The cat with a grudge

Licking you own anus trying to get rid of your competitor’s blood is one thing. Having nothing to do with their eventful expulsion from the world of the living and being an innocent observer in what in the past could have been one of your greatest masterpieces is quite another. Obviously both are rather pathetic but the cat with the grudge had no time to feel sorry for herself, she had done so for quite some time, and it was those fucking pigeon’s fault all along.

It was not like yesterday or anything, but she could still remember even the finest of details. When she was handed out the assignment to kill that freaking panda, she was more than pleased with the job, so much she could do it even for nothing, although she never quite figured it out why the pigeons wanted it out of the picture. She assumed that they were probably annoyed like everybody else, just like she was, annoyed by the obnoxious creature’s habits, its smell, the disproportionate attention relative to its importance it was receiving by the guards. Everybody hated that sloth of a bastard animal, that ridiculous lump of fat, but nobody could make a move without the pigeon mafia agreeing to it. Those were the rules and everybody abided it to them otherwise you would get a beating, or worse a visit by the cat. And seriously, you did not want that cat to visit you. Not in those days anyways.

Her first attempt was characterized by anger and blood thirsty instincts, going in there without much of a plan, just yearning to jump on the beast and scratch its lazy eyes out. All good and well you might think, after all a master assassin cat like the one we are talking about against a panda – a panda for god’s sake! – should be an easy win to predict. On the other hand it is true that over-confidence can lead to shitty results, and the cat learned that the hard and literal way. After entering the cage of the black and white fallacy of Darwin’s theory, she went straight for the kill mastering an incredible jump for the panda’s head, which impervious to it’s surroundings as usual, bent just a little bit to scratch its filthy toe, a challenging task to say the least. The result was a higher than needed jump, and an even worse crash land on the panda’s toilet whose size allowed for the over-jealous cat to slide through forty meters worth of shitty pipe work before swimming for her life in a strongly bamboo flavored cesspool. She was disgraced and her ego was badly injured, not to mention that she stank for three whole days. It was humiliating and she had to make up for it.

Her second attempt, well it is rather difficult to put it simply, it was rather brutal. It had all the aesthetic characteristics of what the operation should look like but the gory details were splattered all along the wrong directions. She had construed an elaborate plan, a devilish work really, that involved all kind of tricks, ropes, lasers, mechanisms, gizmos and stuff hopefully culminating to the equivalent of a work of art in the world of animal assassins. That is, animals that are assassins, not assassins that kill animals, they are a whole different breed altogether. Yet, as you would expect from any such elaborate scheme, there is always some small detail that will ruin even the greatest of all intentions, and true to all karmic traffic, there was such a small detail. The cat weary of the elevated danger set by her own traps, moved into what seemed to be a faulty hinge that could possibly screw up her orchestrated scenery of panda death. When she got close enough, she sniffed it a bit, moved her head in all possible ways trying to figure out a remedy for the still undefined problem. As she reached out her pawn to try and get a pawns-on mind set on the situation, she felt some of her brain cells sweating, feeling her new fallacy, going for quantity rather than quality. Now, even more brain cells were realizing that the operation was not slick at all, they were agonizing at the prospect of the cheap Chinese materials. Chinese! ‘Chinese’ now the majority of her lethal brain cells were screaming inside her tiny head. Pandas were Chinese, and it would be such a great irony if that fat menace would be hacked by compatriot materials, but could they be trusted? Did they bear the engineering excellence and tolerance to do in one of their own? Fuck no.

The moment the cat regretted her intentions, the hinge didn’t; it collapsed in a dull and severely harmful way. Blades, wires and machetes flew in all directions, their whizzing sounds so sharp and horrible that even the fucking panda woke up staggering to understand what was going on in front of him. The cat tried to do her best, she really did, but it would be foolish even to wish for an unscathing outcome. Unfortunately her killing instincts had outperformed her survival skills. The end result was pitiful, one eye (the left) and one leg (the front right) less, just to mention some of all the injuries, with the worst being her pride. For a moment she stood there all bloody and disgusting, her right front leg resting ten feet away and her left eye nowhere to be seen (catch the irony?), but the real terrifying sight for ever to imprint on someone’s soul was her other eye, empty, void, in shock of ever experiencing something like that, something so low and demeaning. Through that eye everything she was and stood for departed for ever, leaving her hurt and empty like a broken sea shell on a dirty shore.

