It's the thought that counts

It pleases me that my martial endeavors seem to have gained the support of the community. Winning the hearts and minds of the citizenry is key to any protracted campaign, as every great leader knows, from Ike to Jesse James.

The good people of Shmooldom have conscientiously been sending me nominations of worthy additions to my crack team, The Magnanimous Seven. As I am always on the lookout for good soliders to bring to the cause, I am grateful for the public's vigilance and sense of civic responsibility in this matter.

A couple of notable nominees:

Hawkeye the Navy SEAL [nomination courtesy of the Personal Secretary to Godzilla from Sandy Ego]. Fascinating. A cat that has mastered subaquatic maneuvers — the strategic possibilities seem limitless. However, on closer review of the submersion demo, I have noticed that while Hawkeye appears completely at ease in the water, and has a mastery of his diving gear, he doesn't seem to move around. At all. He just floats there, like a some kind of fur-bearing manatee. In short, it seems Hawkeye is perhaps too much at ease in the water. And we already have one sluggard on the team. So, give me a call if Hawkeye ever wakes up.

Fred the Undercover Cat [nomination courtesy of The Woman]. A master of disguise and infiltration, Fred ironically earned fame and public accolades for his undercover work — attention which inevitably compromises one's effectiveness as a plainclothescat. Sadly, Fred was recently killed in a “traffic accident” — though those of us familiar with the many enemies Fred made during his years as a flatfoot find this “accident” highly suspicious. A pity — our team could have used a dependable inside man. I assure you, inquiries are being made.

So, good intentions aside, my team stands strong but unimproved. We have here two uniquely specialized candidates of great ability, yet one is dead, the other inert. Keep those nominations coming. And thank you for your support.

The Mamarazzi

“Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.” ~Alexander Pope

Fame is a dangerous thing. In my line of business, a reputation is desirable, and I have labored long and hard to build a name that resonates far and wide among the citizenry. As another dark knight also discovered, a reputation that evolves into legend, a name whispered fearfully in the dark, is more powerful than bold action itself.

But fame... fame is another matter. Fame is the dangerous spotlight that can unravel the shadowy cloak of legend. Fame attracts the gawkers and obsequients whose sole gratification is to brush even momentarily against something great. The last thing a dark warrior needs is an entourage of hangers-on.

Thus have I learned to be wary of the press, with their incessant flash-bulbery and prod-n-poke microphonics. Lately, though, I confess with some distaste that I have caved — reluctantly, I must add — to the sin of permissiveness. I have allowed a lone photographer to infiltrate my field of operations, even to cross within my Circle of Death. Trust me, this is a one-time arrangement, but in the end I felt I had to weigh my personal misgivings against my obligations to posterity.

It helps that the aforementioned shutterbug is a familiar; it is, in fact, the Woman. And not only do I intimately recognize every nuance of her gait and demeanor, but my ground rules, obviously, have long been carved into her psyche. Thus, with this mutual understanding forming the bedrock of my forbearance, the Woman has been able to produce, with the appropriate decorum, the following exposition:

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S H M O O L - E N F O T O
© 2006 The Woman

I - The Trojan Cat. It appears here that the infiltrator has effected a surprise approach to my rear quarter. Our hero is a sitting duck! Ah, but notice the ears, swiveled back and locked onto the unsuspecting victim. Note also the head and tail positioned at 1/8 clockwise rotation, the haunches tucked and coiled, the spring-loaded claws kept carefully out of sight. In less than a whisker's twitch, this seemingly-vulnerable cat-at-repose can wheel and explode into a slashing whirlwind of sudden death. Indeed, for anyone but the Woman, this would be the last vision beheld by the hapless intruder.

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II - Law of the Land. The protector surveys his dominion. Here the Woman demonstrates her talent for composition. Note the framing at right, the extra space suggesting the unseen tail of the hero, thus creating a spatially-accurate portrait of the Total Cat. The ears protrude ever-so-slightly above the horizon, in symbolic representation of the warrior's 90% focus on his immediate surroundings, but with a prudent and ever-vigilant reserve of awareness of the beyond. Finally, a fence-arch in the distance here forms a natural halo over the subject's head, a Classical flourish indicating divinity.

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III - Hunter at the Oasis. A simple, candid moment as the warrior pauses for refreshment. This, incidentally, is the same reservoir once invaded, and later befouled, by the vulgar crows of L'Omicidio Sanguinante. In a sense, this was the Pearl Harbor of the summer's destructive Cani-Corvine War. For their trouble, the crows earned death, dismemberment, and dishonor. And that which was mine is mine once again.

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IV - Pressing Your Luck. The Woman is pushing it here. With this frontal intrusion into the Circle of Death, while the warrior is on duty and positioned front-center at the edge of his bulwark, she is in clear violation of treaty. The posture speaks for itself: ears, brow, whiskers all lowered into attack configuration; all five appendages tucked; the entire being drawn tautly inward. This is the coiled moment of patience's end. No doubt the Woman, beholding this portentious countenance in her viewfinder, fell back pallid and shaken, having glimpsed — and recorded — the face of doom itself.

