If you haven't been reading here long, may I offer, kindly, the suggestion that you get caught up on Comrade Muffy's story line via the following links?
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Without these pieces of the story, this finale will make very little sense. Frankly, it may not make much sense anyway, but I want to get it done, and there's a medium-sized grey tabby holding a pistol on me until I finish, so . . .
*****
"We are all of equal value in this cause, and we have all suffered grave indignities from the human class." Comrade Muffy had assumed the posture and vocal delivery of a great orator or a general prepared to lead her warriors into battle. She paced back and forth before them. "It is with that spirit in mind that I ask all of you--any ideas how to get in?"
Boo-Boo Kittie was inconsolable. "I can't believe you forgot the dynamite!" she puled. "Why couldn't you remember that one itsy bitsy thing!"
"It was your responsibility, remember?"
"Stop being so mean, Cyclops!" Boo-Boo snuffled.
Fonzie offered, "I could chop the door down with my lethal combination of karate, jujitsu, and the powerful will of the warrior!" She leaped into the air, slicing and flailing with all four limbs at once, demonstrating her proposal--before landing solidly on her right ear.
"Wow," remarked Cyclops, "Agile AND goofy. The humans will be begging for mercy in no time."
Cat was muttering softly to himself--no doubt in some ancient dialect of a forgotten sagely race. "General Mooshoo goo tso gai pan chow mein with extra noodles and soup of your choice. Wonton, egg drop, hot and sour." His heavy-lidded eyes opened wide, and he turned gravely to Muffy. "A journey of a thousand miles begins with lost luggage," he said.
"I don't think that's gonna help us," Comrade Muffy answered. "Have anything about open doors?"
"Open doors," began Cat--
"--Are caused by beautiful ka-booms!" finished Boo-Boo Kittie. "Why do we have no explosives?! I'd settle for an M-80, a firecracker, anything!"
-----
The signature yowling of a young Siamese cat pining for an explosion is not quickly forgotten. It may even be recognized by a seasoned fire investigator in pursuit of a dangerous mob of angry felines with pyromaniac tendencies. The fact that the Bertrams had simply moved next door to their old house made the trail that much easier to follow.
-----
"--Or we could simply scratch at the door and wait to be let in," instructed Cyclops, demonstrating.
"That's enough, Muffy," Ferno said sternly, drawing his weapon from his shoulder holster and taking aim. "Put 'em up!"
Boo-Boo and Cat hoisted their forepaws, chins dropping suddenly to the ground.
The door of the Bertram's house opened.
"Ya' gonna shoot me with that carrot?" asked Comrade Muffy, for indeed, Ian Ferno had of late taken to sticking a few extra carrots into his holster for a snack, and was attempting to make an arrest at carrot-point.
Virgil, the Bertram's pug, ambled out onto the porch. There was a soft hissing sound, and the air was filled with a tremendous stench.
All heads turned to look at Fonzie.
"Sorry! Dogs make me nervous, and when I get nervous I spray!"
"A skunk!" said Cyclops, wrinkling his scarred nose, "I shoulda' known! The white stripes were a dead giveaway."
Meanwhile, Muffy had managed to lift her paw and aim her tiny pistol at Inspector Ferno.
"Goodbye, annoying human!" she snarled, and pulled the trigger.
"Click. Click-click-click."
"Bang!"
Muffy lay on the grass, mortally wounded.
"That's right, Muffy," said Virgil, strolling over to her, "Your pistol was only a single-shot model, and you never re-loaded. I had to take you down before you figured that out. I'm sorry."
Ferno looked hard at the pug's front paws. Like Muffy, Virgil also had thumbs--and a small revolver!
". . . of course, I never really liked you, but that's immaterial to this. Inspector Ferno, it was nice of you to stop by. I don't think HISS! will give you anymore trouble with Muffy gone."
"I imagine you're right, Virgil."
"Now, if you'll excuse me, with these new thumbs, I've developed a bit of an addiction to the TV remote. Time to scratch that itch." The dog disappeared into the house.
"Well," said Inspector Ferno nonchalantly, "Time to go home and bathe in tomato juice."
