The Stories - Judgement Day 30th September
STORY 1 - CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT
Once upon a time Pussikins saw his mother in tears talking to her husband Sir Quadruped, “You are right. Our son must seek his fortune before the CAT tax man impounds our estates. We could do with several fortunes, of course.” So Pussikins de Puss-Miaow waved goodbye to his parents from the last bend in their drive. Distinctive in his black fur, the sign of noble birth, he put his Time Travel boots into the next dimension, and took only his universal interpreting kit and his ancestral right to nine lives.By and by Pussikins reached a castle. A cat may look at a king but he preferred watching the princess in her boudoir laughing over a basket of kittens. As he found himself among friends Pussikins sat with them washing his black fur. The Princess allowed him to play with Langue de Chat biscuits. She loved these long and delicate sponge fingers; also called ladyfinger, cat tongue or boudoir biscuits. She and her maids prepared for a visit from that day’s suitor. Pussikins became alarmed when he heard the name of Duke Grinning of Cheshire. This Duke played cat-and-mouse with the ladies, and Pussikins decided to spoil his chances. From the boudoir balcony he watched for the Duke’s chariot. He jumped from the balcony onto the charioteer’s reins and the chariot swerved into the moat. The Princess abhorred the Duke’s oaths and laughed when his wig and his wooden leg floated away.
“Enough to make a cat laugh,” said Pussikins, and he did, but he heard the Duke order his archers, “Kill that cat” and they fired accurately.
Taking his gift of eight more lives Pussikins fled. He vowed to send a box of langue de chat biscuits to the princess.
Pussikins summoned his Time Travel boots from the next dimension and kept passing a shiny whirring platform until green fingers stretched out to grab him. He heard the Alien reporting to headquarters.
“Yes, I have captured an earthling. We can base our research on this specimen. Earthlings have black fur, four legs and always land on their feet. They use Time Travel boots and have universal interpreting kits.” Pussikins watched him log every detail of his anatomy and behaviour including an observation that earthlings keep seeking langue de chat biscuits. The Alien sprinkled moon dust on him but the cat suffocated in the spacecraft’s atmosphere and the Alien kicked him out of the craft.
Pussikins had used only two lives because of the Duke’s archers and suffocation in a spacecraft, so he gathered up his remaining seven, summoned his Time Travel boots, and behold by the Nile he heard weeping and gnashing of teeth. The slaves of Pharaoh laboured, yea, to the going down of the sun, seeking straw to make bricks. Pussikins passed them and entered a temple where he grew exceeding wealthy as a god. For ten full moons the faithful offered him gold leaf but no langue de chat biscuits so he lined his boots with the gold and shook off the moon dust into them. He walked forty days and forty nights into the wilderness with Moses. Sheltering inside a shady bush Pussikins found himself within a wondrous fire. He feared for his noble black fur but behold the bush was not consumed. He heard Moses repeating, “Thou shalt have no other god beside me.” Behold, Pussikins had to die.
Perhaps he could make more than one fortune. in his remaining six lives. He summoned his Time Travel boots from the next dimension and travelled towards a strong smell of dead mice and schoolboys. Pussikins feasted in the boys’ pockets on mice and on fluff-covered chewing gum until the whistle blew for the beginning of break. He joined the Black Gang of boys who were cat-calling their rivals. The Black leader wanted to have control of those genuine cat-calls and won him in a fight. Pussikins lived with the Black leader’s family, although they had no langue de chat biscuits. There was no money to be made but he enjoyed himself.
Eventually Pussikins heard the Black leader’s mum shouting, “That smelly black tom keeps caterwauling all night. I can’t get even a cat nap. This lack of sleep is destroying our marriage. We are living a cat and dog life. For the last time, unless you have that cat seen to, he dies tomorrow.” Pussikins summoned his Time Travel boots from the next dimension and journeyed to his father Sir Quadruped to whom he donated the gold leaf from Egypt, the moon dust from the Alien and explainedis hopes to make more money. There should be no more trouble with future CAT tax inspections. When Pussikins discovered from his father what was meant by being seen to, he decided that he could not face a fate worse than death.
He had five lives left in spite of the Duke’s archers, choking in a spacecraft, burning in the bush and the Black leader’s mum. Taking these five and summoning his Time Travel boots from the next dimension Pussikins boarded the Paris Metro. He heard a tiny lady caterwauling “Je ne regrette rien” and he agreed. There was nothing to regret and because langue de chat is French for cat’s tongue perhaps he’d find some there for his princess. Under the bridges of Paris he found a wife and lived so happily with their kittens that he put on hold any idea of making another fortune. However, Brussels passed a European edict to control a mad cat scare, so he carried his family to Sir Quadruped before being extradited and culled.
