The familiar rock-styled, bass-heavy jingle begins to play, ten minutes after eleven. A little late, but it’s been later in the past. She turns up the radio volume to drown out the consistent and dutiful hum of the engine.
“Good evening, worms and germs, you scum of the earth.” The sound of keys clinking, landing on a table after being thrown. The sound of a cup of something being heavily set down without regard for if it spills. The jingle fades out. “A happy Friday to you, listeners, here’s hoping this weekend isn’t as sh*t as the last!” His voice is constantly coated with sarcasm and vitriol, a deep growl that can be pleasant to listen to when he puts in the effort; but he does not. “Let’s get right into it. AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long.”
The song begins immediately. Kaeloo is in a particularly receptive mood tonight, and smiles and relaxes a little at the opening riff. She goes down from her toes to putting her whole foot on the pavement, and her motorcycle leans with its support. The kickstand doesn’t work anymore, which is to say it doesn’t exist anymore. That’s okay. These things come and go.
Kaeloo bobs her head and taps her fingers on the dashboard, not completely in time with the beat and not mumble-singing the words correctly because she has only heard this song a couple of times before. She knows the “shook me all night long part” and takes great pride in emphatically humming along to it. And then the song stops abruptly, like it was turned off instead of having ended - but no, that’s just how the song ends. There’s a couple of seconds of silence, and she waits patiently for him to speak.
“It’s a classic,” he confidently declares. “But none so classic as us, folks—welcome! To 66.89, the radio station time forgot. You are listening to After Hours with Mr Cat and I,” he pauses dramatically, smugly, “am him.”
She smiles. It’s because he’s smiling, she can hear it, and it’s infectious. It’s also a bit of her own genuine excitement and impatience, because it is Friday, and Mr Cat is bound to finally address what she has been waiting for all week.
“For new listeners, none of whom exist because 66 is a dead zone and it’s all f*ckin’ podcasts these days, this is a show where I get on and do whatever I want while the studio heads sit back in horror. Returning listeners, who I’m aware may not exist either, it’s your favourite boy once again, here to close out this long-ass week at last. It was a long week this week, wasn’t it? Felt longer than the others.”
“You’re telling me,” Kaeloo says to the radio.
“A sh*t week, actually. My apartment building is a mess.” He has already spoken at length about this topic, and he will continue to do so. “All the carpets ripped up, can’t walk through without stepping on a nail or drying concrete. You may think, Mr Cat, why don’t you take advantage of the situation? Write your name or something? And don’t you worry, listeners, I’ve written and drawn my fair share of obscenities. I have done my duty. It’s now just the waiting and the sawdust and the tradesmen– it’s inconvenient. I didn’t ask for the carpets to change, the owners just decided it was time. They don’t even live here, they just collect their dues and go. Assholes.”
Kaeloo’s line of work dictates that she come across foul language on the regular, but she still cringes at it and would prefer if her entertainment didn’t have to devolve into the same debauchery.
At least it doesn’t last forever. Mr Cat can go on these tirades for hours, but he’s already been doing that all week. Friday is always his mellowest day. “Anyway.” He hits a button on his keyboard and the next song starts to play, slowly fading in as his voice goes out. “Have some Drake. Hotline Bling.”
She doesn’t know this one so she just nods her head in a general sort of vibe. It’s not fully to her tastes, but rarely anything Mr Cat plays is. She does her best to consume and appreciate every song regardless; it’s important to keep an open mind about these things.
“It’s good but the bridge is inferior,” says Mr Cat when the song is over. “Ruins the flow as well as gives Drake the chance to go on yet again about how she’s a ‘good girl’. You don’t know that anymore, pal, you left. Let her be the slu*t she wants to be.”
There’s a lot for Kaeloo to unpack in how she feels about this sentiment. On one hand she agrees completely, the girl the song is about should be allowed to go do what she likes with her new friends – but his word choice is...unfortunate.
He’s still talking but she has to turn him down; Quack-Quack and Stumpy are walking out of the front of the building. Quack-Quack catches Kaeloo’s eye – or at least her helmet – and nods at where she’s been idling in the alleyway across the road. The two of them get into Stumpy’s car while the garage doors open and the shiny model Pretty drives comes out. Kaeloo kicks her bike into gear and follows when they go. It’s time to work.
