it. Mom pulled it back like I’d burned her. I don’t think she’d been touched gently in a long time.
“‘I remember a ball of yarn,’ I told her. ‘A red one. I’m a perfect little kitten. No burns, no cuts. Your eyes are beautiful Caribbean blue and your tail is long and you’re on the floor playing with me, smacking the yarn around, and you’re laughing.’
“Never once had I made my mom smile. I got close that day. She almost did it. Almost. But she shut it down. Funny how life is, isn’t it? I always swore that if I ever saw my mom again that I’d remind her of every hateful thing she’d ever said or done to me. Then when I got my chance I told her a made-up story about a ball of yarn.”
“Wait. The yarn thing never happened?”
“Nothing even close to the yarn thing ever happened. But I couldn’t just walk away and leave her all broken up like that.”
Old Me whistles again. “Wow.”
“Yeah. I’m a real hero.”
“Yes, actually, you are.”
“Whatever you say, Dances with Models. Anyway, there’s not much after that. I remembered you were alone in the khiva and I didn’t want your untimely demise on whatever I have that passes for a conscience, so I knocked on the lid. You opened it, your girls screamed ‘KITTEN!’ and, well, here we are.”
“And here we are,” says Old Me.
“I did figure something out walking back from LA. I didn’t have to erase my mom to be free of her. But I did have to face her and deal with her. Which, I suppose, applies universally.” I catch myself staring at my feet. “Anyway, enough of all that.” I lean in close to Old Me and whisper. “I’ve noticed you’re rather outnumbered here.”
“Yes,” Old Me whispers back, “the chromosomally heterogeneous are chronically underrepresented. Perhaps you’re suggesting a chromosome rebalancing plan?”
“I would never have the audacity.”
Old Me laughs. Big and real-like. Then throws me a non sequitur. “The twins love to read,” he says. “They share a bedroom and sit next to each other in bed and read to each other from the same book, switching off sentences. In fact...” Old Me gets up and walks down the hall. Leaves me sitting on the ottoman. The ottoman’s got tassels. I love tassels. I boop those tassels silly until Old Me returns. He holds up a book.
“Kay and Cassandra are reading this right now. It’s actually my copy. I got it for Christmas when I was eight.” He shows me the front cover. It takes all of a nanosecond for my eyes to become a watery mess.
“Kid, you’re killing me,” I say and I wipe my eyes.
Old Me smiles and reads from the flyleaf:
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a stoned Siamese in possession of a stolen Volkswagen must be in want of a spliff.
“You heard me say that?”
“I wrote it down right here.”
“But you were in the train case...”
“As you know, you’re aware of a lot of things when you’re inside the train case.”
Double-barreled squeals of laughter pour out of the kitchen. A caramel-accented voice asks for help with the groceries. Old Me gets up. Tells Juliana he’ll be there in a second. Squats so we’re at eye level.
“I’m sure the girls would love it if you sat on their heads and let them read Pride and Prejudice to you.” Old Me closes the book. “You in?”
I get up from the ottoman, stretch, arch, pace a circle with my tail up to show off my butthole. Old Me, my oldest friend, is grinning to beat the band. His eyes are the green of a desert agave.
“Yeah. I’m in.”
Michael Raymond is a writer, photographer, guitar picker, and globetrotter. He lives in the United States with his gorgeous wife, where together they plot adventures to circumnavigate the globe.
Find out more at beenalongtime.com.
10
Tough Times at Tomcat Talent
Marcus Alexander Hart
On a planet of felines, a meek personal assistant must save her talent agency by wrangling a savage all-girl, all-cat heavy-metal band. But can she get these killer kitties mewling in harmony, or will she become their new scratching post?
From the files of Galaxy Cruise
“Your girls have arrived,” Sixie Wixie announced.
Scattigan didn’t spare her a glance. He was preoccupied with the packing slip readout on a sofa-sized auto-crate in the center of his untidy office.
“How do they look?” he muttered.
“They look…a little rough, honestly.” Sixie’s whiskers twitched. “They don’t smell great either.”
The old felinoid laughed and gave his sinewy paws a single sharp clap. “Ha! Do I know how to pick ’em or what?”
Scattigan was a mangy tomcat with gray fur and clouded yellow eyes. A studded denim vest covered in tattered rock-band patches hung from his narrow shoulders, exposing his balding chest. His scruffy tail drooped from the seat of a pair of filthy black leather pants. From his gnarled toe claws to his blackened gums, every part of him was hard to look at. Sixie Wixie turned away and tipped her head toward the cargo container.
“What is that?” she asked, not really wanting to know.
