ZOPEY ZAZA VS. THE CAT KING

Chapter 1: The Missing Milk

The Cat King was a really bad king. He was just bad. Bad all the way through. He had a big cat head, with big cat eyes, and those eyes liked to pry into all the little crevices and corners of his kingdom, looking for the one thing that he desired above all else: milk. But he wouldn’t drink just any milk. Oh no. Of course, he would in a pinch — if there was nothing else in his massive refrigerator (which was made of solid gold). But the milk that he dreamed of, that he pined after, was Mrs. Dottingham’s Mystical Milk — made by her field full of Mystical Cows.

Of course, the Cat King wanted to drink Mrs. Dottingham’s Mystical Milk all of the time. It was the only reason that he got up in the morning. And if he had his way (which, being the king, he usually did), he would force every living soul in his kingdom to dedicate their entire lives to the production of the magical milk. But all such measures were futile — because no matter how many helping hands Mrs. Dottingham had, she had only ten mystical cows: Betty, Bibby, Tibby, Debby, Dotti, Potty, Rotty, Scotty, Joshy, and Moshy, and they each produced one gallon of Mystical Milk per month — period. No buts, no objections.

So on the first of each month, the Cat King would have his cat servants carry him out of the palace, down the mountain, through the city, over the fields, and down to Mrs. Dottingham’s Countryside Cottage, where he would retrieve his ten gallons of Mystical Milk — for which he would leave ten gold coins (for Mrs. Dottingham), and a big juicy carrot (for Moshy, who was the Cat King’s favorite of all the mystical cows).

The Cat King would, of course, spend the next week doing nothing but drinking the Mystical Milk — reveling in the pure delight of its creamy perfection, its utterly unrivaled quenchability. Then, like clockwork, the milk would run out, and the Cat King would smash the empty bottles and return to his cat throne — brooding, and waiting for the first of the month to arrive.

Today was a very special day for the Cat King, because it happened to be the first of December, and after three agonizing weeks of drinking normal milk, playing darts with his fat-cat cronies, and watching his idiotic cat-son Altoid try (and fail) to put together a dolphin puzzle, the Cat King wanted nothing more than to escape the palace walls, and collect his Mystical Milk.

The Cat King was about to summon his cat-servants when a trumpet sounded, and his cat-herald ran into the Grand Hall.

“Hark!” cried the cat-herald. “A messenger approaches for the Cat King!”

The Cat King groaned. Another message from the kitty-union, no doubt. These cat-citizens would be the death of him. We need more houses, build us better roads, stop using our cat-babies as swan-bait. Stupid peasants. He didn’t know why he even put up with them.

The messenger stepped timidly into the hall.

“Yes, yes, speak quickly!” The Cat King snapped. “I don’t have all day!”

The cat-messenger trembled as he approached the Cat King’s throne. He knelt before the golden steps, and bowed his head.

“S-sire, I….I have a message for you. It’s……it’s about……..your milk, sire.”

The Cat King’s ears instantly perked up. “My milk?” he breathed, leaning forward in his seat. “My Mystical Milk?”

The cat-messenger bowed his head more deeply and nodded.

“Mrs. Dottingham sent us a telegram this morning. Her Mystical Cows…..it appears they’ve all been stolen.”

The Cat King couldn’t believe his ears. “Stolen?” he whispered, gripping the arms of his throne. “Stolen?!”

The Cat King curled his claws into fists and leapt from the shiny seat. “How can that be?!!” he roared, his limbs quivering with anger.

The cat-messenger bowed still lower and shook his head. “We…. we do not know, sire. But it seems that the thief left a message for you.” The cat-messenger’s paw shook as he held out a small slip of folded parchment.

The Cat King snatched the scrap of paper from the messenger’s paw, and beckoned to a nearby servant — who ran over and placed a pair of golden reading spectacles on the Cat King’s giant head. The Cat King unfolded the piece of paper, and read.

Dear Benedict (yes, I know your real name) —

I have taken your Mystical Cows, to repay the wrongs that you did to me, long ago. You thought that I would forget about those wrongs that you did to me. But I didn’t forget. I NEVER forget.

If Mrs. Dottingham ever wants to see her cows alive again, you will meet me at Swan Lake this Saturday at dawn. Bring a gun.