Taking his remaining four lives and summoning his Time Travel boots from the next dimension Pussikins explored the dustbins under the Ritzy Kitzy Hotel. He heard the manager shouting.
“What! The feminists have persuaded the model girl not to pop out of the cake at tonight’s banquet. It’s for the Managing Director of Pussibites, which nine out of ten cats prefer. Whatever can I do at this short notice?”
Pussikins used a washroom then visited the manager. He waited until the demented fellow had made the last fruitless phone call. When Pussikins heard what models were worth that evening he purred and jumped onto the man’s lap. This gave a brainwave to the manager who summoned the chef then sent for a diamond collar and Cat No 5 perfume. Pussikins with his universal interpreting kit negotiated payment of a huge fee sent to Sir Quadruped including cats’ eye gems and he had a consignment of langue de chat biscuits sent to his princess. That night he arose from the cake at the Pussibites annual dinner. He appeared on television for further fees. The public thought that he was the cat’s whiskers and he set a fashion for banquets under the cachet of Sir Quadruped who would have no troubles with CAT taxes for years. The manager also made a fortune employing pussies galore. Pussikins managed to escape the agents of model girls. They were jumping about with rage like cats on hot bricks but one unemployed model girl did kill Pussikins for his diamond collar.
Three lives remained. Pussikins summoned his Time Travel boots from the next dimension and became very happy in a folk museum. He was very popular, quite the cat’s pyjamas, and he sat purring by a coal-fired range in a restored Victorian kitchen, sometimes chasing clockwork mice. People stroked him and gave him treats. Then he noticed that the mice became stuffed toys. The fire became an electric copy. He had sent masses of money to Sir Quadruped, but the local authority’s officers had to make cuts in expenditure. They stuffed Pussikins and put him under a glass dome.
With only two lives remaining Pussikins summoned his Time Travel boots from the next dimension and joined a gang who needed a cat burglar. His collar, worth more than diamonds now, held electronic devices to disconnect burglar alarms and he could use cat flaps. One night a householder had to open the front door to chase a caterwauling Pussikins and so his gang effected an entry. He was quite happy to go down chimneys, being black anyway with his fur cloak of invisibility and he even spat narcotics into the bowls of guard dogs. His noble black fur was, however, his undoing. One dark night, when it was raining cats and dogs, the gang in their getaway car ran him over.
Pussikins, exhausted, summoned his Time Travel boots from the next dimension and came across mice that were smiling and walking very unsteadily. There was very little light from the naked bulbs in an American warehouse. He rested his boots on a long leather conveyor belt which was damp in places and had a glorious smell. Curious, he copied the mice that lapped at the necks of bottles which were lined up on the belt. He managed to loosen a cork. Someone was busy hiding bottles and put that one upside down into one of his boots. Pussikins was curious to know why he could see a puddle of that glorious liquid on the insole of his Time Travel boot. He pulled the bottle out and put his head inside to lick the puddle as the leather platform began to move. The American bootleggers were so busy with this conveyor belt that they did not notice the missing bottle or Pussikins happily upside down inside a boot with the puddle. They wrapped him and sent him off to the mid-west to circumvent the prohibition of alcohol.
Sad to say, Pussikins did not hear his funeral eulogy.
A sheriff intercepted this consignment of bootleg booze.
His deputy said, “Gee, Homer, your face looks worse than ever.”
The sheriff said,” What do you smell, Felix?” and retched.
“It’s a dead cat inside one of the boots.”
“How’d he get in there?”
The sheriff laughed. “Trying to drink the booze. Musta been curious. Well at least that cat died happy.”
STORY 2 - PROVOKED
I killed her on a Friday night. It wasn’t an accident. I meant to do it. I wanted her mouth to stop moving. She should have shut up when I told her to. Why didn’t she listen? I told her what I would do if she didn’t shut up. I told her.I can still see her now, standing there, poking that finger in my face. Telling me what a drunken loser I was. Right in my face. Ranting, spitting words with venom. She should have known I wasn’t going to take that. She pushed and pushed until I had to make her shut up.
If I explain it more, you’ll understand. And I defy any bloke out there not to back me up on this.
We all like a drink, don’t we? Well, Friday night was my night out with the lads, so what? Millions of men do the same, no? Well, she bloody hated it. Jealous cow. Christ, one night away from her and some male company instead. Is that such a bloody crime?
And okay, I drank during the week too. But hey, when you get home from an exhausting day at work, what better way to relax than have a dozen or so beers, a few vodka’s, in front of the tele? No harm done. And even the early visit to the pub again on Saturday morning, with my mates, what bloody harm? She was out shopping on a Saturday anyway. And Sunday is a day of rest. I rested on Sunday’s with a bottle of Vodka. No harm in that is there?