If Quack-Quack is coming then it means they need this to go well. It means the contact is one Olaf would prefer to keep rather than strike from the list. He’s been intent on this exercise lately, going down his list of associates and checking who’s on his side. For the people who have to carry this out, it’s often unpleasant. Not always; after all, a lot of contacts still have tons of camaraderie and rapport with crews and everything between them is swell. But if Kaeloo has to be here, it’s not the case. Kaeloo is brought out for when things get ugly. The plan here must be for Quack-Quack to talk the contact down – he’s good at that, despite the lack of voice – and only sic the dog on them if it goes awry. And it always goes awry.
Kaeloo has the radio wired into her earpiece, as the others do, for the purposes of listening to the police scanners. She listens now, unbeknownst to the contact. She is the still and silent figure at the back, unassuming in her full-body uniform that hides her muscles and tattoos. At this point it’s not necessary, she’s known by reputation by enough people that concealing her identity is not an issue. But Olaf insists on keeping the “element of surprise”.
To this she just thinks, sure, whatever you say.
The contact draws a pistol on Stumpy, which means they either don’t know anything about him or they know too much, but whichever it is it’s irrelevant because a threat made on any employee of Emperor Enterprises is enough to warrant punishment. Kaeloo snaps their neck and chases down the two associates who run – Pretty takes out the two who stay, she’s a real sharpshooter – and is annoyed the entire time. Annoyed both due to the contact’s behaviour and the continued mess that the city is in, alliances broken left and right, everyone backstabbing everyone else, and because she is missing After Hours. The longer these idiot dissenters draw this out, the more she doesn’t hear, the more chance she has of missing the segment she has been waiting for. Mr Cat usually does it early in his five-hour run, he could be doing it now for all she knows. And the idea of that, of missing it - absolutely enrages her and she runs over the last associate and backs up and runs him over again. Just squishes him into the road until he’s little more than a splatter.
The haze clears a little and Kaeloo does some of her breathing exercises. She likes them, they help centre her, but they don’t make the anger go away. It makes her feel misled, actually; her therapist said the exercises would make it go away.
Kaeloo returns to the garage where the meeting took place and helps with the bodies. She is the strongest of everyone present and easily hauls each corpse into the mulcher.
“Boss won’t be happy about this,” sighs Pretty. It’s needless to say, but at least someone said it. The silence is uncomfortable, and Kaeloo knows they all agree on that point because Stumpy talks the whole way back to the office. She listens through her earpiece, because it is her job to listen, all the while resisting the urge to change channels.
It is ten minutes past midnight when they get back. Pretty’s done for the week and she and Kaeloo exchange friendly goodbyes, but Stumpy’s still on for the night, picking up and making deliveries. A small job, but Quack-Quack must be with him at all times, and if Kaeloo is available to keep those two protected, that is what she must do as well.
She’s forced to tune between the personal station, hearing what Stumpy and Quack-Quack are talking about, to the police scanner, making sure no one is on their tail, and 66.89, hoping and praying she hasn’t missed what she’s been waiting for, meeting music almost every time she switches back over.
After one o’clock Kaeloo simmers in the parking space out the front of the post office, sure she’s missed it. Quack-Quack indicated that this pickup would take a little while – friends in the office, that sort of thing – and he and Stumpy have indeed been gone for fifteen minutes now, so she doesn’t feel bad about cranking 66.89 full volume.
Mr Cat has been reading from the paper this entire time, which is one of her least favourite segments of his show, but that’s the thing; it’s his show, and as he has stated many, many times, he can do whatever he wants on it. And newspapers don’t go on forever.
“Well, looks like we’ve hit the comics. I’m not much of a fan of them for myself, but allow me to paraphrase.” Mr Cat clears his throat exaggeratedly. “Panel one is of Garfield lying on his back, with purple background, if that matters. Panel two is of him – oh, he’s glancing upwards, to the camera. He’s noticed the audience. And panel three, this is the last one, is of him saying – well, thinking, you know how they do his speech bubble – ‘stop making f*cking Garfield jokes’. Huh! That’s strange, never thought they’d put something like that in the paper…”
It takes Kaeloo a second. But the way Mr Cat throws down the newspaper so hard she can hear it hit the floor clues her in.