Sincerely,

P.S. — Moshy says “Moo”

A tear rolled down the Cat King’s furry cheek. “Moshy” he sniffed. His sadness quickly turned to rage. “EVERYONE GET OUT!” he screamed, crumpling the letter in his furry fist. His servants scattered and ran for the door, followed by the whimpering messenger, leaving the Cat King sitting alone on his golden throne, brooding.

The Cat King breathed heavily. The sound echoed throughout the empty hall. Finally, after taking several slurps of ordinary milk to calm his nerves, the Cat King uncrumpled the letter, and stared down at the signature.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” the Cat King muttered under his breath. He turned to his side, and pressed a secret golden button on his golden throneside table. A hidden drawer popped open, revealing a golden Desert Eagle handgun. The Cat King admired his reflection in the gun’s shiny barrel, and purred.

“I won’t be making that mistake again.”

Chapter 2: Stakeout at Swan Lake

The Cat King shivered in the icy dawn. He stared out across the frozen lake. Of all the miserable places to meet he thought to himself. The Cat King hated lakes — in fact he hated all water. Water was cold, and disgusting, and its only conceivable purpose as far as the Cat King was concerned was its use in the production of milk.

The Cat King let out a choking yowl — he growled and heaved until a hairball emerged from deep within his throat. He spat it onto the frozen ground. He was getting impatient. He pulled his golden cat-radio from his belt and pressed the call button.

“Cat-copter, this is your King. Come in, over.”

The radio buzzed. A fuzzy cat-voice trickled through the speaker. “This is Gritty-Kitty Zero-Delta-Four. We hear you loud and clear, over.”

The Cat King frowned. He pressed the button again. “Do you have eyes on him Gritty-Kitty, over?”

“Nothing from up here” the cat-voice responded. “Maybe he’s a no-show. Over.”

The Cat King’s frown deepened. “No,” he said with certainty. “He’s here somewhere. Keep looking.”

The line was silent.

“Over” the Cat King added through gritted teeth.

“Copy that” the cat-voice replied. The Cat King growled and tilted his head, squinting up at the cold blue sky. The sound of chopper blades echoed from somewhere high above.

Swan Lake sat twenty miles outside of the walls of the Cat Kingdom — fifteen miles past Mrs. Dottingham’s Countryside Cottage. It was called Swan Lake because it was filled with swans. Too many swans, if you asked the Cat King. The birds were everywhere, squawking and flocking all over the place — honking, and shitting. Brainless creatures. If the Cat King hadn’t been so terrified of them, he would have ordered every one of the birds to be rounded up, and thrown into his cat-dungeons. That would teach them. Fortunately, it was December, and all of the disgusting Swans were nesting hundreds of miles away down at South Lake.

One of the Cat King’s fat-cat cronies jogged up to him — a cigar hanging out of his fat-cat mouth. He gave the Cat King a sloppy bow. The Cat King nodded towards the cigar. The crony rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a second cigar, which he handed to the Cat King. The Cat King rolled the stogie between his claw-tips.

“So, what’s the report?” he asked.

The fat-cat spoke in a low, gravelly voice.

“We’ve got snipers hiding in the trees up there—” he pointed a claw at a cluster of pine trees overlooking the lake’s northwestern edge “— and there—” he pointed again at a small, grass-covered hill which lay to the northeast. “We’ve got three cat-copters circling overhead, and two trucks full of commandos waiting on standby.”

The Cat King nodded slowly. He placed the cigar in his mouth, and pulled a golden lighter from his pocket. The initials B.A.C. glinted on the lighter’s shiny case. He lit the cigar and took a long drag.

“What about my personal security?” he asked.

The fat-cat signaled with a paw, and two more fat-cats jogged up to join them. One pulled a set of brass knuckles out of his pocket, and slipped them on. The other pulled out a grenade, and hefted a massive pair of silver scissors. The original fat-cat pulled a harpoon gun from his waistband, and cocked it.

The Cat King surveyed the three cats, and nodded in approval. “Very well,” he said.

The four cats stood, unmoving, in the cold morning light. Nobody spoke.

Finally, the lead fat-cat gave a low grunt. “Do you think he’ll show?”

The Cat King chomped on his cigar, letting the brown pulp-juice drip down his furry chin.

“He’d better.”

