Time to eat crow

That bastard Mr. Nero and his Crazy Wraith goons defecated in my reservoir. They shat up the whole damn water supply.

You burn for this, Nero. I will burn you, and your ashes will be my litterbox.

Reservoir cat

For years now, I have had exclusive rights to the best watering hole in town — a deep and generous basin right outside the main hatch of my keep. Sure, the Woman serves up fresh water every so often indoors, but my private, personal reservoir offers pure, uncontaminated rainwater (no one's going to sap or impurify my precious bodily fluids). Besides, I prefer to slake my thirst al fresco, like my fathers on the savannah.

I'm not stingy when it comes to sharing this wellspring with my subordinates, though it seems not to be an issue — Fabio is a tapwater fiend and shameless tub-licker, and the Rodent hasn't gone near the basin since it “bit” his tongue on a particularly cold morning. So I drink long, deep, and in peaceful solitude, as the master of the oasis properly should.

But if one thing is certain, it's that abundant wealth attracts unsavory characters with greedy eyes. Just as Mr. Hands and his squad of masked safecrackers tried to heist our pellets last year, another nefarious gang is making a bold play for what is rightfully mine. And unlike that band of enormous fingered cats, whose weapons were stealth and cunning, this new menace has a belligerent attitude — and serious numbers.

The crows own the skies. Because I chose to concede that point, I have never clashed with the powerful cawkuza clans these many years. There has been an unbroken truce of honor and respect between myself and the venerable local Cawfather, Don Croleone. But now, for the first time, the crows have broken the peace.

There's a new squadron in town. Noisy, hungry upstarts. And unlike the good don's faithful lieutenants, these punks like to loiter, and taunt, and throw their weight around. They have no respect for the established regimes of the Corva Nostra; they only care about getting their greasy wings on all the territory they can seize, by hook or crook. These mad goons call themselves L'Omicidio Sanguinante, though on the streets they're known as the Crazy Wraiths. Their general is a particularly arrogant and butt-ugly bastard with the ridiculous name of Mr. Nero.

It was only this week, while I was enjoying a peaceful drink at my reservoir, that I caught the Crazy Wraiths eyeballing me. They had spread themselves out — one on the neighboring rooftop, another over on the big tree, a pair on the fence, a handful more atop various chimneys and power lines. They squawked signals at one another, occasionally swooping overhead to take up new positions. Not a very subtle attempt at intimidation.

Then I heard a really vulgar croak from right above me. I glanced up, and there was Mr. Nero, brazenly perched on my own roof. And he wasn't barking orders at his minions. This repulsive bastard was croaking at me, and in a decidedly disrespectful tone. I instinctively coiled on my haunches — he was up high, but not so high that I couldn't get close enough to send him a message. Let's see how tough you look turning tail in front of all your boys.

I quickly thought better of that idea, and let myself relax. No, that's not the way to play this. These punks are just noisy kids... nobodies. They aren't worth your attention — they're only looking for a fight as a way to garner some clout in the neighborhood.

I glanced over at Nero's thugs. They had stopped squawking and were all concentrating on me, wondering what I would do. So I gave my claw a few licks with disdainful relish, and brushed the dust off my torn ear. You see that scar, boys? I got that scar when your great-grandfathers were sucking down regurgitated roadkill from their mamas.

Then I looked up at Mr. Nero, told him a few things I knew about his mama, and casually made my way back inside. He screamed a filthy stream of obscenities after me, so I lifted my tail high to make sure he saw what I wanted him to see as we parted company.

This is dirty business, this guy. Punk or no, Mr. Nero needs to disappear. And that means it's time to have a word with Don Croleone. Not that I need anybody's permission to eat whoever wanders onto my turf, but as a simple matter of respect, you don't want to ice any cawkuza capo without first getting a sitdown.

Year One, continued

Once again, I present a worthy and instructive excerpt from the annals of a humble up-and-comer in his earliest days, far from his native land and still an eternity from his destiny of conquest:

26 JUNE 1995 - Brave new world

My brother and I have been “guests” in this spacious, bizarre tower for more nights than I can count -- if the boys back home had search parties out for us, those efforts have surely been called off by now. It would seem that we are meant to forge some kind of existence in this loud, manic dystopia. So be it. Banish now all thoughts of Mother, and assess.

I have now reconnoitered and inventoried the entire unit. Stark white walls, high ceilings, multiple subchambers, ubiquitous gray carpet (presumably to obscure the coating of nastiness), oppressive lighting, minimal furnishings, no grass or greenery of any kind, anywhere.

There are windows and viewports aplenty, which reveal our position to be a considerable distance in the stratos. This vantage provides a comforting distance from the grinding hell of stink-belching machines that prowl the filthy streets below; but it also means we are trapped here -- no escape possible except for that purchased by a great plummet onto rubber-smeared concrete.

