Slinky as the cat people

“The cat people” by Xtasorcery

The king cat knelt, purring deeply. It had the scent of prey in its nostrils, and was on the hunt.

Waving an arm forward, it indicated the others should follow. They raced down the alley together, some 20 cat people in their cat-forms, the indigo colored night air above and around them.

It was a melancholy mood to be hunting in. Grandfather-cat had died. His whiskers had twitched their last twitch. They were extra hungry for prey to get rid of this gnawing feeling that life was meaningless, that the universe was a big salad bowl tossed to mix shit up, one separated from the other, one stuck on the last. Grandfather had disagreed vehemently with that. He had said the cat-people were noble beings, charged with high duties.

This didn’t change the way they fed. They hunted policemen and firemen, and stared them into death. Then, they drained the leftover energy. It was all good.

Up ahead, a cop car was parked at a slant. A policeman was savoring a donut he had just removed from a Tim Hortons brown box. In a moment, in a scramble, all the cats had completely surrounded the car.

“Come out with your hands up!” the king-cat charged. Instead, the cop made the mistake of going for his gun.

They jumped off, and rolled the car over on its side, then over on its hood.

The sound of metal crashing against pavement was loud.

Five cats together, in pulling, managed to wrench the door off. They used a little of their purple magical energies in getting the job done, but mostly it was brute strength.

When the corpse was drained, and flung over the space between front seats, they sauntered away, well-fed. This death would remain a mystery on police ledgers. There would be no visible cause-of-death. There would be no witnesses (the cat people blurred their activity; they had several way of hiding) and no logical theories. It would simply go to the cold case files and rot.

Acex, king cat, leaned back, surrounded by two attractive female felines who were grooming him. He was silent in thought. It was almost time to begin breeding season to replace him who was lost. As the lead figure, the alpha man-cat, he would do the breeding and choose which catette got to dance the naked tango with him.

Acex dropped to his knees, sensing a sudden smell. It smelled like . . . vampires. “What’s this?” he wondered to himself. “Penetrating this deep in the cat-lair?”

Acex crawled, becoming more and more a cat and less and less a man. In the mysteries of the universe, he pulled more ethereal substance around himself and grew whiskers and new legs and his back arched above him, sizzling with the heat of new transfiguration.

There was a stone corner ahead. This was an old building. Located on Burrard Street, they had bought in for five million dollars back when five million was a real amount of money.

The vampires were two streets over, living in their own building.

With a sweep-of-the-cloak the king-vampire swept around the corner to face Acex, and Acex hissed.

The vampire tried to hypnotize the cat-man. The cat-man attempted to drain the vampire in the few seconds he had left to him.

A big cat-person knocked the vampire over in a leap. The spell was broken. Acex scratched the throat of the vampire, then bit down.

Fetid blood, sour as bad milk, exploded out. The vampire screamed in a silent sonic scream. Acex stomped a cat’s paw down on the neck, staunching the bleeding for now.

“I’ll let you live if you tell me why you’re here.”

“We need your help,” Pol the chief vampire gasped.

“Why?”

“The humans have detected us. A study team at the University of British Columbia. Only you can make them forget their research and drift away . . . we know you have this power. And remember, if they unearth us, soon you’ll be next. You’re 9.5 on the Richter scale of local magic.”

“Agreed. But I want a payment.”

“Name it.”

“Give me a vampire bitch to fellate my knob. And have her bite into me gently. I know what an exquisite pleasure that is. And how you withhold it from everybody but yourself.”

“Granted! Now let me up!”

The king-vampire heaved his way up, panting, and then — limping — took his leave back around the corner.

The two cat-men looked at each other and laughed in a purring way.

Dr. Rodgers waved the wand around.

“I know they’re here someplace,” he muttered to himself.

A team of grad students trailed behind him, carrying defensive spiritual weapons and offensive ones.

Dr. Rodgers stepped over the invisible ward, activating a sensor that led deep into the vampires’ demesne, through twists and turns.

Acex stepped out of the shadows.

He was only a little bit cat, furry around the back of his shoulders and long mane of hair, but mostly man. “Hello, doctor. Go back, go back wherever you’re from,” he sing-songed in children’s poem tones.

“Who are you?” the good doctor started.

“Name a vampire you know.”

“Dracula. Nosferatu.”

“Name a cat-person you know.”

Silence.

“Name a color you like.”

It was beginning.

“Name a number that you favor.”

“I spy a November Remembrance Day poppy. What are we supposed to remember? You’re already forgetting aren’t you. There’s no such thing as Remembrance Day, a grand old Canadian holiday. ‘Lest we forget’. And there’s no such thing as cat-people. And there most certainly aren’t things such as vampires.” Acex’s tone turned harsher. “Abandon this train of investigation, good doctor. Go home. Find another way to waste your department’s money — and remember, we can move around in the daytime and target you. That’s your subconscious giving your conscience a sense of unease upon thinking of these things. GO!” Acex booted Dr. Rodgers in the ass.

They all scattered, and in the days to come the animosity between vampire and cat person dwindled to good levels for the first time in decades.

$ If you’re only average IQ, you see the world as being entirely average IQ like you. These are the rose colored blinders around your eyes. It’s disturbing to meet a shockingly smart university-educated man with a postgrad degree. Shockingly.

$ Intellectual men enjoy having others of sharp wit disagree with them; that is the purpose of blogs and of soapboxes. But nobody made a profit out of being too abstract. There is a sweet spot in the middle, the descent into the valley, where flowers of thought spout, rainbows of concepts broaden, and gold coins dance for our well-being.

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