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V - Spirit of Ares, Body of Adonis. Truly, has Olympian strength and nobility ever been so singularly personified? Note the strong, commanding profile, the forceful concentration of attention, the head bowed ever so slightly in that contemplative posture exhibited only by the greatest of minds. The eyes alone embody tremendous fortitude and unwavering focus tempered by the serenity of great wisdom. And look at that ripped physique — even the lush, luxurious fur cannot hide the definition and tone of a body forged on the battlefield. Neither bronze nor marble could contain the godlike cut of a warrior honed to such perfection. Behold, sublimity.

Plummet of the idgit

Back in time once again for another “Year One” chronicle from the Morgue of Antiquity:

02 JULY 1995 - Into the abyss

Alarm! All hands! Man overboard!

My pretty-boy moron of a brother has gone and gotten himself into another ridiculous predicament. Through his uncanny aptitude for infiltration of forbidden spaces, he managed to locate a point of egress from this tower in which we now find ourselves imprisoned. A notable accomplishment, except that this aperature only provides access to a short and precariously narrow stretch of scaffolding a perilous 70 or 80 haunch-spans over the hard, dark, sooty firmament below, with its hellish machinations and belching chariot-demons.

Many times now, I have watched with horror and disbelief as my acumen-deprived sibling recklessly sauntered the span of this precipice -- out one portal-slot and in the other, and looking downright smug about it. Only this time, the secondary slot (his intended ingress) happened to be well-secured, leaving him marooned high above that unforgiving eternity.

Realizing his situation, his first reaction -- of course! -- was to peer though the glass and meow plaintively to ME. Sure, brother, NOW you call upon your more prudent and deliberate half to come bail you out of this idiotic situation?

Not being hard-hearted, and feeling an utterly improbable sense of responsibility for this buffoon (who, incidentally, hogs all the food-pellets), I examined the sealed portal currently separating Fabio from a long and prosperous life. Latched properly. Not a thing to be done for him -- no humans about to summon for assistance, no means of fabricating an emergency escape hatch.

It was while I was giving the latching mechanism a thorough examination that I noticed Fabio was already in the middle of a mortifyingly ill-conceived maneuver. He was attempting to turn around in place, in order to work his way back to his original insertion point. Gauging the narrowness of the ledge in relation to the length of Fabio's body, I could see as mathematical certainty the inevitable result of this moronic contortion, and pressing my face and paws against the glass, all but begged him to reconsider.

And then, I confess that for the first time in my life, I was overtaken by a squeamish horror. I turned away, closed my eyes, and waited for the splat.

After a long moment, I chanced a glance back at the precipice, and sure enough, he was gone. Well, not GONE, as it turned out, for I then saw two claws still clinging to the ledge, and when I edged closer to the glass, beheld the pathetic spectacle of my brother, hanging desperately by his front paws, dangling over the abyss, and staring up at me, eyes bulging and mouth agape in terror. And oh how he then shrieked.

That pretty much brings us up to the present. Here we are, Fabio and I, separated by a pane of glass and the chasmal difference in our wits. He is STILL out there, still valiantly clinging to life, meowing pitifully, and I remain in here, safe and cozy, gazing in vigil down at this pathetic and desperate situation, wondering if maybe these's a chance he could pull...

Whoops. There he goes.

Wow. Damn. Well. That's that, I guess. Hm.

Oh well. He was a pain to look after, anyway. Guess that means more food for me.

*** UPDATE - AMENDMENT TO REPORT ***

Some six or seven hours after Fabio's plummet into destiny, the mad Dr. Poupolis returned to the lair, at which point I attempted to inform him of the tragic demise of my ill-fated sibling. I told the story in lavish detail and with all the dramatic flare that I'm sure Fabio would have wanted, yet the Doctor just stared at me blankly in total ignorance.

I repeated the tale, and although he did listen, I still detected no lantern of cognition in his eyes. Indeed, he responded by pouring pellets into my bowl. Dinner? DINNER?! Can you not hear the words coming out of my mouth, man?

So I ate. And then, tried a third time.

This time, he seemed to get the idea. Maybe it was the fact that Fabio wasn't clawing his way up the Doctor's leg, as per ritual, or maybe that a meal had just been eaten with dignity and grace, but whatever the clue that tipped him off, he finally took notice of Fabio's absence.

Quickly, I led the man over to the infamous portal overlooking Fabio's ledge of death. I looked out the window, then up at Dr. Poupolis. He STILL didn't get it. I gave him the most acerbic and exasperated of meows, looked AGAIN out the window, and AGAIN, pointedly, up at his bewildered face.

And I wondered, how, sir, is it that YOU have not managed to fall out this window by now?

Suddenly, then, it dawned on him. I saw the horror of understanding flash across his visage.

Correct, Doctor. FABIO HAS LEFT THE BUILDING.

He bolted from the lair with a speed and determination I would not ordinarily have credited in him. He will be fetching the carcass now, I thought, assuming the vultures have left anything for him to find. Not a pleasant task, but I steeled myself, in case I would be called upon to identify the flattened remains.

And then...

The Doctor returned. And there, seemingly stapled to his chest, puffing mightily and losing hair by the clump, was my brother -- shaken and scarred and covered in filth, but very much alive.

I am at a total loss to account for his survival, nor can I even begin to fathom what horrors and nightmares he witnessed and endured during his time in The Pit. All I can offer for posterity is the truism that FORTUNE FAVORS THE FOOLISH -- and never so generously as today.

And I would also be deliquent if I did not here record that within mere hours, my brother, this imbecile sine pari, was AGAIN out on that ledge.