Anyone with a heart should not even bother with her third and final attempt. It did not lead to any further amputation, but rather served as a seal to her fate of humiliation. It did not make things any better or worse, but verified an already established trend, making her situation even more miserable. Think of Mike Tyson’s last few bouts, something like that. So, there she was, yet another player of lesser than humane intelligence but with equally complex psyche, a seemingly uninvolved bystander to the unfolding saga of the monkey and the bear, but in fact, like the thin smelly rat, a small but still crucial participant in what would follow. What about the panda bear one might think. Well, it wasn’t that hard for the three ninja pigeons. All they had to do is date a couple of Chinese pigeons, and then shit all the time at the panda. Chinese bird flu works in mysterious but yet effective ways. It was that kill that established them as the number one assassination service in the zoo and the near streets, condemning the cat to a miserable life of envy and shame.

All in all then, it is not that bad licking pigeon blood of your anus. Surely, it seems sad to have your major antagonists slaughtered by factors other than the ones you pursued, but after all they are out of the picture either way! Was the cat back in the game? In all truthfulness no, she was not, she had to train again both mentally and physically, but the chance just lay there, small albeit, a chance nonetheless. Who knows, the monkey and the bear had already caused enough trouble, and the pigeons might feel upset about it, they might want to do something about it. Ambition and positive thinking were not her best attributes, but still managed to feel hopeful future. She was given another chance and she was not about to let it go. No matter how weak and battered she was she would try for one last time, she would try and built up on the legend she once had established. The cat was back!

The slim, smelly rat

It was all done and finished, all that remained was the echo of great deeds, like the humming silence of a just completed symphony. Needless to say the stupid fat bear was out of his rusty bars at last, the three ninja pigeons were all gratefully dead, and the rest of the city mob-minded pigeons were baffled and pissed at the same time. Himself, he just stood there motionless, slightly in shock, contemplating still the dramatic scenes that had just materialized before his eyes. Of course he could not have seen much, he never did, but his other senses and mainly his unrestrained imagination more than made up for the natural handicap. He was not too eager to follow the stupid fat bear just yet, he preferred to take everything in for a while, to reassemble the numerous fragments of the past few days on an abstract canvas of meanings and implications. Besides it could never be too difficult to follow the smell of the bear’s rotten ass, he could smell it from miles away even without trying. Instead, he calmly widened his nostrils, trying to freeze and capture the moment, absorb the facts and arrange his thoughts in something meaningful, and hopefully useful.

So far, this impervious observer who had seen it, and smelled it all, had proved himself in an almost noble exploitation of his abilities. Like so many of his kind he could burrow and definitely did not mind any of the dirtiest routes available, allowing him to be in many places swiftly and with ease, indifferent to his environment and vice versa. Unless of course he happened to be in some middle class wife’s kitchen during the day. Then, things got a little bit more hectic, but with the exception of those uncommon circumstances, he usually kept to himself, quiet in some corner of sorts, watching, always watching and thinking. Given his kind, that was a fairly normal turn of events, food was always abundant along his routes from one hole to another, but truth be told, he was rather awkward and weird. You could say it ran in his family, given his second cousin’s post as a chef in Paris, but for his part, regardless of his absent cooking abilities, he was doing less scavenging and more thinking, something that did reflect on his rather slim figure.

In some ways, he should of course be proud of what he had witnessed so far, not to mention his unparalleled devotion to the storyline. He thought it was most brilliant of his insignificant obsession that he followed the pigeons to their hotel room, the last one to ever destroy in manners unspeakable; they of course could not have noticed him, primarily since their powers of observation were stripped away thanks to the physical and consequently mental abuse they subjected themselves to, and also because they had been more than accustomed to rats emerging from the toilets in the cheap motel rooms they used to rent for their dreadful declines. He had a rather good liking for those poor pigeons, so different from the rest of the crowd, bonded by a crazy addiction to mistakes and honor, and now he actually felt in awe of their final demise. He certainly would not miss them, but that was just him, forgetful of past affections and emotionally shallow, another symptom of his wasted brain wonders from one possibility to another.