Several long, cold minutes passed. The wind whistled across the flat lake-rocks. Then the Cat King’s radio buzzed.

“Sire, this is Pretty-Kitty Zero-Delta-One. I think we’ve got something.”

Chapter 3: A Moo in the Fog

The Cat King held the binoculars to his face — staring out at the center of Swan Lake. An out-of-focus, black-and-white object sat motionless in the center of the ice.

“Yeah, I see it.” The Cat King said, handing the binoculars back to his fat-cat crony. “But I don’t see what it is.”

The fat-cat raised the binoculars to his fat face, and stared.

“I don’t know. It looks like a cow to me.”

The Cat King snatched the binoculars back. “Give me those!” he growled. He held the binoculars to his eyes and fiddled with the focus knob. The object did look a lot like a cow. It certainly had black and white spots. But it wasn’t moving.

I swear, if he’s hurt a single hair on any of those cows’ precious heads…

The Cat King breathed heavily and lowered the binoculars.

“Okay” he said, straightening his golden cat-belt. “Send in the commandos. One squadron. Keep everyone else on standby. Once they confirm that it’s a cow, we move in.”

The fat-cat nodded, and pulled out his radio — gesturing at the two other fat-cats, who did likewise. The Cat King swiveled his head and narrowed his eyes — fixing his lieutenants with an icy, yellow stare.

“Tell them that if a single cow gets injured on their watch, the cats responsible will spend the rest of their miserable lives in the boiler-room. Is that clear?”

The fat-cats nodded their beefy chins and started meowing orders into their radios. Four minutes later, a platoon of ten cat-commandos crawled towards the southern edge of the lake, and fanned outward in a V-formation. The commandos stepped out onto the ice and ran forward with practiced, silent ease. As the cats moved steadily towards the center of the lake, the Cat King noticed a wisp of grey fog, which had appeared in the center of the ice.

“What’s that?” he whispered to his cronies, gesturing at the expanding cloud of fog.

One of the fat-cats picked up the binoculars.

“It’s nothing. Just some fog.”

The Cat King growled. “Fine” he said. “Tell those commandos to hurry up.”

The commandos ran towards the black-and-white object, which was now partially obscured by fog. Just as they were about to reach it, a gust of wind blew across the lake, and the cloud of fog ballooned outwards, shielding the commandos from view. The Cat King cursed.

“What’s happening out there?” he growled. He pulled out his radio. A flash of light flared suddenly in the center of the lake, followed by a muffled *BANG*. A series of loud meows howled from within the cloud of fog. Then all was silent.

The Cat King snarled “What in the hell—“

His radio buzzed. The Cat King stared down at the radio. He picked it up.

The sound of slow, heavy breathing rasped through the speaker. The Cat King’s grey hairs stood on end.

“Who is this?” he snarled.

A low, haunting, “Mooooo” echoed through the speaker. The Cat King meowed and gripped the radio.

“Who are you?!” he shouted furiously.

The radio buzzed suddenly, and a fuzzy cat-voice crackled through the speaker. “Sire, this is Roberts. We found it. It’s a cow. It’s chained to a metal pole, but the lock is a paw-print scanner. There’s a note here — it says that only you can open it, sire.”

The Cat King cursed. “Soldier, what the hell was all that noise earlier?”

The cat swallowed. “Jenkins thought he saw a mouse, and slipped on the ice. One of his-flash-bangs went off — knocked out the whole squadron.”

The Cat King put a paw to his head. Fucking Jenkins.

“Okay, okay — fine. Secure the perimeter soldier, and protect that cow.”

“Yes sire” the voice responded.

The Cat King lowered the radio and looked at his cronies. The main fat-cat shook his head. “I don’t like it. It could be a trap.”

The Cat King yowled in annoyance. “You think I don’t know that?”

He ground his pointy teeth. Three weeks without Mystical Milk. Three agonizing weeks. He shook his head and turned to his fat-cats.

“I don’t care if it’s a trap. If there’s even the slightest chance we can save one of those cows…” A vision flashed through his mind of Moshy, huddled sad and lonely out on the ice. His little udders frozen shut. The Cat King shook his head again. “It’s worth it” he finished softly.

His fat-cats shrugged and nodded. The Cat King scowled. Idiots. They don’t understand. Some things you have to do yourself. That’s what being the fucking cat-king was all about.

