Pouring a hearty bowl of Fruit Loops, Mistoffelees dragged himself into the living room to plop himself lazily onto the couch. He tried the flatscreen but it seemed as though the cable had, once again, been cut off. It took all his self-control, which he surprisingly had a lot of, to not march over to his neighbour's and put a bullet through his head. Damn junkie can't leave my shit the fuck alone! Well, at least no one had stolen his DVD player.
Not feeling up to the job of crossing 4-5 feet, picking a movie, waiting for the slot to open, and sit back down; he decided to focus his attention on the fishtank that sat perfectly balanced on a birdcage hanger in the small 'window' looking into the kitchen. It was a contraption he cleverly made himself with the help of some magic. Five exotic and very expensive tropical creatures glided gracefully through the crystal water, reminding him why he hadn't eaten them yet; they were just too beautiful.
"What shall we do today..." he pondered as he shoveled another spoonful of not-yet-fully-soggy-but-getting-there loops. His mind wandered to the $500 sitting on the tiny, wooden table in the foyer. He could get a cab and go pick up his car; his weed and cocaine stash were inside. Or he could always walk to the Toggler and get wasted out of his mind. It was only a couple blocks away.
Although he looked like something straight out of Freddie Krueger's nightmares, he apparently looked decent enough to get admission into his preferred club; he had only been there thousands of times before so now he didn't even have to bother dressing up. He tried, however, but he never truly call it a successful clean up. Avoiding the queen-filled VIP section, he immediately hit the bar for some hard liquor; jumping right into a stupor seemed the more logical since he was on a tight budget.
He looked to the bartender, waved, and pointed to the bourbon across the bar-stand. While he waited for the tom to reach his end he decided to take in the sights and sounds. Since it was only 11:30 in the morning, there wasn't much going on. The music was on but the great club atmosphere just wasn't there; the place just seemed like a dark, empty, run-of-the-mill bar where those pathetic losers from the movies go to when their mate walks out on them for their idiot mistakes.
Speaking of which, he thought to himself when he looked across the bartender's pit to see an orange tabby checking him out. He narrowed his eyes menacingly but the other tom was too confident in his... panache to recognize the threat. The minute his order hit the table he downed it without thinking of the insane burn waiting for his esophagus. Mistoffelees found that, no matter how much you drink, that first shot will always be the real kicker. The main reason why he always started light.
He coughed bitterly, trying to stifle his shame but only turning the coughs to small, cute huffs.
"Awwwww," called the marmalade tabby from across the bar. He had scooted down a couple seats to sit on the same side as he was. "Someone get the lad a pint!" he ordered loudly to the uniformed tom.
Before he could protest, the inebriated tabby slid his own half-downed mug over to the tux.
"Here, have some of this, it'll put some hair on your chest," he broke off into a spell of giggles and hardy-hars. Mistoffelees just stared wide-eyed, quite unsure how to react to this oddly friendly cat. He didn't scare Mistoffelees in a way that someone who would try to drag him out to the alley way and slit his throat after he finished with him would- he would have shot him right there- but he did have that creepy uncle vibe. A creepy, Scottish uncle nonetheless.
"No thanks," he mumbled as he pushed the foamy mug away. "I don't need the extra chest hair, thanks," he mumbled flatly, referring to the extremely fluffy white fur on his chest. The other blinked confusedly before catching onto his little joke, laughing far too hard. The magic tom tried to turn away and ignore him, motioning for another bourbon.
"Well, ya do got lots there to start with. You been a friend of the pint for long?" Once again, hysterical laughter shook his ears painfully.
"Look," Mistoffelees snarled as he returned his gaze to the orange cat, who just so happened to be sitting right next to him now. His sudden change in demeanor seemed to have a bit of a sobering effect. "I'm just trying to sit here and enjoy my drink. I'm not interested in whatever you have to offer and I sure as hell am not interested in talking to some drunkard at 11 in the morning. Leave me the fuck alone."
He was met with a blank stare that was shortly followed by a long, low whistle. "You need a drink," he started, raising his hand to order another pint, the previous order still unfulfilled as the bartender resorted to ignoring the loud mouthed tom.
"I don't need your shitty-ass drink!" Mistoffelees snapped; this guy just wasn't getting the hint.
"I'm Skimbleshanks," he stated randomly. He held out his paw for the other to take, it wasn't quite a gesture with the intention of shaking hands but more of a delicate stretch. "I'm the railway train- cat of the railway... train." He turned over and chugged the remaining of his liquor, more liquid confidence for the poor sap at the end of the bar, please?