He could not avoid the reality of the situation though. This was not a random series of observations for his own amusement, far from it, he was now clung to it, he wanted to be witness to it all, never interfering but always watching, fascinated in a twisted manner by the extravagance of what was unfolding before him. When this now systematic by-stander came out of his hole that day and ‘saw’ the half successful first escape attempt, he was struck by the realization of his great fortune and how he had frivolously squandered it for such a long time. He was born and he had always lived free, and he was truly moved by the two animal’s deep desire for freedom. What he had in abundance, they could only wish for.

Now, of course things were different, they had evolved into something new, now both of them were out, especially thanks to the three pigeons extraordinary abilities and foremost to their sacrifice. Yet, like a wise and well thought equilibrium, his fear of involvement in anything real, his awkwardness and retreat were balanced by his ability to think things through, to foresee the things to come if you wish. This momentary and costly at the same time turn of events could not go on with no consequences. As much as he would like to think that every morning the dynamics of reality were reset to a zero starting point, a bliss for those who wished for it, he could easily appreciate that the silly monkey and the stupid far bear had not truly gained their freedom, but merely climbed the first step onto the struggle to fight for it, a situation they most likely were still unaware of, even though they would soon reunite amongst tears of joy and frustration.

It could be of course that it was his sick allure to their story that demanded it to go on for ever, a well written and directed sitcom for his own satisfaction. Nonetheless, this was not the case, instead it was far worse. It was both. Within the bounds of a perverse logic and the natural flow of everything earthly, he indeed did want their story to twist and turn like a convulsive eel trapped in the nets of a mad scientist, and at the same time this is exactly what would happen independently of his wrecked train of thoughts. Yet, just the illusion that his ability to predict the rational turn of events was the same as controlling them, was enough to fuel his addiction, his wasteful adherence to other animal’s lives, an epitome of the moral perversion of his.

The three (ninja) pigeons

The three samurai pigeons were stoned beyond any conceivable understanding and appreciation. They were caught up, not in the moment, but in one of fate’s accidents. They had unwillingly inherited a promise, a hope, a duty, and that last specific one, was what troubled most their ferociously beating nickel sized hearts. In all truthness, if there is really such a thing or a word for that matter, their hearts were not beating that fast now, resembling more the monotonous scratching of a record that has come to an end.

As usual, they had set out to celebrate the accomplishment of their latest mission, the rescue of the cheeky monkey, codenamed ‘Cheap as Chimps’, an inside joke for the little reward they had received for the job from the mobsters. Naturally their celebration was not something of the ordinary, and on the same time maintained a nature unfamiliar to ninja oriented personas. Considering their mystique that engulfed them, and the whole uncertainty clouding their profession and their existence, they always followed an unspoken ritual, obtaining their booze and drugs in such extreme secrecy that would make any ex KGB spy blush in shame, renting remote hotel rooms always in different and remote places, locking themselves in, closing the blinds, dimming down the lights, and then proceeding in an unworthy of words and mention debasement of their characters until their supplies simply ran out –usually a bit too soon, matched possibly only by Belushi’s similar endeavors when he was still alive and kicking. And snorting of course.

Nonetheless, debauchery seems to be selling well. Remembering that it is just 3 pigeons we are talking about, they had managed to acquire 10 six packs, 3 London gins, 5 of Tennessee’s worst whiskies, 10 Jamaican rums, 2 catholic nuns for good taste, 3 jars of moonshine, and a fine but mysteriously empty bottle of expensive champagne. As far drugs were concerned, they had enough to kill a whole battalion of bulls and derange a dozen or so squares, ranging from your innocent 12 ounces of imported weed to numerous colorful little glass containers, with African poisons and Indian ailments. They were so rude they used acid for toilet paper hoping to insult any common sense and embarrass any drug dealer. As you would expect from any manic compulsive and addiction abusers of their kind, they started with the beers, soon resulting in a piss contest, a literal one, giving a new existential meaning to the champagne bottle. Despite the laughs, and the awkward looks from the nuns, the ninja minded pigeons felt the looming presence of a downer, and skipped the joints altogether and went straight for the uppers gulping without any fear or remorse. Fuelled by the hope of a better binge, they reverted to their normal practice and started rolling their spliffs using cockroaches for roaches, while struggling to conjure possible cocktails from the rest of the booze, neglecting the potency of the moonshine. The nuns were not too impressed, and luckily for the pigeons, they excused themselves claiming they had a mass to attend. Who the fuck attends mass at two o’ clock in the morning? More likely a mass orgy, but the pigeons were not too concerned. By four, they had realized their chemical defeat, lost any libido they might have once carried, and surrendered their little, yet well exercised bodies, to the numbing desert fields of mescaline.

