Ch.1 ;,,; More than one way to kill a cat
August 6th, 2007
So this is life. The burning second floor of someone’s suburban house in Glendale, California.
It’s cool in here because the window is open and a California wind blows through suburbia, so hot. I’m barefoot on the white white shag carpet. I’ve been running all day. I’m sweaty. Look at the burning carpet, look at the burning ceiling. I should have used wax, ceiling wax. Wax that makes it burn faster and hotter. The air conditioner is blowing so hard my tail lifts off the ground.
That high pitched whistle from outside startles me. It always does. You have to do this in the middle of the night. Do it before the alarms go off. The smoke covers the skyline. Before the neighbors start screaming and crying. The terrarium is steaming up, lizards are running around inside, knocking their sticks and their water cooler over. We told the family to get their stuff. I could be just as well watching an infant run around crying in his crib. I could tell you stories…
My partner is standing on the sidewalk outside looking up at the second story window with a cigarette balanced under his whisker. He whistles again. Get out of there, he yells, what are you doing?
The fire has burned through the electricity line now and the lights go off, the air conditioner shorts out. Left in the orange glow, my shadow is sprawled across the shag carpet. This is my job. Take it in. Silhouetted in the window, my partner gives the nod that he gets the point. I hate suburbia. Take it in.
Chapter 1
More than one way to kill a cat.
I’m twenty two as of a week ago. I opened a bottle of 1986 Rothschild Bordeaux, setting me back a few hundred euro. This was to celebrate not only my twenty second but my one year anniversary in Paris. Midnight in front of my favorite haunt, Cafe Amour, I stare into the dark ruby glass. Smelling the mahogany and strawberry just oh so faint, I take a drink and sigh. Expecting so much more from this 86′. Still looking for something that will take my breath away.
“Eggs, get eggs.” Jack says, sticking his butt way up in the air as he shovels powdered milk into his basket.
“Jesus, Jack. Don’t get the powdered stuff. Let’s get something fresh.”
Jack lets out a yelp as an old woman pushes her cart over his broken tail. She doesn’t stop, even when he curses in his cockney accent and shakes his middle finger at her flower print dress.
“You okay man?” I say as I fish for the cheapest can of tuna.
“Who needs working limbs.” he says and puts back the powdered milk.
Jack and I have been working together for 12 years now. If you asked either of us we couldn’t tell you when or how we met. It was a long time ago. Back when everyone still saw in black and white.
As he walks his lifeless tail drags behind him.
“Check the recipe.”
I unfold the torn out page of “Larousse Gastronomique”, two euro in the bargain bin. But we didn’t buy it.
“Ok, ok, ok. Fourteen eggs. Six cups milk. NOT powdered milk, Jack.”
Jack blows out his breath.
“Margarine, fructose? Rosemary. Sage.”
You see, we decided very early that making money was easy. It was too easy and anyone can do it, it just might be unconventional. We’re not thieves, or pyromaniacs. We’re not criminals. We are unconventionals. Try getting a job in this world. Please, let me know how it goes for you.
Walking out of the grocery store, Jack is going down the list, making sure we got everything.
I pull a bagel out of my jacket that I stole from the deli counter.
“Did you get cream cheese man?” I ask as I fumble for a plastic knife.
Jack rolls his eyes.
So why do I work in Paris? I left America for one reason. I only work for cats. Now I know you’re just going to call me racist, but I’m not. I’ve worked for other people, trust me, I really have.
I was working for these dogs. Australian dogs.
One brown haired dog, one blond. Both of them didn’t talk much, just listened.
Jack was explaining the process to them, sitting on their living room couch. This was the first thing I found odd about the situation. Mainly because people like to meet to talk about the job we’ll do in a public place. Cafes, grocery stores, subway stations, even in the back of taxis. These dogs, they wanted to talk it over in their house.
Jack set down his cup of herbal tea on their marble coffee table. He leaned way over and put a paw on his knee.
“Listen, I’m going to be very frank with you. This is illegal. It’s very fucking illegal and if anyone besides the people in this room ever found out about what we do, we would all be in jail for a very long time.”
This tactic usually deciphered who was serious and who was not. Usually even the most serious people would back out right now. The dogs, they didn’t even bat an eye.
Jack kept his stare, his paw still on his knee.
He looked up at me in the doorway and gave me a reassuring nod.
“So you take the most valuable things you own. Nothing too evident that you’d be ‘moving’. Don’t take suitcases. Bring about half of your jewelry, family heirlooms, your cash, etc. Leave your clothes. Leave your food. Your furniture. You will be reimbursed for all of this and more.”
Ever since the reforms in the government about thirty years back, their new look on things is to keep people united. Care for people.
What does that mean? Everyone has the best insurance, everyone has full health care, everyone has only the top education.
You may call the two of us ungrateful, unworthy even, you might say we exploit the government. But how much do you pull in yearly?
Jack sat back on the couch, looking more comfortable with the situation.
“We will set a date. You’ll leave on a vacation. Tell at least fifteen people. Neighbors, friends, family, even your coworkers and boss. You need to make it as evident as possible that this was completely unintentional and a tragedy.”
Jack giggled.