"That's very interesting-"
"What's your name?"
"Mistoffelees."
"That's a very pretty name!" Skimbleshanks slurred. "What kind of name is that? A candy flavour?... Miss. Taffylease?"
The tuxedo tom frowned. One more drink and I'm changing bars, he decided, he didn't have the patience to deal with this tom. "No," he replied flatly. "It's another name for the devil."
This was met with another low whistle followed by a large grin. "Don't tell my wife I was here. You don't tell mine and I won't tell yours," he bargained.
"Then shouldn't you be home so she doesn't think you're out drinking?"
"...Yes." They stared at each other awkwardly for a few minutes. God, this bartender's slow. As if on cue he showed up and delivered a shot glass filled to the brim with harsh alcohol. Mistoffelees downed it immediately, paid the bill (with a healthy tip for the shitty job because he couldn't be bothered for change), and headed for the door.
"Wait!... Taffy!" Skimble called out to him from the red-leather stool. He just shrugged him off and stormed out onto the sidewalk. Lighting a cigarette, he took a deep breath of the nicotine stick. I'd rather be getting drunk at home. And that's what he did.
Oo oO
O
Oo oO
Believe it or not, but when your house is bombarded with bullets and is set ablaze you tend to sober up pretty quickly, that is, if you live long enough.
Mistoffelees found that out the hard way when he woke up from his whiskey-induced coma to the sound of rapid fire and shattering glass. To say that he wasn't practically crapping himself with shock and fear would have been a lie. In fact, he would later thank the Everlasting Cat he didn't for the sake of the story, not that he'd admit to it.
He rolled over onto the floor and, using his elbows, dragged himself around the corner of the living room into the hallway. An endless stream of swear words that would put a sailor to shame hissed past his lips.
He waited until the gunfire stopped before he opened his eyes. His apartment was a disaster zone! Most of his knickknacks and furniture were blown to pieces to the point where he didn't even want to continue his inspection to the flat-screen; it would only break his heart. He tentatively crawled towards his bedroom where he knew his spare gun sat in his nightstand fully loaded; he would need it if they came in to check if he'd survived.
Crawling back to the living room, he could see some of the toms peeking through the windows to look for his corpse. Suddenly, the room filled with tear gas; he quickly realized that they were trying to smoke him out of his hideout so they could shoot him. He smiled bitterly; it definitely sucked being on this side of the fence. He could hear their muffled conversations through the many bullet holes in the front wall. He thought he could hear Carbucketty whining anxiously.
Oh please, Car, not the Molotov...
Lo and behold, not fifteen seconds later, the young tom's signature cocktail cracked loudly on the hardwood floor before erupting gloriously into a bounty of flames. He could feel his irises shrink spastically at the flickering flames erupting in his apartment. The usually calming sensation he got from watching something burn was oddly not there; it was replaced with an equally powerful sensation of fear and panic. Another hit the outside of his house and soon another wall of fire blocked his only means of escape.
"...Shit!" he hissed when he spotted his aquatic collection through the flames, the tiny creatures darting around the tank frantically. He zipped to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboard frantically before producing a cylindrical canteen. Working quickly, he reached into the fish tank and began scooping the fish into the silver bottle, capping it off once it was filled to the brim with his little treasures.
The heat burned and seared him painfully, licking up his back and frying his fur. He cried out miserably before he took off towards the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Here, the room remained unaffected by the flames but was black with smoke.
Reliable as ever, his instincts and experience took him through the procedures and tricks he'd picked up in his 22 years of Mafia upbringing. He set his bottle down in the sink and reached for the towel draped over the shower bar to wrap it around his hand. Taking a deep breath, he rammed his fist into the frosted glass window until it gave way.
He gasped as his lungs burned sweetly with the fresh air, doubling over despite the shards of glass. Snatching up the bottle of fish, he clambered out the window. He dropped seven feet onto the stone patio when his arms gave out as he tried to maneuver himself down the brick wall. Landing on his back, the breath was once again knocked from his lungs. This time his recovering muscles rung strongly under his skin and sent waves of bright white rippling into his vision. Luckily, his bottle of fish had landed on him... luckily.
Rolling onto his stomach, he painfully dragged himself from the burning house over to the thick wall of bushes that separated his yard from the neighbours- ironically it didn't work seeing that his cable was still being robbed. Reaching the bushes in one piece, the tux launched himself into the middle of the shrub where he was covered from view. Police were probably on their way by now.