As it so happens, it not that easy to find out what is bothering you in the numbing desert fields of mescaline. The numbing effect is the rather decisive factor in such an attempt, while the desert field is not that helpful either, despite all their jedi training. The pigeons lost themselves completely for about 2 hours, taking in the effect viciously, but completely ignoring the cause, feeling their lack of feeling of anything else. Once they finally got around it though, they were more sure than ever that they had to dig in to reach out for the roots of their sadness. It did not seem anything less than daunting, but it was something they knew they had to do and certainly prepare themselves for. They foolishly inspected the rented room to look out for any substance to devour, without the need for any excuses or practicalities, but they soon they soon realized that they had spent such a brilliant stash in a fuck-up of a downer. It was so pathetic, they were actually considering the possibility of 3 espressos and biscuits on the side. Thankfully they soon opted out from that possibility.

Instead, honouring their tradition, they proceeded to sober themselves up just by looking at the sunrise. And it was then when it really struck them, despite not admitting it for a while. Once the morning news came up - no tv sets, they were clairvoyant enough – they looked to each other and they knew, they just knew. It was the goddamn stupid bear.

Their heads sharp now, they felt it in all its importance and definition. They were indeed caught up in the wretched moment; the bear was clearly not their responsibility, but still they took it up, they still honored their code and the monkey’s plea for help for his friend at the very brink of destruction and failure They did their part, they took their chances, they flew and fought, and they had managed to carry out the task to their best of their capacity. But despite their typical successful accomplishment of the mission requirements -even if some of them were adhoc- the purpose itself was not fulfilled. The fat ridden bear had made what was probably the worst attempt at running and had botched it spectacularly, like fireworks gone wrong. And thus the stupid fat bear was still behind the rusty old bars of the zoo for the entertainment of perverse minds and little children with hands all covered in ice cream, trying to survive their parents divorce.

Were they to blame? They pondered this, as their stomachs and bowels were starting to protest the overall mind-over-body approach the pigeons had once again adopted. They started questioning themselves in the fashion of the good believer who at first has to torment himself through torrents and blazes before re-assuring his belief in whatever ridiculous notion he holds. Truths and lies galvanized in questions and doubts. Should they have taken into account the bear’s weak muscles and his complete lack of co-ordination? Had they though, what could they have done? Was there any possible way that they could have arranged the balance of the cosmos in such a sort notice, and in such an amazing way, that the bear would have succeeded in tasting freedom and all it’s burdens? Their minds, clear of substances, and a few brain cell less admittedly, were aching and struggling while browsing through all the possibilities in the hope of coming across the one, the only one, that could have worked, and did work in one of the infinite universes the world manifests itself in. Through all their powers, the ninja pigeons did not reach that one possibility. Of all the innumerable scenarios, none offered the crucible they were longing for. Mixed feelings overwhelmed them at that realization, relief on the one side as they were not to blame, disappointment on the other, since they lacked the abilities and techniques to have succeeded.

As hard as that experience may sound, they were still at loss., they were still at the start of what could turn out to be an adventure of epic proportions. Clearly and reasonably, it was now time for atonement. From cold blooded (and feathery) executioners of poorly thought and even more poorly paid plans, they had to turn themselves into calculating overlords of the realities that surrounded them, into knights and protectors of what is worthy, ambassadors of the noble, angels of good. They had to devise a plan to rescue the bear, a plan so meticulous and weary of the infinite mishaps that could shame them beyond the will to live, that in all possible ways would be their masterpiece, their signature work, their legacy for future ninja substance abusing pigeons. Their chests swollen with pride and hope and a few speckles of dirt, they flew off to recon the zoo, to lay down the foundations of their masterplan, just as the maid was coming into the horrible scorched three dimensional thing that was their room. Sadly enough, that turned out to be the last image imprinted on her once beautiful eyes, while her heart was experiencing a massive coronary. She was allergic to pigeons.

