Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  Scattigan’s brow wrinkled. “What’s the matter with you? You get into the brown catnip or something?” He waved his claws at the girls. “The reveal of the band, moron! It’s today.”

  “It is not!” Sixie chirped. She fumbled with her tabloyd, unfolding the flexible screen and pawing at the calendar. “It’s not for another three weeks!” She held the device in front of Scattigan’s face, tapping desperately on the appointment. “You’re confused. You don’t have to leave. Please don’t leave.”

  The old tom waved her away. “Pfft. Try to keep up, kitten. I moved the meeting to today.”

  “You didn’t tell me that!”

  Scattigan rolled his eyes. “You’re my assistant. You’re supposed to know these things. For hucks sake, what do I pay you for?”

  A flash of heat burned through Sixie’s cheeks as her claws dug into her tabloyd. “You didn’t… How was I supposed to…” She took a hot, shuddering breath. “We can’t do this today. We’re not ready!”

  “Oh calm down, before you give yourself a bald patch. We’re totally ready.” Scattigan nodded to the band. “These monsters brought the mad skills, and I brought their first number-one song. Wrote it myself.” He grabbed a sheaf of papers from a music stand and stuffed them into Sixie’s trembling paws. “All you gotta do is babysit them until I get back with the suits and their fat wallets. Can you handle that without crapping the basket?”

  A noxious cocktail mixed in Sixie Wixie’s gut—frustration and fear garnished with an onion of rage. She was sick of Scat’s bullscratch. She was sick of being disrespected. She wanted to show that she could prep these girls without him. That she knew how to package a band for success. That she was more than just an assistant.

  But she also kind of didn’t want to get murdered.

  “I can handle it,” she growled. Her narrowed eyes twitched. “But, you know, hurry back, okay?”

  Scattigan gave an amused snort. “Have fun. I hope your vaccinations are up to date.” He turned to the band with a flick of two middle claws. “Scratch ya later, ladies.”

  With that he swung out the door and slammed it behind him, abandoning Sixie Wixie with the savages. They stood in the buzz of the amps, glaring at each other. Valerina let out a low, menacing mewl.

  “So, okay then,” Sixie said, suppressing a tremor in her voice. “We’d better get started.”

  She tried to stay at arm’s length as she passed Scattigan’s music sheets to the band. Josibelle flicked through the lyrics in disgust. “Forget it. I’m not singing this.”

  Valerina raised an eyebrow. “And why not?”

  “Because it’s garbage,” the smelly cat said. “That Scattigan thinks he’s hot stuff, then he gives us this litter-box nugget.”

  She flung the pages at her bandmates, sending them fluttering to the floor. Sixie Wixie plucked one up and looked it over.

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad.” She cleared her throat and read from the sheet. “I’m the top pussy, I’m the queen of my castle. I’ll lift up my tail and you can all kiss my…” A blush ran through her cheeks. “Okay, that’s a slant rhyme at best, but you’ve got to give him points for trying.”

  “It’s amateur hour trash,” Josibelle said. She threw up her arms, sending out a nauseating shockwave of stench. “I ain’t singin’ it.”

  “You’re the vocalist,” Melodooley said flatly. “If you’re not gonna sing, what the huck you gonna do? Throw your leg over your shoulder and lick yourself?”

  Josibelle snorted. “You couldn’t handle the show with one eye, perv.” She stalked to the cluttered shelves and snatched a dusty instrument. “I’m gonna play this thing.”

  Sixie Wixie blinked skeptically. “Tambourine? You’re going to play heavy metal tambourine?”

  Josibelle spun on her with a snarl. “You got a problem with that?”

  Sixie thought of every hard-rocking band she’d ever seen and couldn’t think of a single one with a tambourine player. This wouldn’t work. It couldn’t work.

  “It might work,” she whimpered. “Let’s just see how it sounds.” She turned to Melodooley. “Count us in, please?”

  The scraggly drummer banged her sticks and the HELLCATS launched into Scattigan’s song like a pigeon with a ripped-off wing. Josibelle’s tambourine was surprisingly not terrible, but the drum crashed along with no apparent rhythm while the guitar spasmed like the death throes of a mauled mouse. With a scowling hiss, Melodooley kicked over a snare drum at the guitarist.