Showing posts with label The Arsonist Who Loved Catnip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Arsonist Who Loved Catnip. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Thursday, April 03, 2008
The Arsonist Who Loved Catnip, pt 4
There is a principle in criminology which states that an offender is driven by a nearly irresistible inner compulsion to return to the scene of his crime. However, Muffy had never read any criminology textbooks.
Even so, Chief Fire Inspector Ian Ferno felt certain that destiny awaited him at the gutted remains of the Bertram house, destiny in the form of an armed grey tabby cat and a gang known as HISS! Ferno withdrew another handful of alfalfa pellets from pocket and munched nervously on them.
However, Ferno’s vitamin A-sharpened sense of danger was as misguided as a film remake of a 1970s television show. Muffy and HISS! arrived at the Bertram’s new home.
“Oh, this’ll be easy!” drooled Boo-Boo Kittie. “I know just where to place the dynamite to make the whole place go ka-BOOM!”
“No! That’s not what we came here to do! Besides, we forgot the dynamite.”
“Can I slap 'im, Boss?”
“Just once, Fonzie.”
Cat shifted his forepaws and said, gravely, “You have a great personality, and people like you.”
“Then why did I get slapped?” whined Boo-Boo.
“Your lucky numbers are 4, 1, 19, 74, and tuna.”
“Tuna?!” shrieked Cyclops, “Cat, you have finally lost it!”
Cat was nonplussed. “The words of the sages are often hard to fathom.”
“Enough!” spat Comrade Muffy (a title he had just given himself.) “We must think of a way to get inside, and subvert the ruling class!”
*****
Viva la Furry Revolucion!
part 1
part 2
part 3
Even so, Chief Fire Inspector Ian Ferno felt certain that destiny awaited him at the gutted remains of the Bertram house, destiny in the form of an armed grey tabby cat and a gang known as HISS! Ferno withdrew another handful of alfalfa pellets from pocket and munched nervously on them.
However, Ferno’s vitamin A-sharpened sense of danger was as misguided as a film remake of a 1970s television show. Muffy and HISS! arrived at the Bertram’s new home.
“Oh, this’ll be easy!” drooled Boo-Boo Kittie. “I know just where to place the dynamite to make the whole place go ka-BOOM!”
“No! That’s not what we came here to do! Besides, we forgot the dynamite.”
“Can I slap 'im, Boss?”
“Just once, Fonzie.”
Cat shifted his forepaws and said, gravely, “You have a great personality, and people like you.”
“Then why did I get slapped?” whined Boo-Boo.
“Your lucky numbers are 4, 1, 19, 74, and tuna.”
“Tuna?!” shrieked Cyclops, “Cat, you have finally lost it!”
Cat was nonplussed. “The words of the sages are often hard to fathom.”
“Enough!” spat Comrade Muffy (a title he had just given himself.) “We must think of a way to get inside, and subvert the ruling class!”
*****
Viva la Furry Revolucion!
part 1
part 2
part 3
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Arsonist Who Loved Catnip, pt 3
Though clearly the leader of the feline revolution, Muffy sought Cat’s sagely advice. “How shall we begin to make our statement of dissatisfaction known?”
Cat leaned a bit to his left haunch, and was silent for a few moments. He closed his eyes in thoughtful repose and began to snore. Fonzie swiped at him with her paw and he snorted awake.
“Well?” pressed Muffy.
“Imminent travel plans will lead to excitement, mystery, and new relationships,” intoned Cat gravely.
“What?”
“Your lucky numbers are 5, 27, 115, 19, and 43,” Cat continued.
Fonzie raised her paw again, and sharp claws gleamed in the night. “Lemme’ hit ‘im again! Please?”
“No!” yelped Boo-Boo Kittie. “Let’s blow him up!”
“You cannot step into the same river,” said Cat.
“I’m with Boo on this one,” grunted Cyclops, “Let’s ice old Number-Two-With-Eggrolls!”
“Your lucky numbers are 11, 8, 23.”
“No. Not yet,” replied Muffy firmly. “I don’t understand, Cat. What does that mean?”
“I do not know. That tiny sacred scroll was torn, and the rest of its wisdom lost, like a whisper during a waterfall.”