The dogs still said nothing. The brown dog looked up at me, then back at Jack. He pulled out a pack of Sheepman’s own cigarillos and tapped one out.
“Okay.” he said way too nonchalant.
“What now.” the other one asked, flicking a match on the couch arm.
Jack turned and looked at me again. Giving me that “you think everything’s okay here?” look. I gave the look back.
“Right.” Jack said, pulling a tape recorder out of his jacket. “I’ve recorded our session here. That’s part one of three. Next part, I take your picture. I take some pictures of your house. Then we talk about money.” Jack pressed stop on the recorder.
A wooden door with hung decorated plates on it opened. Two large dogs stepped out from behind it. The two on the couch looked at them and nodded.
Jack looked up at me. I stepped out of the door frame.
“I’ll be needing that recorder, cat.” the blond dog said.
Jack stood up.
“Sit down.” one of the large dogs said.
“What is this?” Jack said, reaching into his jacket.
With a tilt of the blond dog’s head, both of the large dogs were on top of Jack. He managed to pull out his flat edged razor and cut one of the dog’s ears nearly off. The dog let out a yelp and let go of him. I picked up the closest thing to me, a framed picture of what looked like an old man in a very nice suit with one hand tucked into it.
While the dog with the cut ear was on the ground yelping, holding his paw over the bloody mess, the other one pushed Jack against the table. The two dogs on the couch got up and walked over to me all too casually. I swung the picture at them, stepping back and back until I met the wall.
The blond dog grabbed the frame, I twisted it until the glass broke into his paw. He let out a yelp and grabbed his paw. The brown haired dog took a step into me. I could feel his ear brush my cheek. I didn’t even know I was in shock until he stepped back with a wet ice pick. The front of my shirt was soaking up what had come out of the hole and I fell to a slump on the floor.
The large dog with the cut ear stood up in a rage and grabbed Jack’s tail, snapping it in half. Jack let out a scream and put a claw into the dog’s eye.
While I was slumped in the corner, the blond dog got his foot where the stab was and pushed on it. Weakly I tried to push him away but to no prevail, I knew I was going to pass out in a few seconds. And if I passed out I was dead.
“Get the camera out. We’re going to pull these cats apart.”
Leaning down to my eye level, the blond Aussie whispered in my pointed ear “Viddy well brother.”
The two large dogs seized both of Jack’s arms and laid him flat on the coffee table knocking the tea cups onto the floor. The brown haired dog pulled out a handheld camera and started filming.
The blond dog left my side. I could see a glock under his right arm as he stood up.
With all my strength I boosted myself off the ground and held onto his shoulder to stay up. I extended my middle claw as far as it would go and stuck it deep into his spine. He said nothing but let out a quiet squeak. I could feel his weight shift against me. With my other paw I took his glock out of the holster.
“Off of him! Get the fuck off!” I yelled, holding the gun at arms length, shifting it back and forth between the dogs holding him down.
Jack scurried off the side of the table and onto the floor. The large dogs stepped back.
In a strong Aussie accent, the dog with the bum eye said, “Cmon now, it wasn’t suppose to be like this.”
“Jack, get up.”
He got himself up with difficulty having lost the balance of his tail. He stared at the dog with the cut eye. With one paw he ripped the remaining part of the dog’s ear off sending him on the ground screaming. He spit on the dog and we ran out.
I have never run so fast.
“I would love some cream cheese…” I say.
Jack fishes in the paper bag and pulls out a small package with a tin lid. “Fine. Here’s your cream cheese for that liberated bagel.”
I smile and spread it on.
He looks down at the list of ingredients with checks on every item.
“Cmon, let’s go steal a pan to cook this in.”
Posted by goodnightcat
Filed in black comedy, books, cat, chapter, culture, dark, fiction, humor, life, noir, writing
Ch.2 ;,,; Aimée
August 7th, 2007
Chapter 2
Aimée
“Wait Nick” she says again, running to catch up.
Her small figure is silhouetted in the dark alley way, her arms are full of drawing paper.
“Wait.”
Aimée’s black shawl is around her elbows reaching to the ground and trailing behind her. The bottom is caked in dust and mud. The scarf her brother Nick gave her for her fourteenth birthday is wrapped tightly around her neck and tied just under her chin. Her hair is white, snow white, something you’d see in a Disney movie white. Surprisingly white for how often she has the opportunity to wash herself. The click clack of her boots in the empty alley make Nick cringe.
He stops and waits for her to catch up. She looks up at him, her lime green eyes are wet with tears.
“Cmon Nicholas, don’t move so fast.”
“Don’t call me that” he says, taking some of the drawing paper from her.
He wipes a tear away from her eye and tells her to keep moving. He tells her the police will be following them. He tells her that they need to find somewhere new to go.
This is nothing uncommon for the two. Their father and mother were killed protesting the government. Shot, lined up against a wall. Their last words were “meow” and “woof”.
Radicals. Those who just didn’t, couldn’t agree and settle with the government. Those who ended up laying in the street after bullets ripped them apart and now sat as a crime to be touched before decomposition took place.
“I hear sirens” Nick says, looking down the cobblestone street at distant flashing blue and green lights.
Aimée feels the wind against her face for the first time in her life. She hears things zip past her ears and realizes because of the hard pull against her arm that they are being shot at.