  “What the huck, man?” she shouted. “Is this your first day with new paws?”

  Valerina growled as she scratched at her guitar. Strapped across her petite body, the unremarkable studio loaner looked like a grossly oversized novelty. One tiny paw was choked around the base of the neck while the other plucked the strings just inches away.

  “My paws are fine!” she snapped. “It’s this ogre-sized guitar that’s the problem!” She picked out a sour melody. “The notes are all out of order! What idiot strung this thing?”

  Sixie Wixie pushed up her glasses and peered at the strings. “I did, actually. So it should be properly—”

  Valerina’s ears flicked back. “Mind your own business, Snowball!” She turned to Melodooley with a hiss. “And by the way, you suck at drumming!”

  The drummer hunched her shoulders and flung up her paws, fists clenched around her sticks. “I do not! I just can’t play with these…things!”

  “Drumsticks?” Sixie offered.

  “Shut up!” Melodooley screeched, pitching a stick at her. Sixie squeaked and dodged as it spun past her head. The drummer stood up, trembling with rage. “I hate this whole kit! Sticks and foot pedals! Bah! How am I supposed to feel the music?”

  Sixie Wixie’s brow creased in confusion. “If you don’t like our studio gear, I’m happy to make some kind of accommodation for your…um…” She considered it. “How is it that you usually play, exactly?”

  “With my bare paws, man!” Melodooley roared. She kicked over the bass drum. “Huck it! I’m using my own kit!”

  She stalked to the corner and snatched up a rectangular box with rounded edges. She popped the top and pulled out a set of two tiny, linked drums.

  Josibelle rolled her eyes. “Bongos? Seriously?” she mewled. “The scarface badcat plays bongos? That’s so weak.”

  “You can take your rocks and huck right off to your glass house, Tambourine Tabby!” Melodooley screeched. Josibelle’s lip curled into a scowl. Valerina unstrapped her guitar and flung it to the floor with a feedback-infused twang. Sixie leapt back and hissed, despite herself.

  “All right, I’m going to have to ask you to treat our equipment with a little bit more—”

  “This is bullscratch!” Valerina yowled. “If she can play her own instrument, then I’m playing mine!”

  She pounced to the corner and snapped up a tiny guitar case patterned with faded pineapples. With a savage rip of the zipper, she produced a pale blue ukulele. Melodooley sneered.

  “You can’t rock out on a dollhouse toy, you mangy midget.”

  “Suck it, beatnik!” Valerina mewled. She whipped around to Josibelle. “And this band needs a tambourine player like it needs a ringworm infection!”

  Josibelle puffed out her chest. “Stand on a chair and say that to my face, runt!”

  Tails twitched and claws came out as the three girls snarled and hissed at each other, spoiling for a brawl. Sixie Wixie raised her paws, her heart racing.

  “All right, ladies. Maybe we should take five and get a breath of fresh—”

  Valerina shrieked and took a wild slash at Melodooley. The drummer leaped back and toppled over her fallen kit.

  “Okay, stop!” Sixie shouted. “Please?”

  They did not stop. Melodooley rolled over and came up on all fours, her lips pulled back, exposing her sharp teeth in a hiss. Josibelle crouched and flexed her claws, growling low in her throat, preparing to attack.

  A blast of hot adrenalin scaled Sixie Wixie�
��s veins, quickening her panicked breath. This was it. They were going to maul each other. When Scattigan got back with the record executives, all she’d have to show for herself would be broken instruments and bloody clumps of fur. Tomcat Talent would be out of business. She’d lose her job. She’d lose her apartment. She’d be an outdoor cat.

  But it wasn’t fear that boiled her blood. It was pride.

  She’d finally gotten her big chance to prove she wasn’t just a fluffy white priss with a fancy degree, and she was about to blow it. She was about to prove she couldn’t hack it in the music biz. And worst of all, she was going to prove that Scattigan was right about her.

  Her whiskers twitched.

  Like hell he was.

  “I said stop!” Sixie Wixie howled.

  She leapt between the three warring band members, claws out and teeth bared. Her fur stood on end like a chimney brush and her eyes dilated to twin abysses of black, bottomless rage. The HELLCATS all tumbled back as Sixie whipped around, fixing each of them in her horrifying, predatory glare.