The Cat King pulled the Desert Eagle from his golden belt, and cocked it.

“Okay” he said. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 4: Ice Kitty

The four cats stepped onto the ice. The Cat King winced at the cold touch. If there was one substance he hated more than water, it was ice. The group stepped silently forward, their furry footfalls leaving no mark on the lake’s smooth surface. The polished ice glinted up at the Cat King, reflecting the golden barrel of his gun, and mirroring the menacing glint in his huge cat-eyes.

The group slowed as they neared the lake’s foggy center.

“Be on your guard” the Cat King ordered, eyeing the shifting clouds of fog. The fat-cats nodded and stepped slowly forward, brandishing their weapons. The Cat King’s yellow eyes flicked from side to side, straining to pierce the thick fog. He pulled out his golden radio.

“Roberts, this is your King. What’s your status, over?”

He waited for several seconds. No response came.

“Roberts, I repeat — what is your status?” The Cat King meowed with frustration.

The radio buzzed softly, but still no response came. Several thick bands of fog wafted towards the Cat King. One of his cronies sniffed the air and frowned.

A gust of wind whipped suddenly through the air, and the bands of fog shifted. One of the fat-cats shouted and pointed into the mist. For a split second, the Cat King saw a hulking white thing with black spots. Another ghostly “Moooooooo” echoed through the mist, sending chills down the Cat King’s spine. He stepped cautiously forward, golden gun raised.

His foot smacked painfully into an object. The Cat King cursed and hopped on one leg, struggling not to slip on the smooth ice. He looked down at the object. Roberts’ unconscious face stared back at him. The commando’s eyes were closed, and his thin lips were tinged with blue.

The Cat King yowled and jumped backwards. His fat-cats ran over to him, and looked down at the fallen commando. Their fat-faces showed no emotion.

“We should leave” one of the fat-cats finally said.

The Cat King shook his head. “No. We’re not leaving without that cow.”

The fat-cats exchanged dark looks, but remained silent.

The Cat King pulled out his radio. “All units, we have a commando down. Repeat, we have a commando down. Converge on target location, over.” He hooked the radio back onto his belt, and turned towards his fat-cats.

“Come on.”

The four of them crept forward, weapons raised. The fog continued to swirl and shift, slowly revealing the rest of Squad One, who lay unconscious in a gruesome trail which led closer and closer to the echoing moos.

Several minutes passed before they reached the last cat-commando. The four cats stopped in front of the upturned body, and stared ahead into the mist. Some twenty yards ahead of them, wreathed in fog, stood a cow. The Cat King purred and stepped excitedly forward.

Don’t worry Moshy, he thought, his heart speeding up. I’m coming. Papa’s coming for you.

He jogged up to the large cow and holstered his gun. The cow stood still. It let out another long “Moooooooo.”

“Don’t worry Moshy” the Cat King said, stroking the cow’s head. “It’ll all be over soo—” He stopped. Something about Moshy’s skin felt wrong. It was rough and hard. Like paper maché. And his head. Something about the cow’s head was too… rectangular. The Cat King frowned. “Moshy?” he asked hesitantly, feeling uneasy. He reached into his lapel pocket and pulled out his golden reading glasses. He put them on.

There, grinning up at him, was a huge, grotesque, fake-cow. The cow was fashioned from bunches of cylindrical sticks, which had been duct-taped together and painted with white and black spray-paint. What the Cat King had mistaken for the cow’s head was actually a beat-up, black boom-box, which had been splattered with white plaster and painted with a macabre, bovine grimace.

The Cat King let out an undignified screech, swatting an instinctive paw at the demonic beast’s head, and knocking the boom-box off of the fake-cow’s plastered neck. The boom-box fell to the ice with a dull thunk, and the top popped open, sending a filthy white CD skittering across the ice. The CD rolled in wide circle — coming to a rest at the Cat King’s feet, where it settled on the ice with a gentle clink. The Cat King picked the CD up, and read the label.

“Scarey Cow Soundz, Deluxe Edition.”

The Cat King cursed and dropped the CD, whipping his gun out. He shouted for his fat-cats. They ran up behind him and stared at the fake cow.

“We need to get out of here,” one of them said, snipping the air with his huge silver scissors.

