Jones the cat was a happy cat.
He was the CEO of a successful global marketing company, his shares were on the up, and to top it all he had just received a fresh shipment of his preferred brand of top grade cat treats. As he unfastened his shirt top button and poured a generous measure of the finest whiskey from the crystal decanter he was given by the Mayor after he personally bailed out the local orphanage from financial ruin, Jones the cat purred a contented purr. It had been a long day of doing all sorts of business.
Jones fell back onto his luxurious leather sofa in front of his 64 inch curved LCD screen and lapped the whiskey up with his rough, comprehensively insured tongue. He flipped to the business channel to make sure all the business was good.
The business was indeed good.
Jones the cat was a happy cat.
Had it really only been seven years? Jones asked himself. Seven years since he had returned to Earth from his temporary home on Gateway Station where he and what's her name had been defrosted.
What was her name again? The one with the hair. Probably Doris or something? Jones the cat was never very good at remembering the names of humans.
Though Jones had to admit, as humans went Probably Doris was one of the better ones. True, she had trapped him in a box while he was doing perfectly fine on his own, and true, she had left the box just sitting there while that really grumpy man was stomping about the place. But Probably Doris had come back for him, and brought him back home, and that was the important thing.
Jones the cat wondered what Probably Doris was up to now.
Jones switched the TV off. He'd had enough business for one day. It was time to relax. He rose from the sofa and padded into the bathroom, where he turned the diamond-encrusted gold-leaf tap of his black marble bathtub to the 'perfect temperature' setting and poured another generous measure, though this time of scented bath oils. He retired to the master bedroom to disrobe.
The loud buzz of the apartment building's internal phone system startled Jones. Who could that be at this time of night? he wondered. Jones slipped his silk dressing gown on and trotted over to the intercom.
He didn't recognise the figure on the screen, standing just outside of the pool of light by the building's entrance. Whoever it was looked tall, a bit gangly… No one that Jones the cat knew.
Jones the cat cleared his throat and pressed the talk button. "Hello? Can I help you?"
"Hey, is this Jonesy?" the figure replied.
Jones closed his eyes and counted to ten. He despised that nickname. Probably Doris had called him Jonesy once, back on the Nostromo, and the rest of the crew loved it. They thought it was so cute. Suddenly everything was 'Jonesy this' and 'Jonesy that' and it was all he could do to refrain from clawing their faces each and every time.
"Jones the cat, yes." was Jones the cat's measured response. "Who is this?"
"Mate, don't you recognise me?" the figure said and stepped forward into the pool of light.
Oh god. It was that grumpy man from the Nostromo. What was he doing here?
"Oh, hey there… man," Jones feigned pleasant surprise but faltered when he realised he had no idea what the grumpy man's name was.
"Long time no see, eh?" the grumpy man grinned at the camera. "So, you going to invite me in or what?"
Jones the cat was many things, but a rude cat he was not. He buzzed the grumpy man into the apartment building.
"Jonesy Jonesy Jonesy!"
Jones almost slammed his apartment door shut on the grumpy man's face.
"Hey… you," he offered limply.
"Ah, come here!" And with that, the grumpy man pounced. He wrapped Jones in a bear hug, which had the side effect (Jones noticed) of crossing the threshold and entering the apartment.
Jones thought that the grumpy man smelt of sour milk and charcoal. He considered his options and decided to forgo struggling and just wait until the hug was over.
"Wow, look at this place!" said the grumpy man. "You've done alright for yourself, eh Jonesy?" He disengaged the hug and sauntered further into Jones the cat's apartment. He gazed agog at Jones' various furnishings and decorations. From the black marble mantelpiece the grumpy man picked up the trophy Jones the cat had been awarded for Business Guru of the Year. "What's this thing?"
"It's fragile," Jones the cat responded curtly as he took the award and replaced it on the mantel. "What can I do for you, friend?" he asked in a tone that made it clear he considered the grumpy man no such thing.
"Oh, I was just in the area and thought I'd pay my old pal a visit," the grumpy man replied as he sauntered onwards. "How long has it been, man?"