“Never mind. Here’s what we’re gonna do…”
An hour or so later, Tower of Flour Bakery erupted, lighting the night a sickly orange-red and scattering a snow of ashes, flour and baking powder over a four block radius. Witnesses told the investigating officer that they had seen five very white cats skittering away from the scene a minute or so before the incident.
“Muffy!” growled Ian Ferno under his breath, hand clutching unconsciously at his bandaged left shoulder.
*****
Catch up on the Revolution!
Part 1
Part 2
Cat leaned a bit to his left haunch, and was silent for a few moments. He closed his eyes in thoughtful repose and began to snore. Fonzie swiped at him with her paw and he snorted awake.
“Well?” pressed Muffy.
“Imminent travel plans will lead to excitement, mystery, and new relationships,” intoned Cat gravely.
“What?”
“Your lucky numbers are 5, 27, 115, 19, and 43,” Cat continued.
Fonzie raised her paw again, and sharp claws gleamed in the night. “Lemme’ hit ‘im again! Please?”
“No!” yelped Boo-Boo Kittie. “Let’s blow him up!”
“You cannot step into the same river,” said Cat.
“I’m with Boo on this one,” grunted Cyclops, “Let’s ice old Number-Two-With-Eggrolls!”
“Your lucky numbers are 11, 8, 23.”
“No. Not yet,” replied Muffy firmly. “I don’t understand, Cat. What does that mean?”
“I do not know. That tiny sacred scroll was torn, and the rest of its wisdom lost, like a whisper during a waterfall.”
“Never mind. Here’s what we’re gonna do…”
An hour or so later, Tower of Flour Bakery erupted, lighting the night a sickly orange-red and scattering a snow of ashes, flour and baking powder over a four block radius. Witnesses told the investigating officer that they had seen five very white cats skittering away from the scene a minute or so before the incident.
“Muffy!” growled Ian Ferno under his breath, hand clutching unconsciously at his bandaged left shoulder.
*****
Catch up on the Revolution!
Part 1
Part 2
Thursday, September 20, 2007
The Arsonist Who Loved Catnip, pt 2.
In the aftermath of a traumatic event, such as the shooting of a chief fire inspector by a medium-sized gray tabby, details are often lost. Shock causes the human mind to block out certain unpleasant details. Such a detail is the direction that Muffy took when she leapt from Mrs. Bertram’s arms and fled into the rapidly-descending darkness.
The homeless folks near the alley between 15th and 16th streets, next to Gilswitch Parkway could have told you. It’s not that they were anywhere near the place to which Muffy fled; they were just exceptionally perceptive. Some would even go so far as to say that the Gilswitch homeless were psychic. Those people were wrong. They just happened to be very insightful with regard to the minds of cats. It didn’t matter what those folks could tell the authorities, though, because no one would ask them.
This is a real pity, because they could have shed a great deal of light on the inner thought processes of certain inscrutable public officials, based solely on the behavior of their cats. More pitiful still is the unpublished state of Gilswitch indigent Herbie Wexler’s commentary on T.S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, in which Wexler flawlessly identifies in great detail the habits of each cat’s owners!
Had there been anyone in proximity to the alley running behind the Tower of Flour Bakery, such a person might also get the idea that an event of great feline import was occurring in that back street. Had they heard the news of the pistol-packing kitty, they might also have made the connection that Muffy had holed up there, but probably not. The rattling and banging of three garbage cans and the enthusiastic yowling coming from somewhere nearby would have likely signaled nothing special.
The simple reasoning behind this is that most humans have no real understanding of the grammar and syntax of cat speech. And since no cat is likely to ever make a lexicon available to human beings—a species that they deem as woefully lacking in even the most basic modicum of intelligence, but useful in their own way as slaves, and several steps above the common dog—we are likely to remain in the dark. (Greater than cats’ scorn for homo sapiens, though, it is the utter feline contempt for typewriters that keeps this language barrier wide open.)
Had any human being been able to translate, they would have discovered that Muffy was getting a gang of like-minded cats together to carry out her nefarious plans. Normally, in feline cultural exchanges of this nature, an expression of dominance must needs be offered, typically by emerging victorious in a duel. Muffy, however, merely met any objections by extending one paw and asking “Wanna’ thumb wrestle for it?” Of course, in the cat world there is no appropriate response to that question.
