A/N: Disclaimer: Any and all information about Savannah cats has been researched from various on-line sources. Any incorrect or inaccurate information is solely my fault, and not that of the sources. Also, 'AHRT' is apparently a real acronym for a blog. Please note I was unaware of the existence of this blog prior to inventing it for use in this story. AHRT as a group in my story in no way represents the interests of the real AHRT blogger. Any resemblance to AHRT is purely coincidental. Now that that's out of the way, please enjoy my pile of ridiculous nonsense. Or not.
One Mean Cat
Ed Lane moved stealthily along a darkened corridor of the posh mansion Team One had been called to. The seven-member team was responding to reports that an armed intruder had burst his way through a door on the ground level. The interloper had evidently barricaded himself in one of the rooms in the spacious home. His motive for doing so was thus far unknown.
Ed was on the lower level, covering one area of the over 7000 square feet the mansion occupied; 'Spike' Scarlatti was on his six. So far, the pair had not come across the perpetrator in the giant maze of a room...
"He's holding my babies hostage!" the distraught homeowner wailed, wringing his hands in a most pathetic and undignified manner when Sergeant Greg Parker first spoke with him.
"Mr. Bernarducci," Greg used his best soothing tone, "I know you're upset right now, and frightened, but if my team is going to help get your babies out alive, I need you to be able to give me as many details as possible. Can you do that?"
Angelo Francesco Bernarducci the Third sniffled and sucked in a few deep breaths. He nodded vigorously at Greg. "Okay, okay... the man – he was wearing a black stocking over his face... He just smashed his way through that door! He had a gun, too. Oh, the terror! Oh, the horror! Oh, the violation!"
Angelo Francesco Bernarducci the Third shuddered, and brought both his hands to his mouth, choking back another sob. Greg looked at those hands, and saw they were immaculately manicured. The man was also immaculately attired in a white suit made of what looked like imported Italian silk. His face was bright with a sheen of sweat, and his eyes were puffy and red. He had a thick head of neatly-trimmed dark hair with a pronounced widow's peak.
Greg was having a hard time keeping a straight face, but managed to maintain an expression of sympathy. He knew if he started laughing at Angelo Francesco Bernarducci the Third's hysterics, there'd be more trouble. Besides; Greg really did sympathise with the man... he just couldn't help it if the guy was a total drama queen.
"Um, how old are they, Mr. Bernarducci?" Greg asked seriously.
"My babies?"
Greg nodded.
"Well, Triton and Hestia are five, Hespera is four, and Artemis and Athena are three," Angelo counted off. "They're my precious little ones, Mr. Parker. Your men have to get them out safely."
If Greg was taken aback by the unusual names for Mr. Bernarducci's objects of such obvious affection and devotion, he squelched the thought.
He cleared his throat, and continued with his fact-finding mission: "Um. They sound pretty... young... to be left alone in the basement... Do you do that often?"
Mr. Bernarducci tossed a hand dismissively. "Tsk! It is no mere 'basement'! The rumpus room keeps them well-occupied. I've spared absolutely no expense on them, mind you. They're quite capable of managing on their own. They receive attention from the most qualified physicians in their field. Their dietary needs are catered for by nutritional experts. And to answer your question, no, I do not leave them alone often. Today I was to meet with a client when that brazen hooligan disturbed my inner sanctum. When you catch him, I want to make sure he is punished under the harshest penalty of the law!"
Greg smiled tightly. "Have you received any threats of any kind, lately? Any suspicious phone calls, or noticed any strangers lurking around the neighbourhood?"
Mr. Bernarducci stared, wide-eyed at the SRU sergeant. With a gasp, he said: "You think they've been watching me all along?"
"I don't know, sir," Greg answered honestly, "but let's face it: you're a wealthy guy. Such opulence makes you an attractive target for thieves and other criminals desperate for quick cash and valuables... do you have any enemies who might want to harm you and your children?"
Mr. Bernarducci's eyes glazed over, and he seemed lost in his own private world. He was unable to say anything to Greg for a few beats. "My poor, poor babies," he finally uttered in a far-off voice, "they're probably frightened to death. Oh, if anything happens to them..."
Sensing that he'd lost his audience, Greg decided to let Mr. Bernarducci alone to work out his emotions for a little while. Their own preliminary research told them that the man was a renowned and much sought-after breeder. Once he'd calmed down, Greg was going to once again ask the man if he could think of any reason why someone would want to break into his home.