Nick ducks into the closest building pulling Aimée with him. A cafe. A dark cafe with luck. The two stare at the ground and make their way to the back. Two flashing cars, sirens blazing, fly by the shop.
Aimée slumps onto a stool. She couldn’t stop focusing on that little multicolored cardboard box that Nick had in his hand. Not the candy box that was important but what was inside, what it meant. What it was worth.
The waitress walks up to their table. She has piercings all over her face with about ten in each ear. Her fur is obviously dyed white with patches of black along her neck and one above her eye. With one look at Aimée’s natural white fur she switches from her pleasant mood to a pissed off one and pulls her notepad out so hard she nearly rips it in half.
“Ok, what do you want.” she says, playing with the piercing in her lip.
“Coffee, just dark” Nick says.
“And her?” she says with a feeling of contempt.
“Just milk” Aimée says softly.
The waitress walks away.
Aimée lays a piece of drawing paper flat on the table and takes out her pen. She starts drawing an oval.
“Nick. Where are we going to go?” Aimée says, not looking up.
“Prague… I think.”
“Where is Prague?” Aimée says, fumbling with her pen.
“I don’t know, I saw a map of it in the subway station. It was pinned to a wall.”
Aimée chuckles, “The one that someone had written ‘Eat my ass’ on?”
“Yup.”
She adds ears to the oval, hair, spots of discolor around the neck, above the eye. She adds a lip piercing. A look of contempt.
The waitress walks back with two cups, Aimée hides the drawing.
She sets them down, “Black coffee and…” she looks at Aimée.
“White milk” Aimée says.
The waitress blows out her breath and walks away.
Aimée smiles at Nick. He gives a jagged smile and sips his coffee.
“So why Prague?” she asks.
“I remember hearing on the radio, these two newscasters were arguing. They said that there were still places where some see in black and white. Where no one can get to you, not even the government. I think that’s where mom and dad would have wanted us to end up.”
Aimée looks up, “Like our problems would just be solved? What about that box?”
Nick stuffs the box in his jacket pocket. “This is going to buy our way there.”
The first thing to catch fire are the curtains, the Molotov cocktail shatters the glass and covers the people sitting in the range with sticky flames. The ceiling is smoking and the painted murals melt down the walls.
Glass after glass of flavored extract pops, the coffee liquor rattles in its cage.
That same wind Aimée had felt earlier blows past her face and burns off two of her whiskers. She doesn’t remember getting on the ground, she just remembers looking at Nicholas under the table. The odd thing was that she wasn’t afraid. Not once.
She thought as long as she was with Nicholas she’d be alright. She always had and he always knew what to do. Through every bind, every tight situation. It was just like watching a movie and harm was always two steps away. Staged violence. Aquarium deaths. Televised life.
Nick grabs her by the paw again and while crouching, hobbles out the back door. She remembers how warm it was under his jacket. When she pulled her arm away, both of them crouched behind a dumpster, the echo of bullets in the cafe, she remembers her hand being wet.
“Nick…”
“It’s okay, I’ll be fine” he says, looking down at his stomach.
Holding onto the dumpster with one paw, he throws open the lid and lifts his sister into it. With his other paw he pulls out the small cardboard box and hands it to Aimée.
“Give it a few hours” she remembers him saying, “just wait here, I’ll be right outside.”
But he wasn’t outside when she woke up. That night in the dumpster was the scariest night of her life, but she was okay. She knew Nick was right outside keeping her safe. She fell asleep on top of a box of egg cartons knowing in the morning they’d leave here for Prague. Where, she told herself, she’d start her career as an artist.
The next morning was just a cold empty back alley. Her paws had dried blood on them, her fur was a mess.
Walking hopelessly down the alley, looking for Nick, just around every corner, she knew in the back of her mind he had gone off to die.
Aimée must have walked for hours up the French cobblestone street, not knowing where she was going. She finally stops, standing in front of a specialty quill pen shop, staring at the beautiful glass pens with the different colored inks. The small bottles with a wooden cork balanced softly on top of them. Then back at her reflection in the window as a large dog grips her shoulder.
She recognizes the black uniform with the high boots, the gas mask off to one side.
He looks down at her and says with a stern voice, “Alone?”
“What?” Aimée says weakly, looking up at him.
He looks over her disheveled appearance, then down at the pages of drawing paper in her hand. He pulls out a flashlight and shines it in her pointy ear.
“Alone?!” he shouts at her.
Startled, she takes a step back, “I… don’t know.”
“You have the right to remain silent.”
“Wait” Aimée says.
The dog pulls out his handcuffs.
“Stay still” he says.
Aimée throws her remaining drawing paper at him and starts running. He pulls out his baton and runs after her, yelling, “Stop! Halt!”
Aimée rounds a corner and runs straight into someone. A cream cheese covered bagel lands on her head. Two bags of groceries fall all over the place.
She looks over at who she had knocked down. A thin black cat with dark eyes wearing a military green jacket zipped up half way, he has cream cheese on his nose. The other cat is gray, more apathetic looking than the first one. His tail looks like it is broken, scattered with bandages and dragging behind him.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” the one on the ground yells.