"Seven years. Look, if it's ok with you I'd rather we caught up some other time," Jones reasoned. "It's very late and…"
"Oh, hey, that's cool buddy, no worries," the grumpy man interrupted, holding up his hands apologetically and changing his saunter-path to head towards the apartment door. "We can talk tomorrow or something… "
Jones herded the grumpy man towards the door. He was almost free…
"Oh but there was one thing though," the grumpy man stopped in his tracks. Jones almost walked into him.
Jones sighed. "...what is it?"
"You owe me five hundred credits."
Jones stared at the grumpy man. The grumpy man's expression was blank.
"Is this a joke?" Jones the cat asked.
The grumpy man didn't respond.
"I don't owe you any money."
"You do mate. Pay up." The grumpy man held out his hand.
"What do I owe you money for?" Jones could feel his tail wagging. It always wagged when he was angry. Sometimes also when he couldn't decide if he wanted to go outside.
"You don't remember?" the grumpy man dropped his outstretched arm. "You took a shit on one of my favourite eggs. You were drunk at the time. You promised to pay for the clean up when you were sober."
Jones the cat said nothing.
"The clean up cost five hundred credits," the grumpy man added. He re-extended his arm.
"I'm afraid," Jones replied slowly and clearly, "that I will have to ask you to leave my home and not make further contact with me. Is that clear?"
The grumpy man said nothing for a few seconds before scoffing, "Hah, yeah, sure, whatever mate." He lowered his arm and took a leisurely stroll into Jones the cat's kitchen. "You got anything to drink in here?" he called over his shoulder.
Jones hurried after him. "I've made myself clear, you must leave. Now."
The grumpy man had found Jones' wine collection and by chance (because there was no way this grotty urchin would have the cultural nous to know what he was looking at) had pulled out the most expensive bottle therein. "Ooooh, this one looks nice. Care for a drop?" he asked Jones and without looking up he pulled the cork out and tipped the bottle's contents on the kitchen floor.
Jones the cat almost fainted.
"How much was that bottle worth?" the grumpy man asked as the wine glugged.
"Three thousand credits."
The grumpy man righted the bottle suddenly. He brought it to his mouth and took a swig, swished it around briefly before swallowing. "Not bad," he admitted with an expression of pleasant surprise. Then he tipped the rest on the floor.
"Please stop this," Jones said quietly. He was staring at the pool of red wine that was staining the floor and soaking into the expensive mink rug that Jones now realised was a foolish purchase for a kitchen.
"Cough up the credits and I'm out of here," replied the grumpy man. He opened the fridge. "Woah-ho! You, my good man, have expensive tastes!"
Jones knew what the grumpy man had found. Even a cultural ignoramus like the grumpy man would know how exclusive and revered it was, how rare its ingredients in this modern world, and how many organs one would have to sell on the black market to afford a piece.
"Please…" Jones said, meekly, "...please don't eat that french fancy."
The grumpy man had already picked up the cake. He held it above his head, dangling it over his maw.
"Pay up," the grumpy man said, "or the french fancy gets it."
Through teary eyes Jones watched the cake get lower and lower as the grumpy man brought it closer to his mouth.
"...eat the cake." Jones closed his eyes and turned his head away.
The grumpy man was clearly confused. He put the french fancy back and closed the fridge door. "I don't get it," he said.
Jones the cat opened his eyes, almost disbelievingly hopeful for the safety of his cake. "You… you didn't eat it?"
"I didn't eat your stupid cake, take it easy. But… why won't you pay up? It's only five hundred credits."
With an almost bewildered expression on his face, Jones the cat padded a few feet closer to the grumpy man. "Alright, I'll tell you, but I don't expect you to believe me," he said, before walking towards the living room and standing (some might say theatrically) in front of, and facing, the mantelpiece.
The grumpy man followed and took a seat on the sofa directly opposite. "This better be good, Jonesy…" he said.
Jones the cat took a deep breath, and began his tale.
"Six years ago, a year after I returned to Earth from the Gateway Station, I was a mess. I lived the life of a stray, running from the authorities, begging for food, seeking shelter in a different alley every night. I was getting thinner, losing hair, my teeth were close to falling out… I… I turned to substance abuse…"
"Catnip?" the grumpy man interjected.
"Not just catnip." Jones turned to face the grumpy man. "Lots of catnip."
The grumpy man whistled in awe.