The stupid fat bear

All the guards were sad and messed up. It was useless really, grown men coming back home from work all gloomy and baffled, unable to satisfy their women. Apart from the female guard of course, but then again she was a lesbo, so the same principle applies. That’s another story altogether. Anyways, all that because of a stupid fat bear. Not that it is his fault really. It was that other one, the cheeky monkey that orchestrated the whole escape thing. What a mess that was.

It was during November, and nobody was really visiting the Zoo, November is all slippery and muddy and very un-zoo like. Strangely enough the monkey was very active all climbing and jumping and screaming giving quite a show for the guards, or so they though anyways, because guess what? The monkey was in fact establishing a narrowband, fault-full, chatter enriched, noise clattered line of communication with the area’s pigeons. You know the fast internet connection you 've got, abusing it for your porn habit? Well, nothing like it, it is more like the way psychics order pizza. Well, the monkey was trying to communicate, not for some weird interspecies sex, but because he needed them for the job. The fat little fucks were the bosses of them all, terrorizing all the animals, collecting their share of the food, pissing and shitting everywhere, stupid thugs. Anyways, long story short, the monkey got the pigeons to organize a heist, get his cell’s key, drop it to him, and in return he would do a few bakery jobs for them while he would be on the outside.

You might be wandering where the hell does the fat bear fit in all these. Well, besides the fact that he does not fit anywhere, the monkey had all kinds of reasons to help him out. For starters, the bear was big, really big, slow moving sure, but very big indeed, and as we all know all too well, big generally is interpreted as intimidating. The way the monkey was thinking the whole situation, it was like this. Loose a few loaves of bread to a monkey or loose your head to a big, fat intimidating bear. The equation works itself out really. Plus, he sort of liked him in a bizarre and sadistic way. Thinking of it, it could have been his slobbery face. All drooling and stuff.

So, it is November, and all the pussy keepers are having their special tea during launch if you know what I mean, and they are laughing and stuff, because if you don’t laugh during November, you might as well go and jump of a cliff or something, and I am telling you, the place is crowded with pigeons, it’s was like that movie, The Birds, but you know, instead of those what have you scary birds, it was pigeons. And they were numerous, like millions. Ok, not millions but they were an awful lot of them, but what was bizarre was that they were not shitting their white greenish acid poison, instead they were flying in formations and shit, really, like in that Jarmusch movie, Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai. Now imagine this, you ‘ve got a bunch of drunk animal caretakers trying to choreograph a whole aircraft carrier worth of pigeons, and at the same time a small group of three mental ninja educated pigeons pinching the keys to the monkey’s cell. So, for better or worse, everything is working fine, it is all peachy.

Not to bother much of your time, blah, blah, blah, the pigeons nab the keys, the guards are distracted like Blucher was in the battle of Waterloo, monkey gets the keys, stresses all the possible brain cells in his little skull, open his gate, rushes to the fat bear’s cage, guess what. No keys for the bear! The monkey is furious, all his planning goes haywire, he is about to explode with rage and angst, but despite all his instincts and his inferior to human DNA, he composes himself, grabs the ninja-like pigeons, instructs them on the bear’s keys, they are all like negotiating and arguing that the bear was not part of the deal, and the monkey is counter-arguing that they are ninja or samurai pigeons, and they live by their honor and not bullshit talking, and it is their job to execute commands, not question them, and besides he will chip-in a couple more of those bakery jobs just for them. Anywho, the three pigeons agree and go on looking for the other key, meanwhile the bear get’s all panicky, the monkey is dancing like a madman, or more likely like a mad monkey, trying to, you know, entertain the bear, which bizarrely works fine, and at the same time all the other flying pigeons, are getting furious and sweaty, because they are totally not used to flying. I mean, you know how pigeons are, all walking and bullying, the point being is flying is not their best act. Despite all possible twists of fate, the three unbelievably sly and capable pigeons come back with the goods, and again, against all odds and a few more, the monkey unlocks the bear’s gate, and then … and then all hell breaks loose.