The cop rounds the corner and over to Aimée. “You little…”
“I’m with them!” she says pointing at the one with the broken tail.
A little out of breath, holding onto his knees the dog asks, “Is this true?”
Jack looks down at Aimée, her deep green eyes looking back at him, then back at the cop. He kind of smiles and says, “I guess so.”
Posted by goodnightcat
Filed in black comedy, books, cafe, cat, chapter, culture, dark, death, fiction, life, moonlight, narrative, novel, writing
Ch.3 ;,,; Oeufs du Chien
August 9th, 2007
Chapter 3
Oeufs du Chien
Jack smiles at Aimée, “I’m Jack.”
“I’m Aimée and I’m really hungry.”
Jack looks in the bag and pulls out a can of tuna and rips off a piece of baguette. He then shoots a look to his accomplice who is still on the ground.
The thin black cat puckers his lips and looks away, then subsides and extends his paw, “I’m Salem…”
How Aimée came to live with Jack and Salem was more coincidence then it was good or bad luck on anyone’s end.
Walking close to Jack, Salem trailing behind them, Aimée eats her baguette and tuna loudly.
“So what do you guys do?” she says, scooping tuna out of the can with a piece of bread.
“None of your business, kitten.” Salem says bluntly behind them.
“Why’s he so mean?” Aimée asks, pointing a claw back at Salem, “Is it just a fact that all cute cats have to have a chip on their shoulder?”
Salem blushes and looks away. Jack laughs.
“Yeah it’s true.” Jack says, “Tell me, why were you running from the police? Are you homeless?”
“No,” Aimée says with her mouth full, “I… got separated from my brother but he’s going to find me.”
She stops walking.
Jack stops and looks at her, she’s crying now, holding a paw over her pink nose.
“It’s okay,” Jack says.
With a sniff she says, “He’s going to meet me in Prague.”
Jack wipes her tear away, “Then that’s where we’ll go.”
Jack and Salem were squatting in what used to be someone’s office complex. On 14th Mount Claire Ave. they had an entire building to themselves.
“This is home, for the time being.” Jack says, sticking a tape wrapped key into the middle of the thick metal door.
“Time being?” Aimée says, “How long have you been here?”
Salem walks in first, “Too long.”
Jack rolls his eyes and closes the door behind them. “We tend to move a lot. It goes with our business.”
“And what business is that?” Aimée says.
Jack pauses a moment, “We’re entrepreneurs.”
Aimée cocks an eyebrow, “What’s that?”
“Circus folk” Salem says from the back room.
“Right… well, this floor is where I live. Salem lives on the second floor. You’re welcome to take your pick.” Jack says.
Salem walks up the flight of stairs and closes the door hard behind him, “You’ll live on the first floor” he says, muffled through the wall.
Aimée leans over to Jack, “I don’t think he likes me…”
“Don’t worry,” Jack says, “he’s just in a bad mood because we forgot to get a pan.”
Leaning out the office room window, Aimée washes herself in the pouring night rain. The moon reflects the pool on the sill and she looks at herself. The first thing she remembers thinking is that she looks older. More mature at least. She can’t remember the last time she felt this clean. The city has a tendency to do that to you, build you up just to make you feel dirty again. It’s only the rain that cleans it. At least, this is what Aimée thinks. She puts a foot up on the edge of the windowsill and sighs. In the distance an organ grinder with an accordion plays his haunting tune.
A voice comes from upstairs, “Food’s ready!”
Jack knocks on the door, “You coming?”
Aimée shakes herself off and throws a towel around her neck, “Definitely.”
There’s a burning barrel that’s left a black spot on the ceiling above it. Salem cooks a heap of eggs and cheese on a “Signaux de direction” sign. Little bits of olive and green pepper stick out.
Jack smiles at the sight of this, “Thought you needed a pan.”
“Improvised.” Salem says.
“What do you call it?” Jack asks.
“Oeufs du chien.”
Aimée giggles.
Salem glances over at her as she rubs her ears with a towel, “Well you certainly look… cleaner.”
“And you look hungrier.” she says.
Salem smirks and picks the sign up with an old towel and places it on a rusted filing cabinet.
“Enjoy it now, tomorrow we’re having cat. White cat.”
This is how they came to live together.
Think of it as the fairly odd couple but with two concats and an artist.
Aimée leaning against Jack, asleep against a stack of newspapers, Salem asleep on the windowsill, she starts drawing a cat. A black cat. Thin and asleep in a window, silhouetted by the moonlight. Without a care in the world and a stomach full of eggs.
Somewhere in the night the organ grinder is still playing.
She rounds the nose with a sharp turn and whispers to Jack, “Tomorrow you’re going to tell me what you two do for a living.”
Posted by goodnightcat
Filed in black comedy, books, cat, chapter, culture, dark, france, humor, life, moonlight, night, novel, paris, writing
Ch. 4 ;,,; No Best Friend
August 15th, 2007
Ask me how I found salvation.
There in the balcony of the Bernicci Del Dio Theater, 8 pm and it’s glowing with moonlight through the huge ceiling windows. The chandelier shakes slightly and the candle light puts soft shadows on the the Baritone. Bel Canto.