  “Maybe you feral bottom-feeders don’t give a hot squirt about this band, but I do!” she mewled. “I’m not losing my job because you three flea-bitten grimalkins can’t get your act together!” She kicked the fallen drum kit, sending Melodooley skittering away with a yelp. “You’re supposed to be heavy metal badcats but you don’t even know how to play your stupid instruments! You do nothing but scratch and moan! You’re just a bunch of poseurs! Whiny, spoiled, poseurs!”

  Her words tapered into hot, rasping breath as the band slowly backed off. Melodooley’s ears flattened as she sagged back onto her haunches. Valerina’s tail puffed with terror. Josibelle’s lip quivered and she started to cry.

  At the sight of the first tear, Sixie Wixie’s rage sizzled away like spit on a hot tin roof. She retracted her claws and blinked as if coming out of a trance.

  “Wait, are you…are you crying?”

  “No.” Josibelle sniffled and wiped her eye with the back of her paw.

  “Oh my gosh, you’re crying,” Sixie murmured. Her belly felt sour with the curdling bile of her outburst. She looked over the cowering band and clutched her paws. “I’m sorry. You guys, I don’t usually…” She cleared her throat. “Look, I didn’t mean it.”

  “Yes, you did!” Josibelle sobbed. “And you’re right! I am a poseur! I quit!”

  Sixie’s chest tightened. “No, no. We need a vocalist. The executives will be here soon and…” She drew a breath and collected herself. “Okay, I know we got off to kind of a rough start but—”

  “I said I quit! I can’t do this! I can’t sing those horrible, filthy lyrics! ” Josibelle mewled. “I only did this to impress my kitten!”

  Sixie blinked. “Your…kitten?”

  Josibelle nodded and choked words through her sobs. “He used to be such a sweetheart, but as soon as he hit puberty, suddenly his old mom is an embarrassment. Nothing I do impresses him!” She clutched her reeking T-shirt. “He loves this heavy metal stuff, so when I saw your ad, I grabbed some of his clothes out of the hamper and made an audition vid. I thought if I got into the band he would think I’m cool. But you wanted me to sing those nasty lyrics…” Her lip trembled. “And then you yelled at me!”

  She broke into a sob and buried her face in her paws. Sixie Wixie blinked incredulously and gingerly patted the back of her sweat-stained shirt. “Uh, okay. There there. I’m sure your tom is just going through a phase,” she said. “No need to pretend to be a mad butcher.”

  Josibelle sniffled. “Butcher?”

  “When I came in here you spewed some nonsense about knowing what my body parts are worth, remember?”

  “Oh, well, that’s true, actually.”

  Sixie Wixie raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, I do know.” Josibelle’s drooping face brightened. “I’m an actuary.”

  Valerina peered over her shades. “An actuary?”

  Josibelle gave a feeble smile. “I worked up the standardized tables for accidental dismemberment policies used by most major insurance carriers. Like, if you lost your tail, a standard Tabby Trust payout would be eight hundred and thirty jinglebucks. Eight fifty with GoodPaws.” She shrugged. “I know what your parts are worth and who will pay for them.”

  A tremble of nervous energy forced a chuckle out of Sixie’s throat. “Well, you may not be a metalhead, but you certainly are creative.”

  Valerina sheepishly raised a tiny paw. “Um, on the subject of being creative…I might have also stretched the truth a little.”

  “Let me guess,” Melodooley muttered. “You don’t really wrangle wild animals?”

  “Well, I do in a manner of speaking…” Valerina pulled off her sunglasses and sighed. “I’m a preschool teacher.”

  Sixie Wixie thought back and shook her head. “You get inside their heads and alter their minds.”

  “That’s education, baby,” Valerina said with a grin. “They ain’t the same when I’m done with ’em.” She winced. “They’re not the same. Sorry. The poor grammar was all part of my tough-girl persona.” She picked at the silver chains on her corset. Upon closer inspection, they were obviously made of painted macaroni strung together. “I needed a summer job while school’s out of session, and I wasn’t especially keen on waitressing again. I thought it would be fun to pretend to be a rock star.” She shrugged. “I figured, I can play the uke. How hard could it be to play guitar?”