Disgruntled client? Common thief? Jealous or rival breeder?
Greg didn't quite know what to think. In the interim, though, he checked in with his team.
The responses he got back from Ed and Spike, Lou, Wordy and Rollie, were that they had yet to find either the invader, or his hostages, if he had even actually taken them hostage. Jules kept up with the team movements from the tactical truck, updating the computerized log of their status.
Since no contact had been made with the intruder, and no demands issued, Team One was still very much in the dark.
Down in the spacious 'rumpus room', as Mr. Bernarducci had called it, Ed and Spike were continually on line with Jules, as she relayed the floor plans to them. That lowest level was a confusing arrangement of rooms and hallways, with lots of rather odd-looking equipment and apparatus placed throughout, the likes of which the SRU constables had never seen before. The entire floor plan was actually divided up by several walls that didn't reach the ceiling; it really was like moving through a giant maze.
Each 'room' they encountered and every corner they turned yielded no positive results, and Ed and Spike were beginning to think the hunt was a bust. If the armed intruder was down here, he was either hopelessly lost, or hiding really well.
As Ed crept along in the lead position, he did not know or sense he was being quietly and systematically stalked. Something unseen had noticed the arrival of these constables from the start, and was most displeased at their presence.
"Mr. Bernarducci," Greg approached the man again, "have you given any thought as to who might want to do something like this?"
The white-suited man glanced up. His whole demeanour had changed now. His lips were pressed together in a thin line, and his eyebrows were drawn together in anger.
"Yes, I have given it some thought, Sergeant," he said crisply. "It could only be those blasted AHRTists!"
"Excuse me, but did you say artists?" Greg asked for clarification. "What artists?"
"AHRTists! AHRT!" Mr. Bernarducci exclaimed loudly, raising his hands in the air for emphasis. "You know, AHRT! A-H-R-T! AHRT!"
"Uh, I'm not sure I follow, sir," Greg said, utterly confused.
"Oh, don't you know anything?" Mr. Bernarducci impatiently stamped his foot, shod in Italian leather. "It stands for 'Animals Have Rights, Too'! They're a crazy, militant bunch of wackos who've been campaigning to have stronger laws passed so that we breeders can no longer make an honest living. Well, I'll have you know that I treat my babies better than some people treat their own flesh and blood!"
"Your... 'babies'... aren't...hu-man....?" Greg managed to stammer out.
Mr. Angelo Francesco Bernarducci the Third stared at Greg as if he had just sprouted a second head, then rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, Sergeant Parker!" he admonished. "Of course my babies aren't human. Why should I want to concern myself with the rearing of beings that are generally loud, noisy and ungrateful wastes of resources?"
Greg slowly regained his ability to speak once he overcame his incredulity. "So... your 'babies'...what kind of animals are they?"
"I currently specialize in breeding Savannahs," Mr. Bernarducci proclaimed with a tone of superiority.
"Uhh, 'Savannahs'?" Greg queried, while a mental picture of an African safari sprang to mind.
"I suppose the common man would call them 'cats'," Mr. Bernarducci said with a haughty air. "But make no mistake, these felines are the most exquisite breed you shall ever hope to encounter. There is a certain regal quality about them. They are hybrids – a cross-breed. The African serval and the domestic cat produces a stellar combination with their distinctive markings, not unlike that of a cheetah, and with their lovable, loyal temperament." He kissed his closed fingers with a loud smooch.
"So, these 'Savannahs'," Greg started, "they're pretty much 'designer' cats, then, right? Sounds pricey. How much do they go for?"
"There's a range," Mr. Bernarducci replied. "I won't go into specifics of generational differences and bloodlines, but my male and female Savannahs I can sell for $22,000, at the highest end."
"Twenty-two thousand?" Greg burst out, unable to hide his shock.
"But of course," Mr. Angelo Francesco Bernarducci the Third replied, hardly fazed by Greg's response. "Have you any idea how difficult it is to breed those cats? Servals and domestics are different breeds entirely. You need very specialized equipment to ensure the survival of those tiny kittens once they're birthed...I told you I spare no expense."
"And you believe this group – this AHRT bunch – you think they're targeting you...because?" Greg pressed.
"I imagine it is because they believe the serval I use for breeding ought to be in his natural habitat. But I ask you which is better: to have the animal at the mercy of the wild unknown where any tragedy could befall it, or have it here, where it could reach its fullest potential and maturity in a safe, loving environment?"