The aria brings me to the edge of my seat, my hands clasped tightly, my feet cold and my mind racing with inspiration. The Baritone swelling, beaconing the moonlight. He does not speak to the audience, he questions the gods themselves. Bel Canto! He raises his giant arm to the moonlight and the chorus swells, the audience swells, the Baritone aria and the goddess Aphrodite melts on stage. Tears stream from my eyes and there is silence, only for a moment. The golden violins hold a haunting lullaby and the candles on the swinging chandelier snuff out.
There is only moonlight now on the Baritone. Only the sound of his voice, the crescendo slow, quiet, then huge and booming. The house shakes, the moonlight dances, Bel Canto! And the audience swells.
Ask me how I found deliverance.
Chapter 4
No Best Friend
My first week and I kill a kid. They said this job wouldn’t hold a candle to my last job. I’ve been around violence for too long, but never in all of my years as a state executioner did I kill a kid.
Sitting behind a desk that wraps all the way around her, an old Doberman with blue hair tucked into a bun on top of her head reads my paperwork.
“6′0”, Eyes Brown, Hair Brown, Weighing 185lbs, Species: Dog, 36 years old, Name: Driff.”
She adjusts her eyeglasses and stares up at me with a blank expression. “Any history of diseases?”
“No.”
“Any STD’s?”
“No.”
“Have you ever befriended/married/spent long amounts of time exceeding twenty-four hours with cats?”
“No.”
“The alpha male will see you in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” I say and take a seat across the room.
Magazines, Dog’s World, A New Beginning, The Dark Cafe… How did that get in here? I flip it open to a picture of a cartoon cat holding a severed dog’s head, below it reads “Who needs expensive sex toys?”
“The AM will see you now” the secretary says.
I hide the magazine in my coat and walk into his office.
I find it odd the amount of clocks this man has. I find it ironic how many of them are cat clocks.
The alpha male turns his gold leather executive chair towards the door as I walk in. He’s a Rottweiler with a white mouth and dark black nose. He’s wearing a black jacket and black tie that looks too small for his muscular body but proportional for his head. He’s rolling a Cuban cigar between his paws. I extend my paw to shake his.
“Sit down, we don’t do that here.”
A Felix the cat clock behind him ticks loudly sending the eyes left and right.
“What position are you applying for, son?” he asks me, looking across his oak wood desk.
“Captain.”
“And where have you been employed in the past few years?”
“I worked at a state penitentiary as an executioner.” I say.
A smile comes across his thin face. His teeth stick out from either corner. “Cats?”
After a moment I say, “Yes, most of them.”
His smile subsides, he flicks a Chinese lighter with the flint paper rolled up in a ball behind it. The paper sparks but doesn’t light. He flicks it again.
I reach across the desk with my black zippo already lit.
He smiles and lights his cigar.
“This job won’t be like your last job, err…”
“Driff.” I say.
“That’s right, Driff. Captain Driff.” he says, taking a long puff, “let me ask you something that might sound… a little strange. I ask all high ranking officers this question when they first come to me.”
“I’ll answer to the best of my ability sir.”
“Good, that’s what I want to hear.”
A faded green cat clock sticks its tongue out. The AM sets his cigar down on the ash tray and stares at me a moment.
“There’s a mugging that takes place, the victim is killed and you were the only witness but you caught a glimpse of who it was. You’re presented with a line up. The line up consists of cats and dogs, you think it could either be number three which is a dog or number five which is a cat. Which do you lean towards as your decision?”
“It really depends on which I remember seeing more.”
“But it could be either of them, you’re just that indecisive in this scenario.” he says.
“I’m not sure how to answer that.”
He leans over the desk, his blue eyes meet mine. “Listen, what it sums down to is who would you rather have put away. One of your own… or one of them?”
The Felix clock meows on the wall.
“I’d pick the cat, sir.”
He smiles, “Of course you would. I want to see you in the tattoo room asap.”
I had made the right decision.
Ask me how I found repentance.
They shave your forearm before they tattoo you. A Bulldog bearing no teeth with the words “No Best Friend”.
My first night on the job, a week later. My partner Aphex pulls the car over to the side hard and both doors fling open. He hands me an M4A1 with a laser site and mounted grenade launcher– I’ve never even fired a gun.
An unmarked cafe, a dark cafe. The front is boring brick, uninspired and unlabeled. A blank wooden sign hangs over a thin glass window with the sign “Never Open” facing us.
Aphex dunks a piece of ripped French flag into a bottle of Jager, he lights the other end.
The bottle in mid-air, almost in slow motion I watch it turning towards the unaware cats drinking calmly inside.
“Open up!” he yells, the flames hotter than anything I’ve ever felt.
I squeeze the trigger, watching specs of white, red, black cover the walls inside. No one runs.
“Target’s in the back Driff” he says and rummages in the back of the car for the napalm, “pull that trigger on the bottom”
I do, sending something into the darkness of the underground cafe. Screaming followed by an explosion and the tinks of metal schrapnel that shatter bottles and cut everyone to pieces.
Both of us flip the gas masks over our mouths and click the O2, two blue lights turn on. Aphex is taking too much joy in going around the cafe, putting a bullet between the eyes of smoldering survivors. His giggle is the only thing that can be heard over the burning wood. We stand basking in the glow. Black smoke covers the sky outside and Aphex lights his cigar on the burning ear of a dead cat.