The first to join up was a scarred, one-eyed tom named Cyclops. Inexplicably, the name had nothing to do with him having one eye. Instead, he had seen the name in a dumpster on a piece of cardboard that had once backed a child’s toy. Cyclops liked the name, which, when clearly enunciated in the language of cats carried the sense of independence-yet-cuddliness. In other words, it expressed typical feline aloofness.
Added to Muffy’s revolutionaries before the evening was up were Fonzie--she of samurai stealth and very accurate incisions—and Boo-Boo Kittie—an adorable Siamese runt with a near-encyclopedic knowledge of explosives and incendiaries. Finally, there was Cat. Cat was an aged, nearly-crippled, tailless feline who was recruited as a repository of ancient feline wisdom and philosophy.
These five were the charter members of the “Feline Quest for Rectification of Human Injustices, Both Personal and Accidental.” While it may seem a long and clumsy name in English, in the tongue of cats, it is pronounced simply “Hiss!”
The homeless folks near the alley between 15th and 16th streets, next to Gilswitch Parkway could have told you. It’s not that they were anywhere near the place to which Muffy fled; they were just exceptionally perceptive. Some would even go so far as to say that the Gilswitch homeless were psychic. Those people were wrong. They just happened to be very insightful with regard to the minds of cats. It didn’t matter what those folks could tell the authorities, though, because no one would ask them.
This is a real pity, because they could have shed a great deal of light on the inner thought processes of certain inscrutable public officials, based solely on the behavior of their cats. More pitiful still is the unpublished state of Gilswitch indigent Herbie Wexler’s commentary on T.S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, in which Wexler flawlessly identifies in great detail the habits of each cat’s owners!
Had there been anyone in proximity to the alley running behind the Tower of Flour Bakery, such a person might also get the idea that an event of great feline import was occurring in that back street. Had they heard the news of the pistol-packing kitty, they might also have made the connection that Muffy had holed up there, but probably not. The rattling and banging of three garbage cans and the enthusiastic yowling coming from somewhere nearby would have likely signaled nothing special.
The simple reasoning behind this is that most humans have no real understanding of the grammar and syntax of cat speech. And since no cat is likely to ever make a lexicon available to human beings—a species that they deem as woefully lacking in even the most basic modicum of intelligence, but useful in their own way as slaves, and several steps above the common dog—we are likely to remain in the dark. (Greater than cats’ scorn for homo sapiens, though, it is the utter feline contempt for typewriters that keeps this language barrier wide open.)
Had any human being been able to translate, they would have discovered that Muffy was getting a gang of like-minded cats together to carry out her nefarious plans. Normally, in feline cultural exchanges of this nature, an expression of dominance must needs be offered, typically by emerging victorious in a duel. Muffy, however, merely met any objections by extending one paw and asking “Wanna’ thumb wrestle for it?” Of course, in the cat world there is no appropriate response to that question.
The first to join up was a scarred, one-eyed tom named Cyclops. Inexplicably, the name had nothing to do with him having one eye. Instead, he had seen the name in a dumpster on a piece of cardboard that had once backed a child’s toy. Cyclops liked the name, which, when clearly enunciated in the language of cats carried the sense of independence-yet-cuddliness. In other words, it expressed typical feline aloofness.
Added to Muffy’s revolutionaries before the evening was up were Fonzie--she of samurai stealth and very accurate incisions—and Boo-Boo Kittie—an adorable Siamese runt with a near-encyclopedic knowledge of explosives and incendiaries. Finally, there was Cat. Cat was an aged, nearly-crippled, tailless feline who was recruited as a repository of ancient feline wisdom and philosophy.
These five were the charter members of the “Feline Quest for Rectification of Human Injustices, Both Personal and Accidental.” While it may seem a long and clumsy name in English, in the tongue of cats, it is pronounced simply “Hiss!”
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The Arsonist Who Loved Catnip
The fire trucks had long since left. The smoke had ceased to curl up from any part of the house several hours ago, and the fire investigator had finished his preliminary walk-through of the gutted structure. The conflagration had started in the garage—there was no doubt about that. However, chief fire inspector Ian Ferno couldn't shake the feeling that it was the family cat that had started the blaze!