The Cat King nodded and took one last look at the headless cow. He snarled in disgust, and turned to leave the horrid scene when a clear tinkling sound rang out behind him. The Cat King froze. He whipped his head around and stared intently at the cow.

No...

“Sire…” growled the main fat-cat, drumming his fingers on the barrel of his harpoon gun.

The Cat King ignored him and walked slowly towards the cow — a feeling of icy horror creeping through his veins. The tinkling sound rang out again, as a chill wind danced around the cow’s distorted figure.

As the Cat King reached the hulking beast, he knelt — as if in a trance — and stared with haunted eyes at the fake animal’s bulging neck.

No...

Around the faux-cow’s neck hung a large, silver cowbell. A cowbell that the Cat King recognized. A cowbell that had been specially made by the royal bellmaker, under the Cat King’s orders, and delivered to Mrs. Dottingham’s Countryside Cottage on a very special eleventh birthday. The bell was engraved with a single word.

MOSHY

Bitter tears formed in the Cat King’s eyes. What kind of sick, twisted…”

He gave a convulsive shudder, and howled up at the sky. “ZOPEY ZAZA, WHERE ARE YOU?!!”

He stood up shakily, seething with rage. I’m gonna kill that fucking caterpillar. I swear to God I’m gonna— his eye caught a small, crumpled piece of paper, lying on the ice. He bent down and picked it up.

“Sire—” one of his fat-cats grabbed his arm. “We need to go now.”

The Cat King shook the fat-cat off, and unfolded the piece of paper. Inside was a message written in shiny black ink.

Twinkle Twinkle little bell

I hope this letter finds you well

I made for you, this pretty cow

But only your feet can save you now

-ZZ

P.S. — Moshy says “Moo”

The Cat King lowered the letter. My feet? He thought with confusion. Then he noticed the cow’s body. Made from hundreds of bunched, cylindrical sticks. Sticks that looked an awful lot like…

A red light blinked on.

The Cat King’s feet were sprinting away from the cow before his mind even knew what he was doing. “Retreat, retreat!” he screamed into his radio, but already he saw commando squad Two rushing towards him across the lake, followed by ten more of his fat-cats. He waved his arms frantically. “Get back!” he shouted. “The ice, it’s going to— ” Then there was a flash, and an ear-splitting cracking of ice, and everything went black.

Chapter 5: The Thawing

The Cat King lay shaking in front of a massive fire, while his cat-servants swarmed around the study, using bottles of hot water to thaw the icicles that covered his entire body. He stared up at the ceiling, murmuring incoherently.

“I………..I..forgot…….I….didn’t…………..you……sick………M-Moshyyy.” His yellow eyes flicked from side to side.

The royal cat-doctor stood over the Cat King, eyeing him nervously over a pair of rimless spectacles.

“Doctor Stevens!”

An anxious looking cat servant bustled into the room, carrying a cordless hairdryer and an ice pick. She stepped hurriedly towards the doctor, nearly impaling him with the pick’s sharpened point.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, tears of gratitude forming in her eyes. “He’s in a bad way. Please, tell him the diagnosis. Any information that you have.”

The cat-doctor blinked nervously. He looked down at his clipboard and flipped through several pages.

“Umm, well….sire—” he looked up at the Cat King. “— it appears that you’ve been……you’ve been frozen, sire.”

The Cat King swiveled his head ever so slightly and shot the cat-doctor a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

“Get. Out.”

The cat-doctor fled the room.

The Cat King looked back up at the ceiling. He felt the warmth of the fire slowly worm its way into his frost-chilled mind, drifting through the cold corridors of memories long locked away: a bright room lit with candles, a chubby-cheeked Altoid laughing on the living-room floor, and the fateful sound of leather boots crunching through the snow.

A knock sounded at the study door. The Cat King jerked a half-frozen paw, which his servants took to mean “come in.” They scrambled to the smooth mahogany door and opened it.

One of the Cat King’s fat-cats hobbled in, leaning heavily on a crutch. His right arm hung limp in a sling, and his pale, beefy face was tinged with blue. His grey eyes shone with a cold light. He limped over to the Cat King’s side, and held up a piece of paper.

“We got another one” he said brusquely. The Cat King made another jerking motion with his paw, and a servant ran forward with a fresh pair of golden spectacles. The Cat King squinted up at the paper.

