I don't own iCarly.
This is the second part of the story. Half as long, but twice as short.
Frothy's feral stare shoved Freddie back a few steps. He had never been more afraid in his life, not even when he had attended that clown convention in Portland. He had been seven and his mother had brought him along because she thought it would have been a good experience. It wasn't. He cried his eyes out and couldn't sleep for weeks.
And now, he might be forced to sleep. Forever.
He rechecked his enemy. If Freddie had been nervous when Frothy was moving earlier, now he was hundreds of billions of times more nervous. Frothy was standing completely still. Like-like... some sort of thing that stands completely still. Freddie didn't know. He was too scared to think properly.
Freddie waited, wondering if he should make the first move. He wondered if it was worth the risk. If he ran, he could have a chance of escaping, but Frothy would know he was afraid. And Frothy was fast. He could catch up in no time, even with only three legs. On the other hand, if Frothy sprang, Freddie wasn't sure if he had the reflexes necessary to dodge. Jeez, he couldn't even dodge a wrench, let alone a Frothy. And, obviously, he couldn't get in a fight with the cat because he wasn't a girl. His options were limited.
Freddie was too busy thinking to notice that Frothy had bunched up his hind legs, recognized by many dead tiger hunters as the last thing they ever saw. What Freddie did notice was a flash of gray and the glint of claws in the lamplight.
He quickly ducked out of the way, shielding himself behind the doorway. Frothy sailed through the hallway and disappeared into the kitchen. Freddie seized his chance and made a break for it. He dashed to his room and into his bathroom, locking the door behind him.
Safe.
He heard the scraping of claws against wood. Frothy was scratching at the door. The light from the crack underneath was interrupted by a flitting shadow.
He was trapped. Freddie's emergency lessons kicked in for the second time that day.
Shelter. Check.
First aid. He flexed his arm and winced. Sort of check.
Water. He ran the faucet to make sure it worked. With everything that went bad so far, he wouldn't be surprised if it didn't. But the gods decided to smile down upon Freddie with their pearly whites for the first time that day. The faucet worked. Check.
Food. He looked around.
Goddamn. He was in a bathroom. The toothpaste was his number 1 option. His number 2 option was soap. His number 3 option was number 2.
Crap.
His stomach growled, which is what usually happens to people right after they find out they have no food. He was hungry, tired, injured, and nerdy. He was going to die, imprisoned in a bathroom by a vicious, little ball of fur.
Freddie climbed into the bathtub and had himself a little cry to rid himself of all his pent up emotions.
He fell into a fitful sleep.
When Freddie woke up, his body ached for being in such an uncomfortable position. He stretched his limbs and stood. He looked at his surroundings. Then he remembered.
Frothy. The devil cat was out for his blood. He could probably smell him through the bathroom door. His doom was sealed in a white envelope marked doom. It had a wax seal in the shape of a paw. Freddie sighed resignedly. He might as well get it over with.
But wait!
In all his haste to die, he had forgotten to write his will. Luckily he had remembered otherwise after he passed his loves ones would never know how much he had appreciated them while living in the physical world. Freddie turned and opened the medicine cabinet. He figured he could write it on toilet paper but he needed something to write with.
He rummaged through the cabinet uncovering pills, ointments, pastes, ointments, creams, ointments, chewables, ointments, syrups, and ointments. But no pens or pencils.
Freddie closed the medicine cabinet and knelt down to look through the cabinet underneath the sink. He opened both doors and gasped in disbelief.
It wasn't a pen. Or even a pencil. It was his ticket to life.
What do cats hate?
Dogs.
What do dogs hate?
Dog-catchers.
Who are dog-catchers?
People.
What do people hate?
That's right.
Vuvuzelas.
So by the transitive property of equality cats hated vuvuzelas.
Shining in all its plastic, noise-making glory next to the toilet brush was his trusty old red, white, and blue vuvuzela. Shaped like a long, extended funnel, his vuvuzela was specially made with an extra-flared opening and a patented, state-of -the-art drool collecting attachment under the mouthpiece. He had paid big bucks for it last summer so he could cheer on the USA in the World Cup. Predictably, they had been eliminated but he still kept his horn in honor of the heroic attempt at interesting the ignorant American people in a sport the rest of the world held dear.
And now, Freddie's vuvuzela was going to save his life.
He gave it a few soft, experimental blows. He giggled at the immature thoughts people would have had if they had seen him. Then he returned to his feet and placed his hand on the doorknob.