Soft crunching sounds drew his attention to a place further up the hedge, he dared a peek through the green to find Musalini standing in his backyard, watching the flames. Mistoffelees's heart nearly stopped in his chest when he saw the fat tom lean over and pick up the spare handheld he'd taken from his nightstand.
He cursed silently, his black furred knuckles nearly turning white from its death grip on the canteen, face turning purple in breathless anticipation. To his surprise, the fat cat took a quick glance around the yard before tossing the gun into the fire through the obviously cat-shattered window.
He grumbled and coughed out a cloud of smoke before rounding the house back to the others. Mistoffelees watched the side of the house nervously for what seemed like hours before he finally heard the sirens in the distance.
Before he knew it, the front of the house was bombarded with police cruisers and fire trucks. Toms in navy blue uniforms searched for clues as the firefighters unenergetically sprayed off the remains of a charcoal-coloured, crisp frame of what was once a decent looking house.
"Damn," he hissed. He really didn't want to stick around any longer; the branches were beginning to poke him sharply and the rocks pressed against his underbelly were really starting to ruin his already dampened mood. Making sure no one would see him, he rolled out of the bush onto the neighbour's lawn and began making a mad dash towards the street after the house behind his.
Luckily no one notices when a dirt, twig, and smoke covered criminal runs away from the scene of a crime. Retarded cats from around here can't put two and two together. Once he reached the seven block boundary, he stopped and began to leisurely stroll on the tar infested sidewalk. After about five minutes, he managed to calm himself enough to allow rage to take over the last pockets of adrenaline in his system.
It took a great deal of strength to keep his raging fury under control, especially with the constant stream of cats and kittens passing and idling on the walkway, giving him wary looks and getting in his way. He almost wanted one of those big, bulky toms near 'The Crooked Uncle' to come over and start a fight with him. It wouldn't take much, he figured, they were already looking pretty drunk; a simple glance in their direction should be enough to set one of them off.
It didn't take him long to realize that he'd walked into his favourite part of town: Mini Vegas. The dirty and clearly unsuccessful shops had dissipated and gave way to those higher up on the consumer food chain. The dim 90 watts turned to bright neon lights that, despite the sun still fighting for its place in the setting sky, blazed hotly to burn cats' desire to visit other establishments along with their corneas. A business here was worthless if it didn't have the hypnotizing displays attracting their clientele.
He thought about going into one of the strip joints where he could sort out his already consuming anger in the privacy of a hidden booth, and with the encouragement of a few dozen drinks. He didn't even care if the whores working never showed to his table, in fact he was hoping they wouldn't. It then dawned on him that he didn't have any of the money left over from Musalini... it had burned with all his worldly possessions.
The pain in his right hand was enough to level him once again to a state of unstable calm and apathy. He didn't realize he was still holding his bottle of fish until the stainless steel cramped his hand as he tried to squeeze out his anger and frustration before he lost his cool.
He eyed the container, realizing he'd become thirsty. It would have to wait; he'd paid too much to drink these rarities. This was pathetic; not only was he growing hungry, thirsty and tired, but his moodiness was pecking at his loosening grip on the last ropes of his otherwise uncontrollable rage.
Loud laughing and hollering caught his attention to a secluded parking lot.
He knew those toms.
He instantly recognized the scrawnier one as his drug dealer, whose name he'd never really taken the time to memorize, and another, healthier tom named Admetus. He specifically remembered his name because the inexperienced teen once tried to hustle him in a pool match; he was so desperate for money. So, being the experienced gambler he was, he took the bet. It didn't take very long before Admetus was soon handing him his whole pot of earnings.
They were pushing around some fat, little tom like he was an over-sized ball of yarn.
"Hey," he called out.
The scrawnier tom looked up with a jerking motion, observing him momentarily before pegging him as one of his most valued customers. "Mistoffelees! How you been, pal? What can I do ya for?"
Mistoffelees took note of the uncharacteristically bubbly mood. He narrowed the possibilities to the tom being extremely high or he'd spent the morning with his little baby girl- or he was high after spending all morning with his baby girl. It wouldn't take all too much effort to manipulate him.
Mistoffelees simply shrugged. He wasn't feeling up to the small talk at the moment; knowing the topic would be his brand new little queen. "I need a ride to the warehouse," he stated nonchalantly.
"Yeah, for sure! Hop in, I'll take ya right now if ya want."
The taller tom beside him frowned acridly, obviously unimpressed with the tux for barging in on their little game.