"The days bled together in a clouded haze of euphoric highs and crushing lows… I was in a self destructive spiral. Then one day, it happened. I 'OD'ed. I pushed it all too far, and I was locked in a hell from which I could not escape. Lying in a wet, piss-scented back alley, I could feel my body shutting down and I had no way of controlling myself. I just thought, well Jones, this is it. This is how you die."
Jones the cat held the moment for a while, milking the drama.
"And then she was there. My guardian angel. She took me away from that awful place, took me to her home, gave me food and water, held me as withdrawal turned my insides to razor blades… She saved my life."
The grumpy man was resting his head on his hands, his elbows on his knees, enraptured by this tale. "And then what happened?" he asked.
"When I was strong enough to talk," Jones continued, "I asked her who she was. 'Who would be so kind to a wretch such as I?' I questioned. Do you not recognise me?' She responded. 'Do you not know the face of your own mother?'"
"WHAT?!" the grumpy man ejaculated.
"I know, I know, it sounds crazy. But I was abandoned as a baby, I never knew my parents. I was found by a team of bobsledders, who took me in and raised me as one of their own."
The grumpy man mulled this new revelation. "That would explain why you were so good at space luge…" he conceded.
"Yes," Jones continued, "but the point was that I knew I was different from my adoptive parents. They always treated me the same as everyone else, but… well, I just wasn't a born bobsledder. And it was a lonely way to grow up. Bobsledding isn't something you can just learn. I was destined never to fit in."
"Which is how you found yourself on the Nostromo, right? Leaving behind a world you didn't call home?"
"It was crazy, I know, but I thought… maybe I'm not from earth? Maybe I belong out there?" Jones looked to the heavens. "...somewhere…"
"So, how did your mother find you?" the grumpy man inquired.
Jones opened his mouth to reply, but caught himself. "...you will find this hard to believe…" he said finally.
"Try me."
Jones looked directly at the grumpy man, not even blinking, as he considered his words for ten seconds before replying. "My mother was a centaur."
The grumpy man was lost for words. Jones just held his gaze.
"But… I mean… That doesn't explain a thing, on top of being obviously made up," the grumpy man eventually said.
"It's the truth," Jones said.
"I was expecting something like, oh my mum's telepathic, or she's a ghost, or something at least vaguely related. But a centaur? A mythical half horse half human? They're not even known for any extra-sensory-perception or anything. How did she track you down, hoof prints?"
"Hoof prints? How would that work?"
"Oh right, yeah, she'd be the one with hooves, not you," the grumpy man mulled. "Wait, that's exactly my point - if your mum's half horse half human how did she produce you?"
Jones responded, "My father was a were-griffin."
The grumpy man stared at Jones the cat.
"That's a joke," Jones admitted. "My dad was a cat, obviously."
"Obviously?! You can't claim anything's obvious once you've introduced fictional monsters as your forebears. I'll level with you, Jonesy," the grumpy man leaned closer, "...I find this hard to believe."
"I did say you would," Jones reminded. "But it's the truth - my centaur mother found me when I was at my lowest point, and she saved me, and she nursed me back to health. And when I was healthy again, she told me something." Jones picked up the trophy from the mantelpiece. "She told me something that changed my life, and led directly to all this you see around you - to this trophy and all that it represents."
"What did she tell you?" the grumpy man was enraptured again.
Jones took a few steps closer, seemingly lost in memories as he stared at the trophy he was holding. "She said to me, Jones…"
"...yeah?"
"...Jones, my child…"
"...yeah?"
Jones the cat raised the trophy above his head and brought it down violently on the grumpy man's face. The grumpy man fell from the sofa. Jones kept striking him with the trophy - with each impact he said a word : "Don't! Let! Pricks! Extort! Credits! From! You!"
The grumpy man scrambled to escape the onslaught, blood leaking from his face. A few drops spattered onto the rug, fizzing and scorching it. He rolled out of reach of the incoming blows and clattered out of Jones the cat's home and away into the night.
Jones the cat walked to the door, and when he was satisfied the grumpy man had gone, he closed it.
Jones was buffing the trophy clean of the grumpy man's besmirchment when the intercom system buzzed again. He was immediately suspicious of who could be calling. Was the grumpy man really that desperate?
Jones reset the trophy on the mantelpiece and approached the intercom screen once more. He could see a quite large gentleman, broad shouldered, in a leather jacket, wearing shades (and this was at night). He had under his arm a box of roses.