“Let’s go out the back, maybe someone ran out. It’ll be fun” he says.
Out back is just a dumpster and an empty alley. Aphex gives me the signal to check it out, he goes around the corner.
I can’t shake this sick feeling in my stomach, I can’t get the smell of burning hair out of my nose. And I hear it, the sound of soft breathing coming from inside the dumpster.
Lifting the lid softly with my gun, I see the cause of the sound. A small white cat, asleep against a stack of egg crates. My eyes widen.
“Driff, over here!” Aphex yells from around the corner.
The barrel is in between her eyes. My finger shakes, staring at her perfect white coat. Perfection in the form of trash. Pure and utter beauty amongst the gruesome carnage behind me.
“Driff!”
I close the lid and run down the alley.
Ask me how I found hope.
Aphex has his .357 revolver in the face of a young male cat. His eyes are closed and he’s holding his stomach, blood covers his paws.
“What is this?” I ask.
Aphex looks at me and blows out the smoke from his cigar, “Something I want to see you do.”
He lowers his gun.
Ask me how I found undying pity.
“This being your first night and all, I just want to see you kill someone close up. Show me. ” he says.
I raise the gun to the cat’s head. He must be still in his teens.
“Wait!” Aphex yells.
I look up at him.
“No pressure.”
Ask me how I found abhorrence
Aphex raises an eyebrow.
Ask me how I found self hatred.
The tip of the gun makes the cat shiver as it touches his nose.
Ask me why.
As the echo of the explosion resonates down the empty alley, the only sound that follows is quiet laughter.
Posted by goodnightcat
Filed in black comedy, books, cafe, cat, chapter, culture, dark, death, dog, fiction, france, life, narrative, night, noir, novel, writing
Ch. 5 ;,,; Killing Room
September 18th, 2007
It’s dark and I’m here. The closed tape-covered window is hot behind me in this abandoned mini van. Molting children’s book from way back forgotten fall apart in the back seat next to old hand-helds with broken screens. You forgot about me.
My stitched smile lays wide and toothless for all of eternity on my brown sock face. My right eye kind of twitches sometimes when a faint wind gets through the crack in the tape-covered window.
Do you remember when we first met? You were so small.
I was sitting on top of a spattered green and red quilt under a moonlit window on a handmade rocking chair. You pointed at me but your mother shook her head. She liked the elephant better for you. I remember the glint in his eye when you picked him up. But you kept looking at me. Smiling with your two front teeth gone. Your pink skin translucent under the fluorescent lighting.
She took me from my chair and I became yours.
And you forgot about me.
I remember the war. The television screaming. Your mother cried for the first time in your life. At least that’s what you told me.
You held me as the bombs dropped.
You held me as the creatures that once laid idle on your rug and licked your hand when you showed it to them tore into your family.
You looked at me. You watched as if I could do something while you turned red. While your pink translucent skin turned red. You reached out to me like I could reach back. But I’m just a toy… I couldn’t help you.
I couldn’t help as you covered the floor with red which turned to black. I couldn’t help as you turned different shades of blue and creatures banged on the door to come in and feast on what you had become. I couldn’t help as your ashes turned to dust and were kicked up under the floorboards.
I’ve been here longer than I should have. I’ve been here a disturbingly long time. And all this time I’ve had to think about what’s happened to this world and the people that once loved me. Loved a stuffed monkey with a stitched on toothless smile and one eye that twitches when a faint wind gets through the crack in the tape-covered window.
I’ve had a lot of time to think. And I think I want revenge.
Chapter 5
Killing Room
Aimée stares up at a handwritten plaque on the wall.
“Dark Cafe [Dah-rk Caff-ay] (n.):
-
If you need a definition for this fuck off.
-
If you’re still confused on the matter, fuck off.
-
If you need assistance please don’t hesitate to fuck off.”
Salem stands at the bar on one foot while the other scratches the back of his leg. He holds up his right paw to the bartender trying to space out his digits.
“Four. Four Siamese.”
Jack is sitting in the back corner under an oil painting of a crucified Doberman Jesus. He looks up and chuckles at Salem who is still trying to spread out his digits but to no avail.
Aimée sits down across from Jack, she stairs at the smoke stained table which has a penis etched into it.
Salem sits down and glares across the shiny black table at Aimée,
“What are we doing here kitty cat?” she asks.
Salem cracks his neck, “You are going to drink this pretty blue drink and pass out so you don’t bother me anymore, capiche?”
“I don’t think she’s ever had hard alcohol before, Salem.” Jack says.
The bartender hobbles over on a peg leg foot, his other foot has a large black boot on it with a silver sharpened tip sticking out of the front. His apron is covered in what looks like the remnants of spilled drinks and beer nut powder. He sets the drinks on the table and gives a tilted nod to Salem who drops something in his apron pocket before he walks away.
With a smirk Aimée downs the entire glass of neon blue liquor. Jack and Salem stare across the table at her in disbelief.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Salem says.
She wipes her chin with her sleeve, “My brother and I used to make a lot of side money at Dark Cafes. You have no idea how much cats will pay to see if I can out drink them.”