Twinkle Twinkle little bell

I tried to blow you all to hell

But if somehow, you did survive

A gift for you, I leave inside

Make your choice, don’t take too long

Or all of your cows, will be dead by dawn

-ZZ

P.S. — Moshy says “Moo”

“It came with this” the fat-cat said, pulling a second, larger piece of paper from his pocket. The Cat-King swatted at the paper with a frozen paw. He snagged it on the tip of a claw and brought it close to his face.

Drawn on the paper was an intricate map of the Cat Kingdom — the cool black lines penned in an elegant, flowing script. Three scarlet X’s marked the map — their still-wet ink dripped down the page in long, jagged streaks. The Cat-King sniffed the page. Cow-blood. He stared icily at the X’s, making a note of each location.

Jenny’s Snack Shack. The Hive, and The Dusty Oven. Three of the most popular cat-eateries in the Cat Kingdom. All of them smack-dab on Central Boulevard.

Limbs shaking, the Cat King struggled upright, waving his concerned servants aside with dripping paws. He met the fat-cat’s eyes.

“Call the Marauders.”

The fat-cat’s lips curled in an ugly smile. He bowed his head once, and hobbled from the room, crutch scraping against the cold marble floor.

The Cat King stared into the depths of the blazing fire, a single word tingling on his lips.

Zaza.

All hesitation, all thoughts of mercy — of a peaceful negotiation for the return of the cows — had left his mind, purged to extinction by the sub-zero water. This was war.

Zopey Zaza wasn’t the only one who knew how to fight dirty. And if there was one thing the Cat King had learned from his long years spent in cat-government, it was this: never underestimate the power of the pooch.

Chapter 6: Maud's Marauders

The Cat King leaned over the war table — his shoulders draped with a blood-red, swan-feather coat. His surviving fat-cats stood around him, sporting an array of crutches, casts, and frostbitten paws. Their eyes were filled with bloodlust.

The Cat King pointed down at a map on the table. “Okay” he said. “All three locations are within a one mile radius of each other — right along Central Boulevard. That multi-legged miscreant thinks that we’re going to play his little game of hide and seek. He thinks those stolen cows give him the upper hand. Well guess what?”

The Cat King leaned in — letting one of the bright war-room lights fall across his face.

“I don’t give a fuck about those cows.”

The fat-cats flashed sneering smiles and nodded their approval. Now the king was speaking their language.

The Cat King turned his back to the table; face drawn in mock distress. “If anything were to happen to them, yes I would be upset—” he nodded. “And my Mystical Milk…” he sighed and shook his head. “It would be a terrible loss. “But” he continued, “there’s something that’s more important to me than any cow — than any drop of magical milk.”

He whirled suddenly and slammed his paw directly on the center of the map, baring his curved yellow fangs.

“This is the Cat Kingdom” he snarled — “and I’m the motherfucking Cat King. And no one — I mean no one — comes into my kingdom without kissing my ring.”

The fat-cats pounded the table, letting out beefy howls of glee. The Cat King brushed a speck of dust off of his swan-feather coat, as he waited for the shouts to subside. Finally, the Cat King turned and nodded to his chief fat-cat, who stepped quietly from the room.

“Many of you,” the Cat King said loudly, “Have heard stories of Maud’s Marauders. They started out as canine special forces during the last dog-swan war. Forty-five successful extractions later, they were known as the most elite military unit in the world.”

The war-room door cracked open, and the lead fat-cat entered, trailed by a tall figure in a black leather kimono. The fat-cats turned and stared.

The Cat King stepped slowly around the war table and approached the newcomer.

“Fortunately for us,” he purred, “their methods soon proved too bloody for the dog-commanders’ weak stomachs. And under the guidance of their more open-minded leader, the Marauders deserted. All seventy-nine of them.”

The Cat King stopped in front of the leather-clad figure. The fat-cats waited with baited breath. The Cat King finally turned and flashed a crooked smile. “Fat-cats: I give you… Maud.”

The leather-clad figure stepped into the light. The fat-cats shrank back, hissing.

Maud was a six-foot, two hundred and thirty-five pound slab of pure muscle. She was german-shepherd on her father’s side, and on her mother’s: great dane. People who talked behind Maud’s back whispered that she was raised by a pack of cannibal wolves. These people were promptly hunted down and roasted over a bed of hot coals.