  Sixie Wixie eyed her instrument. “But your ukulele is in a re-entrant high-fourth tuning. That doesn’t really translate.”

  Valerina scowled at the abused guitar on the floor. “Obviously.”

  Melodooley crossed her arms and slouched. “Fine, if we’re all coming clean, I actually hate heavy metal music. There. I said it.” She tapped her eye patch. “And I didn’t lose this in a bar fight.”

  “So…if you don’t mind me asking…” Sixie Wixie ventured.

  The drummer snuffed wearily. “You know how sometimes you unintentionally go claws-out when you sneeze?”

  Josibelle nodded. “Yeah.”

  “I was putting in my contacts. It was allergy season.”

  After a beat, everyone hissed as their faces tightened in a collective wince.

  “So you just made up all that stuff about how ‘when you show up, ain’t nobody leaving on their own paws’?” Valerina asked.

  Melodooley shook her head. “Nah, that was true. I’m a hoverbus driver.”

  “But, I don’t understand,” Sixie Wixie said.

  “Because I drive the kittens home from school. So they don’t have to walk on their own paws. Duh,” Melodooley said dryly. Sixie scrunched her nose.

  “I understand that. I meant, if you hate heavy metal, why did you audition for HELLCATS?”

  “Because the last time I drove a bus, I took out three parked cars and a fish stick vendor in my blind spot. The school board won’t let me behind the wheel until I can see the whole road again.” She huffed angrily. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to get a new eye?”

  “Ninety-seven thousand, six hundred jinglebucks,” Josibelle said.

  Melodooley gave her a single stinkeye. “Okay, so you do.” She waved a paw at a crooked row of gold discs on the wall. “I know Scattigan’s reputation. I figured if I got in a successful band, I could score a fat payday and hit up the best optical cybersurgeon in the system.”

  Josibelle looked skeptical. “So you could go back to bus driving.”

  “The heart wants what it wants.” Melodooley shrugged. “I miss seeing those happy little kitty faces every day.”

  Sixie Wixie glowered at the room of declawed badcats.

  “So basically what I’m hearing is that no member of Scattigan’s hand-picked heavy metal band actually plays or even likes heavy metal music.” She tipped her head back and blew out a long, defeated breath. “This is great. This is just perfect.”

  Valerina frowned and patted Sixie’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I guess you’ll
have to hold another round of auditions.”

  Sixie snorted. “Are you kidding? There’s no time for that! Scattigan’s already on his way with the record executives. And when I don’t have a band to show them, the agency is finished. I’m finished.” A frustrated tear sparkled in the corner of her golden eye. “I blew it. Scattigan was right. I don’t have the chops for this.”

  The three ex-metalheads looked on with sad eyes and whimpers in their throats. Valerina shuffled her paws. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to be in a band.” She tugged on her scandalously short skirt. “I just don’t want to be in this band.”

  “For sure,” Josibelle said. “I mean, I can’t sing those rude lyrics, but I can actually sing.”

  Melodooley cradled her tiny drums. “And I still have mad bongo skills. They can take away my bus full of kiddos, but they can’t take that away.”

  She sniffed and stared dreamily at nothing, remembering better days. The others softly mewled and stroked her back. Sixie surveyed their pathetic, weepy faces and sighed. Great. Now she wasn’t just letting Scattigan and herself down, she was letting them down too.

  She pushed up her glasses and pinched her eyes.

  “All right, ladies. Change of plan.”

  Scattigan shoved the door open with his mangy behind as he backed into the studio.

  “Right this way, folks. Fair warning. Keep your distance from these feral fleabags or you might walk outta here with fewer parts than you walked in with.”

  Three feline executives followed him in. Two tomcats in skinny suits—one orange and one tabby—and a severe-looking Manx in a pencil skirt. Their faces were hard and humorless despite Scat’s over-the-top showmanship. Or maybe because of it.

  “And now, without further delay,” Scattigan continued. “The bad beasts, the mad musicians, the next sensation from Tomcat Talent…the HELLCATS!”

  He raised a paw and spun with a showy flourish. As his eyes raked the room, he seized up like a cornered mouse. For a fleeting second, he thought he had walked into the wrong studio, but with a rising sense of horror he realized he had not.

  Something had happened to his HELLCATS.