The stupid fat bear roars with excitement, and believe it or not that was a major turn-off for the all the drunk guards, who within just a few seconds turned from a bunch of assholes to a god damn animal hating SWAT team, with the lesbian charging the lead. Of course that’s nothing. The bear manages the fastest mood swing since Lisa Minnelli and Barbara Streisand met in the same room, the flying pigeons drop like stones, rather soft and fatty stones if you ask me, all exhausted from the pattern flying, the three ninja-samurai-jedi-shaolin pigeons disappear into thin air, proving their abilities once more in the most inconvenient way and time, and of course the cheeky monkey eventually returns from being a mini hairy version of general Romel to a full grown cheeky monkey and screams and jumps and makes a run for it.

The bear you ask. Of course, the bear, what about the bear, you ask. Well the bear is scared shitless and on the verge of crying, sees the monkey making a run for it and tries to do the same. Again I will desperately have to implore for your imagination, reminding you of one crucial, vital and terrifyingly important piece of information. November, rainy, muddy fucking November. You remember that song, November Rain? Well, November. So, now, please try and imagine a wet sobbing bear trying to dash the hell out of a zoo in the slippery mud. I think you are starting to get it, that image in your puny head. The bear takes one clumsy step, then another, then another, how many are these, three, well one more clumsy step with the angry lesbian –on her period you see – just fifty feet away, and then the stupid fat bear slips. Just like that, in a completely unsurprising manner, his right leg lifts so high up, he actually strained it, and to add insult to injury he cracks his ass-bone as well with his earthquake landing. Pathetic, and worst, typical, of that stupid, fat bear.

So, that’s the end result, an escape attempt making the last scene in The Great Escape look funny, a never ending crying baby in the form of a sad fat hairy, and dirty by the way, bear and a group of neo-nazi animal keepers feeling sorry for it. They even thought of starting a get-a-female-bear-to-wet-this-sorry’s-sad-excuse-for-a-bear-dick- charity thing, but they opted our of it the last minute realizing it would have been to gay for their taste. On the other hand you can always look on the bright side of things. The local sixteen year old weed dealer was doing great business with the guards in their rubbish attempt of lifting their spirits. But then of course, they lacked the humanity for it.

PS. To the bear's credit, at least he is not a fucking panda. Have a nice winter assholes.

Sad little monkey

The sad little monkey sat on its bench and waited for his friend. He wished that almost made a rhyme, but he was content. Besides, who would waste his time to listen to a monkey poet? Humans. They would probably just give him a typewriter and reward him with a banana every time he wrote the word ‘Juliet’. But that was not what made him sad.

The sad little monkey pretended to wait. He knew his friend the bear wouldn’t come.That rhymed. Well not exactly, but it was good enough, indeed sufficient to appeal to what he thought to be a good ticker inside his fur covered silly flexible body. He hated the bear. The escape plan was masterminded in perfect fashion, elaborate, but yet simple enough for even a good natured bear to understand and execute. Yet, despite all the planning, the silly little bear managed in an uncanny way to screw things up and get his fat ass caught in a matter of minutes, while his pearly eyes were still thirsty for freedom.

The poor little monkey could not decide if he was sad or angry. All in all, how could he blame someone just for being stupid? Nonetheless, now thanks to bear’s stupidity he was alone, sad and un-monkey like. He hadn’t scratched his balls for hours now, and they were getting redder than his ass, but he had no inkling whatsoever of displaying his limited array of stereotypical and rather lewd habits. Stupid bear. Messing up his fragile and unstable psyche at any given opportunity. It did not make any sense, it did not add up with the cosmic karma.

The sad little monkey sat at the bench alone contemplating all these as the minutes went by. For a moment he did consider grabbing a paper from the bin, and pretend to read it in order to avoid any attention. He thought against it eventually. He couldn’t be arsed. Poor little sad monkey. He works at a circus now you know.