Maud cracked her long, thick knuckles and growled. The sound shook the room.

The Cat King stepped up beside her. “Maud here will be leading this afternoon’s assault. She and her Marauders have my leave to take any action necessary to capture that piece of filth, Zopey Zaza. I want every living cat-trooper, commando, or soldier of any type supporting her squadrons, and patrolling the kingdom streets in case Zaza sticks is head out. There will be no more mistakes. Is that clear?”

The fat-cats nodded their heads.

The Cat King smiled. “Good. Now suit up for battle.”

The fat-cats meowed and filed quickly from the room, giving Maud a wide berth. Soon, only Maud and the King were left. The Cat King lit a cigar. “Now, to discuss your payment. I have arranged for you to receive half the gold up from, and the other half when Zaza is in my custody. I will pay you an additional thousand gold-pieces for every cow that you recover.”

Maud stood there motionless — the low sound of her breathing echoed through the war room.

The Cat King sniffed. “Very well.” He turned and stepped towards the door, pausing as he reached the threshold. He turned and looked at Maud, eyes glinting. “No mistakes Maud. No mistakes.”

Maud stood in the dull light, her eyes black as twin lumps of coal. Let the little kitties purr she thought. There’s dog-work to be done.

Chapter 7: Barking & Entering

Jenny stood outside a ring of swarthy cat-commandos, chewing nervously on her fingernails. She winced as a massive rottweiler placed another blinking charge on the Snack Shack’s front door. She hoped silently that Oval and Betty were having a better time of things. Cat Kingdom was relatively small compare to Dog City and Swan Lake — even moreso when one was in the restaurant business. Jenny had scrimped and saved for fifteen years so that she could open her Snack Shack in a prime location right on Central Boulevard. The rent was atrocious, but she found a little nook that wasn’t too expensive, and planned her opening well. Soon, Jenny’s was the go-to place in town for late-night eats — known especially for her succulent mouse dumplings. That is, until 1:00 a.m. that morning, when Jenny was awoken by the sound of barking at her door, and informed (by a leather-clad pit-bull) that the Snack Shack was a target in a police investigation, and would be closed indefinitely. When Jenny tried to protest, she was escorted from her small apartment by two muscled basset-hounds, and handed a writ of investigation bearing the seal of the Cat King himself. Now her prized restaurant was being wired for demolition before her eyes.

The Cat King watched the nervous restaurant owner from a black Rolls Royce with tinted windows. Two of his fat-cats sat in the front seats with paws on their revolvers.

“Is she gonna be an issue?” asked one of the fat-cats, picking his teeth with a greasy claw.

The Cat King frowned. Places like Jenny’s brought a lot of tourists to Cat Kingdom, and a lot of gold.

He shook his head. “Forget her. Where are we with the Marauders?”

One of the fat-cats pointed out the windshield. “Looks like they’re headed in now.”

The Cat King leaned forward and peered out the window. A pack of vicious-looking dogs stood smoking cigarettes in front of the Snack Shack, decked head-to-toe in expensive-looking leather combat-suits. The custom suits bulged with what the Cat King assumed was an array of hidden weaponry, surveillance gear, and explosives. Several of the dogs wore black sunglasses, which did little to cover their heavily lined and scarred faces. The Cat King had seen his fair share of soldiers, and he knew the difference between rule-following commandos who wouldn’t cough up a hairball without authorization, and the cold-blooded killers who had joined the military for pure recreation. The Marauders were the latter.

At some unseen signal, the Marauders extinguished their cigarettes, and began to creep stealthily towards the Snack Shack. They split up at the last minute and weaved around the building’s sides, covering every possible exit. The Cat King knew that four blocks to the left and right, an identical scene was playing out at the Hive and the Dusty Oven. The Marauders worked with deadly precision. The Cat King spotted Maud herself, crouched behind a police cruiser, holding a small black box with a blinking red light.

The Cat King’s radio fuzzed.

“Ready to breach, sire.”

The Cat King picked up the radio.

“Do it.”

Maud pressed the detonator.