Anyway this night she was more jealous than ever, must have been that ‘time-of-the- month’, don’t ask me, I hadn’t been near her in that way for months.
I can remember it all, clear as day…
“Nice night?” she asked as stepped in the front door. See, that’s starting on me already isn’t it and I’ve only just walked in the damn house!
“What’s it got to do with you?”
“Just asking. Coffee?”
“You saying I’m drunk?”
“No, I just asked if you’d like a…”
“Shut up woman! ‘Course I don’t want a bloody coffee!” I walked into our lounge and opened the drinks cabinet. I opened a bottle of vodka and poured myself a good measure. She stood by the door watching me, so I downed it in one. I poured another and followed her to the kitchen. Vodka bottle in one hand, glass in the other.
“You fucking hate me having a good time without you, don’t you?” I was right, that’s what all this was about. Just because I didn’t want her with me down the pub on a Friday night. Who else takes their bloody wife with them on a lad’s night out?
“Don’t start on me Alan. Please, I…”
I tipped my head from side to side, mimicking her pathetic voice, “Don’t start on me Alan. Please…” I emphasised the please. I circled her, looking her up and down. She was still fit, even after fifteen years of marriage, “S’pose a shag’s out the question?” “Don’t talk like that!”
I knew how to get her goat. Frigid bitch.
“You should think yourself lucky I don’t go and get it somewhere else…”
“If only…”
“What?”
“Nothing?”
“No, come on what did you just say?”
She stood in the middle of the kitchen floor. Pathetic. Her hair tied back in poxy bun. No make-up, a dirty pink track-suit hung around her thin body.
I don’t know what happened, but when she looked at me then, her eyes were somehow bigger. Her face had a determined expression.
“I said…If only. Meaning, if only you would go and get it, somewhere else! But who else would want a drunken filthy animal?” she stabbed with her finger, inches from my face, with those last three words.
I placed the vodka bottle down on the draining board and swallowed the contents of the glass.
I walked over to her and stood directly in front of her, “What did you fuckin’ say?”
“You heard.”
She was rigid with fear. I could smell it. I slapped that determined expression off her face. Her head fell to one side, and she snapped it back to stare at me.
“You are a drunk Alan. A dirty, filthy, drunk.”
“You better be quiet, bitch.”
“I can’t stand to even look at you! Your breath stinks, you stink…and I’ve had enough!”
“Shut up, I’m telling you, shut up!”
“You think you’re so bloody smart.”
I poured more vodka.
“Yes, go on pour another drink. Useless drunken pig! You’ve no idea!”
“No idea? What do you mean by that?”
For the first time, she looked away.
“I said, what do you mean by that?”
I had her throat clasped in my hand and used it to back her up against the wall. I tightened my grip.
“If I find out you’re seeing someone else, I’ll fucking kill you. Got that? Do you fucking understand me?”
She pulled a strange face, like she was about to sneeze. Her spit landed in my eye and trickled down my cheek. I lifted my knee and rammed it between her legs. She squinted until her eyes were shut. She muffled a scream.
I let go.
She fell to the floor, holding herself.
I went back to the vodka bottle.
“I fucking mean it…I’ll fucking kill you,” I was pouring another drop of vodka when she tried it on. Daft, daft cow. Who the hell did she think she was? If you’re gonna attack someone at least do it right. No, not her; couldn’t even get that right. As if a tea-towel was gonna strangle me.
I reached for my throat, “You stupid bitch. You’ve fucking done it now!”
I slapped her again, this time she fell against the worktop and once more was on the ground. A pathetic heap.
“We love each other…” she started to cry.
“You what?”
“We love each other…”
“Who fucking loves each other? Who loves you? Who do you fucking love?”
I bent over her, looking down at the pathetic head she was holding in her hands.
“Mark.” She whimpered.
“Mark’s my fucking brother you stupid slag. He wouldn’t look at you if you were…”
She lifted her head, looked at me, and smiled. I knew then. She continued to sit on the floor and I stood by the sink, drinking vodka. Her and Mark? It came over me in seconds. Rage.
“How long?”
“Does it matter?”
“I said, how fucking long!”
“A year…maybe more…”
I shook my head. The room was moving around me. A mist had fallen, shielding my eyes from seeing before me.
“You fucking slag!” I spat through gritted teeth.
I lifted the vodka bottle, smashed it on the draining board and watched the bottom half fall into the sink. Then she did it. She put the last nail in her own coffin.
“He’s a good fuck, if you must know!”
I ran to her, I don’t remember stopping. I remember her arm coming up to protect herself. But it was no use. The jagged glass pierced the skin of her neck like a knife in soft butter.
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