"I'm not up on my wild animal ethics," Greg replied, "but has this AHRT group ever threatened you, or campaigned against you?"
"They tried picketing on my front lawn once," Mr. Bernarducci answered sourly, the recollection of the event evidently unpleasant for him. "I slapped them with a court order to cease and desist faster than you can blink."
If Greg had had enough hair on his balding head, he was quite sure he'd have pulled on some. "And you didn't see it fit to mention this from the very beginning?" he asked through clenched teeth, doing his utmost not to scream.
"Don't take that tone with me!" Mr. Angelo Francesco Bernarducci the Third retorted. "What was I supposed to do? I was upset! I wasn't thinking straight. I'm still upset! Why haven't your men found anything yet? This is rank incompetence, Sergeant! If you don't find that perpetrator, I'll have your badge!"
Greg just stood and stared back calmly at the other man, arms folded across his chest, even though he was feeling nothing like the emotion he was projecting. "Constable Callaghan," he spoke into the the communications device he was wearing, "would you please see if we can access the details of the court order Mr. Bernarducci issued against certain members of the 'Animals Have Rights, Too' group?"
Jules replied that she was on it, and Greg gave a single, satisfied nod after thanking her.
"Thank you for telling us about AHRT, sir," Greg said, "now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to lend my team member a hand on that research."
Without further fanfare, Greg moved off from a flummoxed Angelo Francesco Bernarducci the Third.
"You've got one last corner of the floor to check," Julianna Callaghan informed Ed Lane and Spike Scarlatti.
"Yeah, thanks, Jules," Ed replied. He was getting tired of this search. He hoped that if the guy they were after wasn't down here, that his other team mates were having better luck.
The hallway they were exploring turned right, and Ed slowly moved along the wall towards the opening at the end. He cautiously stole a glance around the corner.
What he saw nearly made him burst out laughing.
Before him there was a young man, cowering against a wall with what appeared to be a water pistol in his hand. The tattered and shredded remains of a black stocking partially covered his face. He was bleeding from numerous scratches. His eyes were wide with fright.
Four cat-like creatures sat watching him intently, their tails waving placidly. They were too big to be regular house cats, in Ed's estimation, and looked like miniature Cheetahs.
"SRU," Ed said calmly, "put down your 'weapon'."
The frightened young man looked up, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God you're here! Get these animals away from me! Every time I try to get away, they attack!"
"So why don't you spray them with your water pistol?" Ed asked, a smirk coming to his lips.
"I did!" the other man exclaimed. "But they seem to like it!! Be careful – they can jump really high, and they tried to claw out my eyes..."
"Okay, I'll be careful," Ed said with mock seriousness. After all, they were just cats. "What's your name?"
"Will," the other man responded. "Will Sandler."
"Will," Ed repeated, "I'm Constable Ed Lane. I'm coming into the room with my partner, Constable Scarlatti. I'd like you to put down the water gun, and raise your hands in the air. Can you do that?"
Will nodded, and dropped the toy. The noise startled the cats, and they immediately tensed and jumped to their feet.
"Oh, geez!" Will breathed, jumping about a foot in the air himself. He brought his hands protectively in front of his face, but the animals did not advance.
All four cats looked on, purring noisily while Ed and Spike took careful steps towards the intruder.
"I've never been so relieved to be arrested before," Will said, as Ed handcuffed him after checking to make sure he had no real weapons concealed on his person.
Ed handed him off to Spike, who started leading the arrestee out.
"Greg, we got the guy," Ed communicated to his Sergeant. "Turns out he was the one being held hostage – by a bunch of crazy-looking cats!"
"Copy that, Ed," came Greg's reply. "Our nervous Mr. Bernarducci will be happy his 'babies' are safe."
Upon learning the animals were out of danger, Mr. Angelo Francesco Bernarducci the Third insisted on going down to ensure they were all completely safe and unharmed.
Without even waiting for Greg's permission, he rushed into the mansion.
Ed Lane gave one last, curious look at the four wild-looking cats, then moved to follow Spike.
Suddenly, thirty pounds of furry feline pounced on his head from above, screeching and mewing.
Rrrrrrrr-rrrrrrrrrowwwwwww! Rrrrr-rowwwwww Rrrr-wow-rr-ow-rr-ow!
"Agh!!" Ed cried, blinded by the large mass of fur covering his head and blotting out his vision. Extremely sharp claws dug into his skin.
Alerted by the sounds of his team mate's cry, Spike turned around, and saw Ed vainly trying to extricate himself from the large cat that was doing its best to scratch off Ed's face.