Freddie steeled himself, took a deep breath and opened the door.
It was quiet.
But not too quiet. Just quiet enough for Freddie to hear his heart pounding in his chest. He carefully made his way out of his bedroom.
Frothy was waiting.
Thinking back, Freddie was sure he had heard a sound not unlike an F-22 Raptor taking off. The cat sprung, flying through the air with unbelievable speed. Freddie couldn't believe it.
But this time he didn't duck. Freddie Benson wasn't a wimp. Freddie Benson had cajones.
He brought the vuvuzela up to his lips and blew. The sound of millions angry bees filled the air. It was deafening. Frothy halted mid-flight and dropped to the ground. He gave Freddie a pained look and hissed, running down the hallway into the living room. Freddie ran after the annoyed cat, blowing the horn with random frequency. Frothy managed to dive beneath the couch cushions but Freddie jammed the vuvuzela in the crack (once again giggling at the juvenile innuendo) and blew (by now he was outright laughing).
Frothy was not amused. Quite the opposite actually.
He screeched and swiped pitifully at the plastic horn. He jumped into the middle of the room before running in circles. Freddie kept on blowing. Finally, as if to end it all, Frothy gave a mighty leap and crashed through the closed window.
Freddie stopped blowing.
Holy chizzing chiz with a chizzing chiz on a chiz.
He threw the vuvuzela turned murder weapon to the ground and dashed to the shattered window.
All the air in his lungs disappeared.
Frothy must have had an extra life left because he was hanging precariously by his one good front paw from the American flag that luckily happened to be below the Benson's living room window. His fur was being buffeted by strong winds that came with the altitude.
Freddie was beyond scared. The Frothy might've been a rough guest and may or may not have tried to kill him but Freddie didn't want to see the cat die. He just wasn't that type of guy. He loved all animals no matter how vicious they were. (Hear that ladies?)
He took 12 or 17 deep breaths before he started panicking. He started to run in circles much like Frothy had done earlier. He kept running until he tripped over something and fell flat on his face. After checking to see if he still looked good for the ladies, Freddie found what he tripped over.
His fishing pole.
Inspiration struck him in the face. After checking to see if he still looked good for the ladies, he grabbed the pole and stuck it out the window.
"Here! Grab the end!" He shouted.
Frothy replied with a small pathetic mewling that reminded Freddie the cat only had one front paw.
"Damn. I forgot."
Freddie retracted the pole and quickly glanced around the living for any tools he could use to prevent Frothy from plummeting to his death. Tv, remote, rug, coffee table, blood, vuvuzela, couch, basket of flowers, more blood—wait!
The basket of flowers!
Never had he been happier that his mother was dating the florist from 5A. He dumped the flowers on the floor and wound the fishing line around the handle. He finished it off with a complicated knot.
Freddie, once again, dashed to the window. He cast the basket out as far as he could and began reeling it in. He heard a tearing sound. The American flag was giving away!
Curse Betsy Ross and her horrible stitching!
He reeled faster. His hands became sore. Frothy's green eyes stared imploringly at him. The basket ascended painfully slowly. More tearing was heard. Frothy's eyes were filled with little cat tears. The basket moved up a little bit more.
The flag ripped in two and Frothy fell with a yowl, twisting in the air.
He landed in the basket.
Freddie swung the basket in through the window.
They both crumpled in a heap on the ground.
Safe.
Freddie could breathe again. A faint stirring refocused his mind. It was Frothy. The cat emerged from the basket and limped shakily over. He stopped a foot away and stared unwaveringly.
He pounced. Freddie flinched expecting to feel the meeting of claws and skin. He didn't. What he did feel was the warm rasp of a small tongue over his cheek.
Frothy was licking him. Not tasting him—licking him.
Sam and Carly returned to find Freddie and Frothy sharing a bowl of chili from Chili My Bowl. Her eyes widened with surprise.
"What did you do to him, Fredsewage? He never shares with anyone. Ever."
Freddie grinned.
"I dunno. We just clicked. Right from the start. It wasn't that bad, really." He scratch Frothy between his ears. "You know him. Loveable AND vicious."
If you don't know what vuvuzelas are, research the same way I research history essays. Google. One of the first links should be Wikipedia.
If you read it, please review. That way we both get something out of it. (And please feel free to report any mistakes. Thanks.)