The two pulled into the small parking lot silently. Mistoffelees could feel the blood pumping through his veins wildly, his brain set on complete revenge mode. His victim? Who else than the son of a bitch who just recently burned down his house and turned everything he'd worked for against him: Fucktard Jerrie.
The magician leaned forward to pop the glove box, pulling out a low-grade handgun. "This is fucking sad," he muttered to himself as he opened the cartridge to count the bullets: lucky him had three left in the gun. Three bullets for five toms (assuming they all wanted him dead). He would just have to count on them standing right behind one another when he shot them.
"I'll be right back." He swiftly swung the door open and took off stealthily towards the dark, ominous warehouse that defined itself as a dark shadow against the slightly glowing sky above the city.
"Yeah, I'll wait..." The strung out tom mumbled hesitantly; there were toms in this area that wanted him dead. He hoped the tux wouldn't be long.
Mistoffelees jogged the rest of the way. Everlasting, he couldn't have possibly parked any closer? It was a good 300 yards away at the least from where he'd gotten out of the car.
In the corner of his eye, a small glint in the darkness caught his attention. He froze and monitored the shadows wildly until a small blue blink flickered in the darkness. Curiously, he crept forwards, still unsure whether it could have been a threat or not.
Upon further inspection, he was thrilled to find that the blip was actually the anti-theft from his darkly shaded Jaguar. He hugged it gratefully before working the pass code-activated lock, playing the buttons like a mini piano until the door's locking mechanism disengaged.
A quick look around proved everything to be exactly as he left it; even the clip of Kameness' 20-dollar bills still lay pinched under the cup holders. He immediately went to the glove compartment but stopped himself when he realized he didn't have his key chain with him.
Of course, he was a tom who never actually found true use for keys; everything could be locked and unlocked as he pleased without the slightest bother. Though he had to admit that a key chain was a really clever way of keeping people away from his things.
He slowly began to rub the tip of his thumb over the lock. That, like every lock he'd ever encountered, obeyed without complaint and soon he was re-united with his own lovely firearm. The bullets were quickly counted, replenished, and the gun cocked for action.
He squirmed his way back over the arm rest and into the driver's seat to jump out of the car. A loud metallic click and the feel of a round, metal barrel against his left temple quickly locked him in place.
"Shit!" he breathed softly, eyes wide. He'd never actually been this close to the barrel of another gun before; his enemies were sure to never make it within ten feet of his person.
"Drop the gun and get out of the car," came the low, velvety voice of an obviously sure tom. Was he a cop? A new hitman? A spy? He tried to steal a glance at the tom in his car door but it was too dark to see anything. The stranger cocked his gun in warning. Fuck! He's got a shotgun! It was apparent from the get-go that this guy was serious, but a shotgun? Now he was just being cocky.
"You wanna run that by me again?" he managed, though a little less confident than he'd wanted.
"A little confident for someone who's halfway to hell."
He swallowed hard when the cool metal reached around to tilt his head to face the open door. He couldn't see much of his attacker, but he could tell that he was fairly built and was probably in the business for a while. He still couldn't get over him having a shotgun. Still, a gun was a gun. He dropped his own in the seat next to him and held up his two empty hands to show his potential assassin.
"I have my foot in the door," Mistoffelees grinned cheekily.
"Well, don't let me keep you waiting, Mistoffelees."
The tux immediately lost his smile; what the hell?
Mistoffelees took a few moments to piece this mystery together, easily coming to the conclusion that others knew about his surviving the fire and had a cleanup guy to finish the job. "Who put you up to this? Mungojerrie? Macavity?"
"No one. I'm here to talk to the murderous bastard who thinks it's fun to blow the brains out of innocent cats."
The shadow's voice was flat and almost robotic. Surely he wasn't just some civilian who'd decided to take revenge for his buddy's murder. He had to of have some sort of background with the mob; he was too cold, too calm, for such a confrontation with such dangerous cats. Especially since he knew who he was messing with.
"I wish I could say I'm that bastard," Mistoffelees breathed shakily, trying his hardest to come off as uncaring- though he was secretly about to crap himself. "I fit the bill, but I'm not the one you're after."
He waited for the other's response but was only met with expectant silence. "I'm not in charge anymore. But, if you just give me a few minutes, I can bring you your tom with a lovely red ribbon to top it off. Assuming you want him dead, that is; he's not one for garnish or satin."
The figure seemed to stop at that, to bristle with anger a moment before re-configuring his plan. "Fine," he muttered through a clenched jaw. "Let's go."