Ed breathed in a noseful of cat hair, and was nearly smothered by it. It tickled his throat and made him cough. His eyes were watering furiously, and the pain from having his face and head continuously clawed was starting to become unbearable.
"Get it off me!" he managed to call out. "Agh! Ow! Get it off me!" He fleetingly thought of pulling out his Taser, but didn't know if he'd be able to zap the cat successfully and not injure himself in the process.
Rrr-rrwow-rrwwow-rrwow! The cat continued to cry and hiss, not letting go of Ed's head.
"Spike!" Ed called out desperately. "What are you doing?! Help me!"
Truthfully, Spike was doing his best. He, too, considered pulling out his Taser, but felt it was too risky. He also had a prisoner to mind; a prisoner who didn't want to get anywhere near this other cat.
"Queen Hestia Lampedusa Pelagie!" a commanding voice rang out.
The cat's frantic scrabbling ceased instantly. It remained perched on Ed's head for a moment, then jumped down without a sound.
It ran towards the sound of the voice that had called out, which of course belonged to Mr. Angelo Francesco Bernarducci the Third.
"Naughty, naughty," the wealthy breeder wagged a finger at the Savannah cat. "Is that any way to treat an officer of the law?"
The cat seemed to ignore the admonition and rubbed her sleek coat against the breeder's trouser leg. "Oh, ho-ho, Daddy's not mad at you, no he's not!" Mr. Bernarducci cooed. "How could he be when you and the rest of your playmates have been through such an awful ordeal?"
Ed stood there, knees shaking, reeling in pain and shock.
"Ed, you okay, man?" Spike asked tentatively, seeing for the first time the full extent of the damage the cat had done to him. Multiple deep scratches that were oozing blood stood out prominently on Ed's pale face.
Ed managed to nod slightly, but offered no verbal reply.
"Let's get you upstairs and see about those scratches," Spike said gently, keeping hold of Will Sandler while they started moving off.
"Is this the one who tried to ruin my business?" Mr. Bernarducci seemed to suddenly become aware of Will's presence.
"Yes sir," Spike answered, "but it looks like your cats were able to take care of themselves, just like you said."
Mr. Bernarducci did indeed take notice of Will Sandler's bloody face and the destroyed stocking still clinging in parts to his head.
"Take him away," Mr. Bernarducci said with disgust. "And don't ever let me see you or your ilk here again! I take care of my babies, and you're not going to get me to part with them."
"Nice kitty," Spike sing-songed to the Savannah cat.
She took one look at him, arched her back and hissed loudly.
"Ulp!" said Spike meekly, and hurried along, not wanting to tempt fate and suffer in the same way Will and Ed had.
"Queen Hestia?" Wordy repeated during their de-brief, when he heard the unlikely name Mr. Bernarducci had given the Savannah cat.
"Queen Hestia Lampedusa Pelagie," Jules chuckled, repeating the full title.
Ed scowled. His face was a mass of scrapes and scratches, all covered with Band-Aids and some sterile gauze for some of the deeper ones.
"It's not funny," he muttered. "It's not even a normal cat! It was bred from a wild species. It should be illegal."
"Don't tell me you were frightened of one little cat," Rollie Cray teased.
"'Little'?" Ed cried. "That 'cat' weighs thirty pounds! It nearly clawed out my eyes!"
"They're supposed to make great pets," Greg said, baiting Ed further. "They're supposed to have all the charm and affection of domestic cats."
"'Charm'? 'Affection'? Ed repeated, ire rising. "You ever met a charming and affectionate cat?"
The rest of the seven-member team had another quick laugh at Ed's expense.
"Well, fine," Ed said grumpily. "I admit that it's not outside the realm of possibility that a nice cat exists. But 'Queen Hestia-whatever' isn't one of them!"
Jules and Lou grinned. They shared a brief whisper, and together started singing the refrain from 'The Cat Came Back'.
"Oh, very funny, you two," Ed said sarcastically. "I'm never going to live this down, am I?"
Every eye in the room was on him.
Greg spoke for all them when he said: "Nope."
END
A/N: 'The Cat Came Back' is a beloved, Oscar-nominated, animated short by Cordell Barker. It was based on a song written by Harry S. Miller. If you've never before seen this utterly hilarious gem, YouTube it.
Special thanks to SAR for pointing out a rather egregious error. It's been 'modified' correctly now. (wink).