Salem sips his drink, “You weigh less than a cheeseburger. It’s understandable.”
The door opens and everyone in the cafe turns towards the only natural light now filling the place. A very thin red cat in a black suit with a thin musician’s tie steps gracefully through the cafe. Quietly humming a jazzy tune, he takes a seat opposite Jack and drinks the entire Siamese in one gulp.
“I’m Katz. I don’t have any time so I’ll make this quick.”
He takes off his thin black glasses to reveal large dark eyes that shift back and forth from Jack to Salem. Aimée gasps as she sees his pupils are two thin slits.
In a thick apathetic tone he rests a paw under his chin and says, “I’ll… understand if one or the both of you don’t want to do this. It’s quite… risqué…”
Salem’s eyes widen, “Go on.”
Aimée leans over to Jack and whispers, “What’s with his eyes?”
Jack holds up a claw to say ‘I’ll tell you later’.
“Familiar with No Best Friend are you?” Katz asks.
“Yes.” Salem says.
“There is a French Bathhouse where it’s tradition in their… culture to celebrate the coming of a new Captain. I’ve… sources that have let me know when this is happening. I’ve heard you are… good in your field of…” he shifts his eyes to Aimée and curls the side of his mouth, “setting fires.”
“What do you want us to do?” Jack asks.
Katz brings his glass up to his mouth and tips it upside down. Salem, Jack, and Aimée watch as he licks the inside of it with this long pink tongue.
“Barricade the doors. Set it ablaze. Make it look like a big…” his eyes widen and he cringes as he says, “fucking accident.”
With that he stands and extends his arm to Salem, “Do we have an agreement, sir?”
Salem looks over at Jack, then briefly at Aimée.
Jack sets his drink down and says, “give us a minute to talk it over, yeah?”
Katz nods, “I’ll be outside when you’re ready.”
Jack leans across the table, “This is risky. I think we need to find out how many people this involves before we even consider this.”
“We should find out the pay before we consider that.” Salem says.
“Salem, we’ve never killed anyone before. That’s never been our business. We scam insurance companies.”
“They’re dogs man, and police at that. Tell me that hasn’t always been a wet dream of yours to kill some of them.”
“Are we mercenaries or scam artists?” Jack puts his head on the table and covers it with his arms, “This could get us fucked over like we’ve never imagined. I think we should pass on this.”
“Let’s find out the pay first.”
Jack looks up from under his arms, “Fine.”
Katz is leaning against the side of the building smoking a crinkled cigarette. On the sidewalk below him someone has written a question mark with an arrow to an unmarked door behind him.
“You’ve reached a conclusion?”
“How much is the pay?” Salem asks.
Katz pulls out a receipt, he writes a number on the back and shows it to Salem. Salem stares at it with disbelief, he giggles and shows it to Jack.
Jack stares at it a second and looks at the ground. Aimée tries to peer over his shoulder but can’t see past his scrunched up hood.
Jack turns to her, “Do you still want to go to Prague?”
She thinks a moment, with her paw she feels the small cardboard box in her pocket, “Yes.”
Jack gives a nod to Salem.
With that he shakes Katz’ paw which brings a smile across his face.
“We’ll be in touch kitties.”
He puts the cigarette out on the question mark and walks away.
“Weird.” Salem says as they round the corner.
“What was with his eyes?”
Jack looks at Salem. He looks back at him.
“I’m not going into it. You tell her.” he says.
Jack sighs and says, “So long story short. Way before you were born, before the wars, there was a long period of time where we all saw in black and white.”
“Who?”
“Everyone” Jack says, “dogs and cats. We were just born in black and white. Technology kicked in after the civil wars and cats developed contacts to see in color. More recently they’ve been surgically attached to newborns.”
“What?!” Aimée screams as she feels her closed eyelids.
“You didn’t know that?”
Aimée kicks at the ground, “What the fuck?! No one told me I had surgery.”
“So some older cats who are really into the whole underground scene take out their contacts to live like we used to. They’re the really hardcore type. And… yeah Katz’s eye is the way your eyes look without them.” Jack says.
“So wait, you and Salem can take yours out?” Aimée asks.
“Yup. But we hardly ever do. It’s pretty depressing seeing in black and white.”
Aimée thinks a moment with her paw rested under her chin, “Dogs. What about dogs?”
“Well. They still see in sepia.”
“Sepia?”
“Shades of brown and gray. It’s one of the leading disputes that our vision is better than their all the time.”
Aimée laughs and looks up into the sky smiling. “That’s funny. That’s really fucked up. I love that.”
Salem glances over at her, “You sound like a sailor, cupcake. Ever been told it doesn’t sound natural when you cuss?”
“Ever been told you flail your paws when you walk?” she says.
Salem sticks his hands in his pockets, “I’m gonna kill this kid. Gonna rip out her witty mouth and sell it to some lonely homeless guy.”
Jack takes the keys out of his pocket and forces it in the old metal door. “Time to get in character. Let’s find a map of the city.”
Salem stops in the doorway, Jack turns. “What?” he asks.
He points one claw out at the ground, the other towards the sky, he looks up at Jack and says, “You know. We’re gonna need a gun.”
