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.