A broken-toothed grin spread across Scattigan’s face. “Delivery from my guy off-world. A little piece of stage dressing for our new superstars!”
He pulled the release lever and the auto-crate split open and folded in on itself, revealing a set of waist-high letters render
ed in prismatic chromasteel spelling out the word HELLCATS. He eyed his assistant, wagging his brows in anticipation of her awed response. Sixie Wixie blinked.
“That looks…expensive.”
“Oh, it was,” Scattigan confirmed.
Sixie cleared her throat. “Right. Okay. Well I don’t have to remind you that our cash flow situation is—”
“Bah! You and your blasted bookkeeper brain.” Scattigan scowled and ran a calloused paw over the sign. “Don’t you worry. My HELLCATS are gonna be the biggest feline metal band to ever come off the planet Gellico. We’ll be rollin’ in it once I sell this act to the suits!”
Sixie Wixie licked her lips. “Um, yeah. About that. I’m a little nervous about the timetable.” She swiped on the paper-thin screen of her tabloyd, bringing up a calendar. Their pitch to “the suits” was less than three weeks away. Too close for comfort. “According to my original schedule, this band should have been in rehearsals for a month already. For them to be meeting for the first time today…” Her face remained impassive, but the twitching of her puffy white tail betrayed her. “I’m sorry, but you wasted way too much time screening auditions.”
Scattigan leaned back on his desk, planting his bottom between a few dusty old music awards. “Well, when someone of my stellar reputation puts out a call for talent, the floodgates break wide open.” He flexed his claws and grinned smugly. “Do you know how many wannabe metal kitties sent me demo vids?”
Sixie Wixie did know how many. Exactly how many. She had been the one who’d collected the vids. She had processed the paperwork. In fact, she’d placed the audition notice in half the newspapers, magazines, and InfoWay groups on the planet to begin with.
Gellicle cats, come out tonight! Bad kitties wanted for a heavy metal band. Submit your audition vid to Tomcat Talent for your shot at headbanger glory. Show us you’ve got claws and you could join the HELLCATS!
She smirked at her boss and crossed her arms. “I know we could have gotten through the backlog a lot faster if you’d have let me review half of them.” She muttered under her breath. “It is kind of my job and all.”
Scattigan snorted. “Like scratch it is. Don’t get too big for your britches, assistant.” He strolled to the wall and made a show of casually gazing at the framed gold record-o-discs of his past successes. His eyebrow raised as he glanced from his own reflection to Sixie Wixie’s. She was barely more than a kitten, with silky white fur wrapped in neat business casual. He snuffed at her. “You don’t know talent. You don’t got the ear for it. Or the gut. You’re just a kibble counter from some fancypants school.”
Sixie pushed her glasses up her little pink nose. “Hey, the Calico College of Music Management is the top program for—”
“You don’t learn how this business works from a class,” the old man growled. “You learn it in the trenches!” He headed for the door. “Strap on your helmet, my helpless little minion. Let the master show you how it’s done.”
Sixie Wixie hugged her tabloyd to her chest and smirked as she followed her boss out of the office and down the stairs to the studio. She’d been working with “the master” for almost three years now, and all she’d learned was that it’s possible to be hissed at and ignored at the same time.
It was true that Scattigan was a starmaker. Emphasis on the was. Back in the day he’d put together some of the biggest bands in the Galactic Rock Hall of Fame. The insectoid death-metal group, Arachnopocalypse; and the lizard-industrial band, Forktüng; and the plant-core punks, Suck My Stamen. But Tomcat Talent hadn’t produced a hit in years.
Sixie poked at her device. “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling confident, because if the HELLCATS aren’t picked up by this label, we’re out of business.”
Her boss waved her away dismissively as he sauntered down the rickety stairs.
“Don’t you worry about ol’ Scat. I always land on my paws. Because, unlike you, I got this business in my blood.” He slapped his forearm like he was looking for a spot to jab in a needle. “I look at someone and I instantly know if they got what it takes. And I guarantee, I’ve picked out three of the most hard-core metal minxes on Gellico.”
Sixie sighed and folded her tabloyd. “I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right, pussycat. It’ll be easier if you just accept that.” He crashed through the door and entered the recording studio with a shout. “Greetings, you filthy fleabags! Who’s ready to make some noise?”
His entrance was met with a dull chorus of mewling and hissing. Sixie Wixie followed her boss into the room, but her feet slowed, keeping her hovering near the entrance. The studio was a large space, constricted by endless clutter. Mismatched shelves loaded with dusty musical instruments lined one wall, and a few dingy old couches ran along the opposite. Between them, the three savage felinoids Scattigan had chosen stalked around the soundproof room like rabid animals itching for a fight. The guitarist plucked menacingly at her strings, drawing an annoyed hiss from the drummer. A third girl messed with a microphone stand and narrowed her eyes at Sixie.