All of Central Boulevard quaked as three simultaneous charges blasted the doors of Jenny’s Snack Shack off their hinges. Jenny moaned and hid her face in her hands as the Marauders moved silently into the building, fading into the blackness like wraiths. The Cat King gripped the car’s leather seats in anticipation.

I know you’re in there he thought savagely. There was nowhere for Zaza to run. The entire cat-army was out in force, and there wasn’t a block of Cat Kingdom that wasn’t crawling with armed troopers. Better yet, all of the kingdom’s inhabitants were still within the kingdom’s walls. Zaza would never risk harming innocent civilians just to take out a bunch of cat soldiers.

The Cat King allowed himself a small smirk. It was time to take his revenge.

Shouts sounded outside the car. The Cat King leaned forward and peered out the windshield.

“What was that?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

His fat-cats said nothing, but gripped their revolvers tighter. The Cat King stared at the Snack Shack. All was quiet. Then there was a flurry of motion as several figures bolted from inside the Snack Shack.

“Who the hell—” The Cat King turned his head quickly, trying to catch a glimpse of one of the figures. A pit bull in a leather jacket sprinted past the car — his eyes wide with terror.

“Run!” he screamed. “They’ve got….v-vacuums!!!!”

The Cat King whipped his head around and stared back out the windshield. He watched helplessly as Maud’s Marauders turned tail and fled the scene, shedding their leather jackets and sunglasses in a desperate attempt to escape the Snack Shack. Maud stood up slowly from behind the cruiser and stared at the dark building for several seconds. Then a strange noise came from her mouth — horrible sound that filled the Cat King with unimaginable dread. Whimpering.

From the blackness of Jenny’s Snack Shack emerged a line of Roombas, their circular mouths sucking in air with noisy gulps. Maud turned around and ran for her life.

The Cat King’s radio erupted with static.

“Sire, we’ve got a serious problem, the Marauders…they’re splitting...”

He cursed and slammed his paw on the car’s seat. “Damn it!!” He picked up the radio.

“Screw the pooches, just send in whatever you have and bring that caterpillar to me!”

He threw the radio on the floor. “Get us out of here” he said to the fat-cats. “I don’t want anoth—”

A cellphone rang.

The two fat-cats glanced towards the back seat. The Cat King looked down at his pocket.

The cellphone rang again.

The Cat King swallowed. There was only one person on earth who had this number. Paws shaking, he removed the golden phone from his pocket, and answered it.

“Altoid?”

He heard the sound of his chubby son’s voice on the other end of the phone. “Dad, there’s someone at the door for you. Some caterpillar dude. He says he’s an old friend.”

The Cat King gripped the phone tightly. “Son, I want you to stay calm. Whatever you do, do not open the door. I want you to—” he heard a shuffling sound on the other end of the line. His neck-hair prickled as the faint sound of breathing reached his ears. No words were spoken for several seconds. Finally the Cat King could stand it no longer.

“Zaza, games are games, but that’s my only son you have there. And I swear to you, if you even think about hurting him…”

A loud “Mooooo” sounded on the other end of the line.

“OKAY YOU SON OF A BITCH” the Cat King screamed. “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE, DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU’RE GOING TO DIE AND I’M GOING TO DO IT MYSELF. I’LL CHOKE YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS. I’LL DRAG YOU TO SWAN LAKE AND HOLD YOU UNDER THE WATER, I’LL—”

He heard a sharp cough. Surprised, he stopped the deafening tirade, and shoved the phone closer to his ear.

All was silent. Then a voice spoke.

“I told you once, quite long ago,

On morning bright, with frosty snow,

That you would pay me, what you owe,

Or you would have me as your foe

You scoffed at me, you shut the door,

You left me cold, you left me poor,

And so I plotted your demise,

To end your years of hateful lies

So now I stand beneath the post,

With all your things that matter most,

So meet me where there is no sun,

And you’ll have a chance to save your son.”

The speaker paused. “Oh, and by the way” he whispered. “Moshy says Moo.”

There was a click, and the line went dead.

The Cat King held the phone in his hand, staring numbly down at the blank screen. His fat-cats exchanged an uneasy glance.

“Take me back to the palace” the Cat King whispered hoarsely.

The fat-cats exchanged another look. “Should we bring backup?” one of them asked.

The Cat King shook his head. “No” he said quietly. “Not this time.”

—End of Excerpt—

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