What am I, alone in the world?

Looks like the word's out on the street that Mr. Nero's a marked bird, because the bastard hasn't been around. Oh, his goons have been around... loitering here and there, feigning nonchalance, watching. I guess that coward wants to wait and see what I plan to do before he sticks his head out. Oh yeah, you're a real tough guy.

So the ball's in my court. Fine. I'd say leave it there a while, let these punks sweat it out, but my instincts tell me that this may be the right time to send a message — a big message, not only to Nero and the Crazy Wraiths, but to the whole damn neighborhood. Something that will find its way to Mr. Hands, wherever he is, and his whole band of filchers. Something that will make even Don Croleone take notice. Something that will let every varmint in earshot know that Shmool is mad, Shmool is clamping down, and there will be no more pooping in Shmool's water.

So last weekend, I put together a bold and complex plan that was, really, brilliant — intricate, elegant, and I must say, beautiful. A story to be remembered for generations, if it came off right. But this scheme required extra muscle, precise timing, and a lot of careful coordination. So on Sunday I called a council of war. I put out the word that all who are loyal to the cause or interested in a piece of the action were to gather at my fortress and receive their orders.

I must say I was impressed with the response. Naturally, the Melodious Freckled Lady and Fabio's Doorman arrived ready and able, hardy stalwarts that they are. The keepers of Babalulu the Mutant Terrier and Chompsky the Tuxedoed Ballboy also came, thankfully leaving those smelly waggers at home (I hadn't factored Balu's Insane Bullwhip Tail into my plan, nor would it be necessary to have any spit-marinated spheroids retrieved, but thanks anyway).

Many others answered the call: the insane but generous Bobo The Nose sent a couple representatives, and a coterie from the Woman's League of Amazons also volunteered, including one Very Small Man who, though drooly, seemed quite nimble and alert — finally, a human of dimensions I can work with.

The Woman prepared caviar. The tall Leaguers brought pungent fish bits. Excellent. The Man served drinks, and the Rodent even put on a tie. Well, this was turning out to be a contingent of true loyalists. You can't buy this kind of respect. OK people, let's get to work.

Then the Man raised his glass and offered a convocational toast to “Operation Oscar”. Oscar? What a stupid name. I had codenamed this scheme “Operation Eviscerate” — but a good general knows when to throw his troops a bone, so whatever. “Oscar” it is. Now pay attention, people. First, the Doorman will take his position up this tree on the south perimeter, exactly twelve hours before we strike, and you there, uh, Redhead, you will place blocks of cheese here... and here. Meanwhile, you tall people take two thousand rubber bands apiece, and the little guy here...

Suddenly I realized I was talking to myself. These people weren't listening to me — they were still sucking on their cocktails and slurping down caviar. They were staring at the big box, and chuckling. Chuckling!

Wake up, people! Let's do this thing!

The Man made another round of drinks. The Woman brought more food. The Very Small Man blew bubbles. I marched into the center of the room and bellowed for order. Nothing. Then suddenly, gunfire! Ambush! I bolted for cover, rolled evasively, came up with claws and fangs at the ready. It's a hit squad!

But no. The Man had merely popped the cork on a huge bottle of fizzy water. Useless, useless people.

I retired to my inner sanctum to rework my plan for one. And I left something special in one of the coats I found on the bed. Not sure whose — but they'll get the message when they find it.