“Well, look who’s back,” she scoffed. “The fluffy little scratching post.”
The guitarist snuffed. “Nah. She looks too soft for that. Let’s just bat her around and see how long until her stuffing comes out.”
The fur on Sixie’s back rose in fear, but Scattigan just chuckled under his breath. “It ain’t feedin’ time yet. This pathetic morsel is my assistant.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the girls. “Sixie, allow me to introduce you to the band.”
Sixie Wixie’s ears flattened warily. “That won’t be necessary,” she stammered. “I mean, I did process their audition vids, and arrange for them to be here, and escort them into the studio. So I’d say we’re already fairly well—”
“First we got our lead vocalist,” Scattigan interrupted. “Josibelle, like a cat outta Hell!”
The scraggly singer had mottled butterscotch fur and clumps of wispy gray hair that fell over her shoulders like spider webs on a tomb. Sixie Wixie gave her a hesitant smile.
“It’s a pleasure to officially get to—”
She squeaked and stepped back as Josibelle marched straight toward her, claws scratching the floor. She stopped an inch away from the assistant’s face, but a wave of stench continued, rolling off her grimy shirt. Sixie’s nose twitched and her eyes watered.
“…know you,” she choked.
The stinky cat leaned in close enough to make Sixie Wixie’s fur wilt on her hot breath. “You don’t know me. But I know about you, pussycat. Everything about you.” Her voice was a croak, barely above a whisper. Sixie didn’t dare move as the woman slowly ran the back of a claw down her cheek. “I know what every part of your body is worth, and exactly who will pay for them. So you watch yourself, little one.”
She flicked her finger across Sixie Wixie’s whiskers, making her wince and bang the back of her head against the wall behind her. She sucked a breath and rubbed her dinged skull as Josibelle backed away, staring her down. If Scattigan noticed the altercation, he ignored it as he moved on to the next musician.
“Then on guitar, ain’t nobody mean’a than Valerina.”
The guitarist glanced up from her strings and tossed her mane of frizzy red hair over her shoulder. Valerina was a petite little thing that couldn’t have been over four feet tall, but she looked like she packed a lot of danger in a small package. She wore a leather bustier crisscrossed with silver chains and a skirt so short she shouldn’t have bothered. She tipped her head toward Sixie Wixie, but her eyes were a mystery behind her gold aviator shades.
“I, uh…like your chains,” Sixie offered.
“When I ain’t makin’ music, I wrangle wild animals,” Valerina snorted.
Josibelle eyed her petite frame. “Aren’t you a little scrawny for that?”
“I don’t do it with my paws.” A crooked grin spread on Valerina’s face as she tapped a claw on her temple. “I get inside their heads and alter their minds.” She turned
her unreadable eyes to Sixie Wixie. “They ain’t the same when I’m done with ’em.”
Sixie’s tail flicked nervously as Scattigan waved at the drummer. “And that piece of feline wreckage is Mad Melodooley.”
Melodooley snarled from behind her hi-hat. She was a long and lanky black cat with a tattered duster coat hanging off her lean shoulders like a burial shroud. Three ragged claw scars ran from her forehead to her jawline, straight through the center of what was presumably no longer her left eye. Fortunately a pirate-style patch kept the grisly details a secret. Her one remaining pupil narrowed to a slit as she glared at Sixie Wixie.
“Bar fight,” she said preemptively. “Keep staring and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“Oh, I wasn’t, uh…” Sixie stuttered, averting her gaze.
“Yeah, you’d better not,” Melodooley growled. “You don’t want to get on my bad side, fluffy. I promise you, once I get to the party, ain’t nobody leaving on their own paws.”
“Noted,” Sixie mumbled. “Thanks for the heads up.”
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and pressed herself into the corner of the room, trying to hide behind her boss. Scattigan was a galaxy-class blowhard, but for once Sixie was glad to have him around. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone with these psychopaths.
The old man turned to her with a nod.
“Whelp, now that you’re all friends, I’m gonna leave you alone with these psychopaths.”
The fur on Sixie’s neck frizzed out like a snowy wreath. “Wait, what?”
“Don’t get your tail in a twist. I’ll be back in a few hours. I just need to go wine and dine the suits.” He made a lewd gesture. “Get ’em all lubed up for the big reveal later.”
Sixie’s eyes dilated in terror as they flicked between the degenerates and her boss. “Wait, what?” she yelped. “What reveal? What are you talking about?”
Hellcats: Anthology Page 16