Posted by goodnightcat
Filed in black comedy, cafe, cat, chapter, culture, dark, death, dog, fiction, france, humor, life, noir, novel, violence, writing
Ch.6 ;,,; On the Same Page
December 10, 2007
I sit back in my thick nylon seat and stare out the window at la luna. Big and luminescent it shines and cast a shadow from my whiskers onto the floor below me. Thin strips of black cascade over to Jack who sits with his feet pointing at the ceiling, no shoes. With one claw he rolls a paper cigarette and with the other he fishes for a light. I throw him a matchbox. With one look at it he gives a smile, then a small chuckle which leads to the both of us laughing out loud. In the broken silence of the moving train he flicks a matchhead from the Bain Quoi, the same bath house we were on our way to. The same bath house we would set up to burn down tomorrow. The same bath house we would commit our first multiple homicide in.
The laughter subsides and we’re both left in the darkness of the swinging cabin light. Neither of us say it but we’re scared shitless. We’re both Judas about to turn Jesus in. We’re both John Wilkes Booth about to assassinate Lincoln and yell those forever famous Latin words. Homicidal virgins about to have our cherries popped and bleed that beautiful cranberry red. But we have to stay artists. In our minds at least, we have diginity. We are good at what we do, fucking ridiculous John Holmes good. I just hope Jack is on the same page I’m on.
Chapter 6
On the same page
Aimée slides open the cabin door holding a cup of water and a brush, she notices the both of us shoot her a grim look. Her gleeful smile recedes and she takes a seat on the couch opposite me looking out the window. In her hands she unfolds a black book, watercolor paper that is glued on all sides. The parchment is rough to the touch and stains of previous splashes make random blotches of the paper smooth. She puts her small brush to her mouth and sucks on the hairs making them sharp. Laying down a coat of water she stares at the moving landscape outside the train and dips yellow onto the page, purple, magenta, black.
Looking out my window again I think back to Katz and how his morals, if you’d call them that, affect the way he sees our world. Without color, his world like an old 19th century French film… without the piano music. I think about how much more intense lights and darks would be, how if I saw the way he does if there would be some diabolical villain with a small moustache, a beautiful blonde love interest with hanging curls, a better plotline.. The cabin shakes and the lights flicker.
“We’re here.” Jack says.
With two full duffel bags and a backpack around my shoulders we walk as non-chalant as two cats can in a dog city out of the train station. We hail a cab and tell the driver to take us two blocks away from the bath house. The dog driving growls a bit and turns the radio up very loud.
Aimée leans over and whispers, “Two blocks away? Why?”
I still have this sick feeling in my stomach. This feeling that makes you believe you’re psychic. Like you can predict the future because you’ve had bad feelings before and when you followed them you were thankful. What needs to happen right now is for me to tell the cab driver to take us back to the station. I’ll tell Jack tonight isn’t the right night. We shouldn’t have done this in the first place. This is generally a bad idea. But he already knows. As simple as a children’s storybook we continue on our way into the night, into unfriendly territory with two bags full of ceiling wax, of burning tables, of chemicals to spray into air vents that will ignite on the slightest spark. Chemicals so perfectly designed to burn you so much as build static electricity on your shoe and you’re dead. Your friends are dead. Everyone within a fifty feet radius is dead. But that’s the point, we’re in the business to burn. Pyromaniac artists, con-cats, sitting back and letting the Darwin awards take place upon these sorry fuckers.
“Will someone answer me?” Aimée says.
Jack puts a claw over his lips, she crosses her arms.
The night is surprisingly warm outside of the cab, Jack is silent, Aimée trails behind us. Finally Jack talks, “I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“I know.”
“We shouldn’t do this.” He says.
“I know.”
“Just putting it out there.” He says.
“Good.”
He unfolds blueprints for the building, “Okay. I was thinking I’d set up a fall point. Here,” he points to the middle of the second story, right over the common room, “this is the center of the building, the supports are all around it. When this falls the building collapses with it in a fiery fuckin’ inferno.”
“Burning tables.”
“Right,” he says, fishing in his bag, “we unfold these little fuckers right under every gas line, this will be great for shrapnel, also it will take out the surviving walls.”
“I’ll be spraying the vents, I’ll just cover downstairs as you’ll be taking out the upstairs.”
“Okay, how long do you think we’ll be in there?” he asks.
“I’m thinking, two stories, not too much square feet, we’ll be out in a good forty minutes.”
“What’s my job?” Aimée asks from behind us.
Jack turns his head over his shoulder, “your job’s easy, just walk around and collect the fire extinguishers. Then go around with this little thing and push it up against the sprinklers.”
He hands her a small nozzel with a smoking tube attached to it.
“What is this?” she asks.
“Fire Sprinklers have a little glass bubble that’s got a liquid in it that bursts when fire touches it, allowing water to come out. This little thing freezes that tube with a plastic freeon so they never burst.”
Aimée smiles and takes the tube.
We stop in front of the building.
“Ready?” I ask.
“No.” Jack says.
“Good. Start the stop watch.”
Posted by goodnightcat
Filed in black comedy, cat, chapter, dark, dog, fiction, france, moonlight, narrative, night, noir, novel, writing ·Tags: cat, chapter, dark, dog, fiction, france, moonlight, narrative, noir, writing |