As prisons go, one could do worse, I imagine. There is adequate padding, space to maneuver, and the food is abundant, if unappealing. The absence of grass will be a nuisance. The locals have povided a kind of sandbox, which I take to be intended as some manner of "terra faux" for our use.

I find this distasteful, and have commandeered a large white bag-chair for my personal use. It is the closest thing to organic material to be found in this place. Besides, my bumbling brother spends entirely too much time in the sandbox and I need some personal space.

The locals are an unbalanced, sedentary lot, and there is a lot of traffic in and out, such that I'm not certain which are fellow immates and which are our keepers. The dastardly Slim Spectacles has not been seen since our arrival -- I suspect his role in this scheme was little more than that of a mule. The Pleasant Smiling Lady makes regular visits; I find her agreeable, if insignificant. The Shrill Blonde occasionally storms the place -- I seek shelter during those squawking raids.

There are many other “regulars” here: the Warbling Bird-Lady; the Tattooed Grumbler; Pops von Hausfunken; the Towering Redhead; the Unwashed Camper; and the unnerving, unflinching Sinister Shadow -- it's a rogues' gallery of grotesque characters. And then there's the pathetic triumvirate of inert lumps around which all this seems to revolve: the half-witted Administrator Schmul; the torpid Goateed Narcoleptic; and the nubilose Doctor Poupolis, a mad scientist of uncertain calibre.

I confess that I am uneasy at the prospect of making a life among the likes of these. Everywhere I turn, lethargy and incompetence. The road ahead appears dark. And filthy.

ADDENDUM: It appears my mama's-boy brother was not adequately weened. Repeatedly and shamelessly, he attempts to suckle the clothing of the local rabble. I try not to watch, lest I share in his humiliation. They have taken to calling him “Fabbee-oh” -- no doubt some local term for “idiot”.

Something rancid this way comes

The perimeter has been infiltrated in the night. And it wasn't any stealth squirrel this time.

The stench of the beast lingers heavily in the morning air. Pungent and foul — the smell of a brutish, wanton primitive, of primeval violence and death. Something... tusked and matted and cloven-hoofed. Big.

The Big Rodent is going nuts. No wonder, with that nose of his. He keeps it to the ground, hunkered, and moves in quick, steady, clean arcs through the grass, tracing the path of the beast, reconstructing its movements.

I keep to the deck, head high, ears up, watchful, ready. Let the hound do his work. I scan the fenceline — no visible traces of the creature's point of entry. A low patrol of crows passes over, with nothing to report. Too damn quiet.

The Rodent finds what he's looking for. His trace brings him along the fenceline; he slows enough to inspect every plank and stave — five or six deep, rapid sniffs apiece, followed by a loud snort to clear the chamber. The rhythm of his snuffling becomes hectic, and I know he's getting close.

I gaze along his path carefully, following the fenceline ahead of him, and then I see exactly where he's heading. There's a hole along the bottom of the fence, near the far corner. Large enough to accommodate a troubling cross-section of species, yet just small enough to be inconspicuous to the casual observer. Fortunately, I am not casual.

I suddenly realize my initial profile of the intruder could very well be in error — a single, massive beast could not fit through that aperature. But a dozen or so smaller beasts... only such a number could account for a stink of these dimensions. A small army!

Quickly, I sense the ignorant Rodent's predicament. He's mere feet from the hole, and convulsing with fervor as the scent flies exponentially up his scale. He's being led there! A trap!

I leap from the deck into the grass and crouch, keeping the Rodent between myself and the hole. With all the fuss he's making, they won't notice me coming up quietly behind him. I stay low, and move up carefully, silently. Growling, he thrusts his head through the hole and lets out a few nervous, staccato barks. He has called the ball. I close the remaining distance between us, taking up position just behind him, crouched and coiled, claws at the ready.

Now, Rodent! Drop! Roll! Move!

He turns suddenly, and for an instant we're nose-to-nose. I have miscalculated. He takes one look at me, hunkered behind him, spring-loaded, claws extended, eyes narrowed in a murderous gaze — and he totally freaks.

With a high-pitched squawk, he jumps back so fast that he collides with the fence. I pull in the claws, but too late. He twists, rights himself, and bolts past me, across the lawn, across the deck, and launches himself through the hatch, his ears fluttering behind him.

Great. Just great.

Momentarily shaken by the Rodent's explosive exit, I pull it together and refocus on the hole. Whatever was back there should have made its move by now. I step in close, peering carefully into the gap...

Forget it. No way am I sticking my head in there. I'm not a total idiot.