"Yes?" Jones asked through the intercom. This all seemed very sketchy.
"Ah haav uh derlifery auf flooouhs," the gentleman replied in a thick Austrian accent.
Jones considered the likelihood that someone would want to send him flowers at this time of night. It was slim.
"You don't happen to know a weird, gangly, grumpy bloke, do you?" he asked.
The flower-delivery man took a suspiciously long time to respond. "Neguhtif."
"Tell that prick he's not getting a penny out of me," Jones growled, and punched the 'off' button. The nerve of the guy…
Jones returned to the kitchen and stared dismayed at the pool of very exclusive, very expensive red wine on his very exclusive, very expensive mink rug. He sighed, reached over to the roll of kitchen towels on the worktop, tore off a couple of squares and draped them on top of the puddle. It didn't really make much of a difference.
The sound of breaking glass broke the silence. Jones's fur stood on end - his tail looking like a draught excluder. The sound had come from the master bedroom. Jones grabbed the closest thing to hand as a weapon, and tiptoed towards the bedroom holding a spatula.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar; Jones pushed it slowly open, cautious of what may lay inside. The room appeared empty. The ultra-king-sized-bed was unruffled, the desk was tidy… but glass was definitely broken. Shards lay haphazard and glinting on the floor infront of the balcony door. The curtain rippled gently in the breeze.
Jones glanced around the room, checking for hidden intruders. He was still on edge, fur all fluffed up. He reached into his dressing gown pocket, fished out his phone and dialed the number for the police.
The phone rang twice before it was connected. Jones paused, waiting for a voice on the other end, but there was only silence. He spoke, "hello?" to no response. He continued all the same.
"I'd like to report a break in."
Still no response.
"When can you send round an officer?" Jones asked.
A short pause, then a voice : "Anytime." That was creepy enough, but Jones realised that the voice hadn't come from the phone. It had come from behind him.
He turned to look back into the living room. Over by the mantelpiece he saw what he thought looked like heathaze, though the fire was long dead. As he watched, the hazy shimmer moved away from the mantelpiece and towards him. Jones' tail fluffed up even further, and he instinctively adopted an arched-back, tail-up stature to make himself look big.
The shimmer stopped three feet away. It was vaguely man-shaped, though a good two feet larger than most men. It emitted a strange, sort of organically mechanical noise, like a fleshy clock. Around it's middle there was some movement, then a high tech sound, and slowly the shimmer peeled away to reveal…
...well, Jones had no idea what he was looking at. It was tall, and had big dreadlock-y looking things dangling from its masked head. It may well have been made of metal, or it may have been wearing armour.
It did not bode well.
"Um," began Jones, "can I help you at all?"
"Oh, I think you know what you need to do, mate," came a voice from the bedroom. Jones looked back, and saw the grumpy man and the flower-delivery man climbing through the broken balcony door, crunching glass underfoot.
Jones was trapped. Stuck between a prick and a hard place. He turned back to the dreadlocked figure, who was blocking his way, and (finding himself out of options) bopped the intruder on the face with his spatula. It did not have the desired effect.
The dreadlocked man raised a fist, and popped Jones right in the schnozz. Jones reeled, dropping the spatula. He made a break for it, hoping to slip past the dreadlocked man, but his feet were swept by the grumpy man's tail and he tumbled into a heap in front of the mantelpiece. In seconds, the dreadlocked man and the flower-delivery man were around him, raining punches down.
The grumpy man stood just back a little, watching. "You see, Jonesy?" he spoke loudly over the assault. "If you'd paid up this wouldn't have happened. But nope, you're too proud, you were always too stuck up, looking down on me and my eggs. Taking a shit on my egg. Well, now the tables have turned, haven't they Jonesy? Who's taking a shit on whose belongings now?"
As heavy blows fell on Jones the cat's head, he looked over at the grumpy man, who was squatting on Jones' sofa and straining. Jones looked further around his apartment - at the stained rug in the kitchen, the broken glass in the bedroom, and the water seeping under the bathroom door from the bath that he now remembered he set running two hours ago, which flowed with gentle persistence towards his expensive electrical appliances.
Ah well, thought Jones as his vision clouded over and consciousness began to fall away, I can always expense the repairs.