“Ridiculous,” his rational, calculating mind told him. But he couldn't let it go. Something about the look in Muffy’s green eyes…
“Mrs. Bertram, I know this sounds crazy, but did Muffy ever play with matches?”
“Why, yes,” replied Mrs. Bertram, “that does sound crazy! What makes you ask something so hare-brained?”
Ferno started to tell her about the experimental transplant of rabbit gray matter he’d had two years ago, but decided to pass. Pulling a carrot from his pocket, he stuck it in his teeth cigar-style before continuing.
“Well, in point of fact, ma’am, we found drug paraphernalia in what’s left of the garage: a marijuana joint, to be precise. To be quite frank, ma’am, you don’t seem to be the type to use illegal drugs, but Muffy there seems a bit baked. I mean, it could just be stress from surviving the fire, but—”
“—Do you mean to suggest that dear, sweet, well-behaved Muffy was sparking up a doobie in the garage?” The question had come from Dr Bertram, who had just arrived on the scene from his job at the hospital. He’d been in the middle of a surgery (well, actually, the patient was in the middle, but let’s not quibble over geography) when news of the house fire had reached him, and didn't want to leave until he’d finished.
“It was just an off-the-cuff comment, sir. I didn't seriously think your cat was smoking a joint. I mean, that’d require—” Ian wiggled his thumbs atop his extended fists, searching for the right terminology.
“Opposable thumbs, ya’ mean?”
“Yes, that’s right. Fortunately, evolution has been a bit slow for them in that department. I mean, if they had opposable thumbs, they’d probably want can openers; and then where would it end?” Inspector Ferno couldn't help chuckling at his own comment.
The doctor nodded. “Precisely! Evolution is too slow! That’s why I decided to help it along! If you’ll take a closer look at Muffy’s front paws, you’ll notice that some radical grafting surgery has been done.”
The doctor wasn't kidding. On each front leg, the tabby had primitive but working thumbs! The boys at the station were never gonna believe this one!
And they never would. Tucked menacingly into Muffy’s little left paw was a teeny pistol. With the dexterity of, appropriately, a cat, Muffy squeezed the trigger.
“Ridiculous,” his rational, calculating mind told him. But he couldn't let it go. Something about the look in Muffy’s green eyes…
“Mrs. Bertram, I know this sounds crazy, but did Muffy ever play with matches?”
“Why, yes,” replied Mrs. Bertram, “that does sound crazy! What makes you ask something so hare-brained?”
Ferno started to tell her about the experimental transplant of rabbit gray matter he’d had two years ago, but decided to pass. Pulling a carrot from his pocket, he stuck it in his teeth cigar-style before continuing.
“Well, in point of fact, ma’am, we found drug paraphernalia in what’s left of the garage: a marijuana joint, to be precise. To be quite frank, ma’am, you don’t seem to be the type to use illegal drugs, but Muffy there seems a bit baked. I mean, it could just be stress from surviving the fire, but—”
“—Do you mean to suggest that dear, sweet, well-behaved Muffy was sparking up a doobie in the garage?” The question had come from Dr Bertram, who had just arrived on the scene from his job at the hospital. He’d been in the middle of a surgery (well, actually, the patient was in the middle, but let’s not quibble over geography) when news of the house fire had reached him, and didn't want to leave until he’d finished.
“It was just an off-the-cuff comment, sir. I didn't seriously think your cat was smoking a joint. I mean, that’d require—” Ian wiggled his thumbs atop his extended fists, searching for the right terminology.
“Opposable thumbs, ya’ mean?”
“Yes, that’s right. Fortunately, evolution has been a bit slow for them in that department. I mean, if they had opposable thumbs, they’d probably want can openers; and then where would it end?” Inspector Ferno couldn't help chuckling at his own comment.
The doctor nodded. “Precisely! Evolution is too slow! That’s why I decided to help it along! If you’ll take a closer look at Muffy’s front paws, you’ll notice that some radical grafting surgery has been done.”
The doctor wasn't kidding. On each front leg, the tabby had primitive but working thumbs! The boys at the station were never gonna believe this one!
And they never would. Tucked menacingly into Muffy’s little left paw was a teeny pistol. With the dexterity of, appropriately, a cat, Muffy squeezed the trigger.
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