“Listeners, you’re not comedians. You’re not the ones with the hit late-night show, I am. Stop sending emails with dumb memes of my head on Garfield, or my head on any cat, or any cat pictures at all. It’s so old. Yeah, my name is the same as an animal, laugh it up, have your fun. I bet everyone really likes you. I bet your friends don’t secretly hate you; if you have any friends to begin with.”
The harshness is Kaeloo’s least favourite part of all. She frowns at the radio as she fiddles with her helmet. She’d had the visor up to get some fresh air in, but she still feels too hot and sweaty, so off it comes. She hooks it on the handlebar and crosses her arms over the windshield, stretching a little and trying to chill, but she can only do so much for now. Her leg continues to serve as the kickstand.
“I know, I know, a little off-formula to be mentioning emails when I answer my fanmail early in the week. But emails, unlike letters, listeners, I can see coming in in real time. So to the joker at…” He pauses for a second. “To the joker behind mistercoolskin69@PTM, congratulations, you are the first ever listener to have an instantaneous question and response. Now get back to the line with everyone else.”
Kaeloo tries not to sigh too mournfully, but she just can’t help it.
Then, Mr Cat goes on, “On the topic of your fanmail, though, listeners, there is something I got on Monday that I haven’t touched all week,” and she bolts upright, shoulders tensed, staring at the glowing numbers of the radio. “I thought I’d have gotten to it by now but honestly, to whoever wrote it, what the f*ck. The envelope is so thick, I keep thinking you’ve sent me a f*cking manuscript. It’s intimidating; there, I said it. You’ll never hear me say that again.”
The telltale rustling and tearing of paper. It’s happening. He is opening it, he is going to read it.
After Hours with Mr Cat runs from 11pm to 4am every weeknight, he gets weekends off.. When Mr Cat returns to the station on Monday, he is handed a pile of mail that has collected over the past week, and that night he will go through his correspondence, reading and replying over the air. Sometimes he saves things for Tuesday and Wednesday, sometimes new notes have come in from the stationheads overnight that he simply must address. Because that’s a lot of his mail; notes and messages from the higher-ups, who by rights should have all the power in this situation, but can do nothing better than to make petty complaints and beg pathetically through the medium of post-it notes. Mr Cat loves it. He loves reading these out and snarking and quipping and making fun of the people who wrote them, she can tell. And he loves reading his fan mail, because when he gets something nice, which is rare, Kaeloo can hear in his voice how pleased and flattered he is.
Mostly it’s jokes and weird questions and comments, though. Mr Cat obviously enjoys responding to all interaction, maybe even prefers nonsense or negativity, but Kaeloo wishes he’d get a little more positive reinforcement. It has been four months and a half since he last received anything nice, and the drought had been bumming Kaeloo out so much that she broke her one rule. It’s just, she felt she had to do something. Who could say how the lack of positivity was affecting Mr Cat? Aside from Mr Cat, of course, who would have certainly said something if he felt anything about it, but Kaeloo still felt obligated.
“Good news, listeners, it’s not a crazy manifesto, it’s a folded up poster of...a river.”
A creek, thinks Kaeloo, but she won’t fault him.
“Oh, and an actual note. Let’s see.” She hears him grumbling and sweeping his hand across paper. “There’s confetti. Person who sent this in, unless you’re a professional clown or five years old, how about you tone that down.”
She feels a slight pang of hurt and embarrassment in her chest.
“Dear Mr Cat,” reads Mr Cat, stopping immediately to comment, “Dear! Finally I’m paid the respect I deserve. Dear Mr Cat, I am a long time listener of your show – good taste, thank you – but this is my first time writing in – what took you so long? I mostly keep to myself but sometimes feel lonely, and listening to you makes me feel better. You have a very nice voice–” He stops, maybe skimming ahead a little, then keeps reading, a bit slower, more deliberately, “You have a very nice voice but oftentimes don’t speak as well as you could to accentuate it. Still, I look forward to hearing it every night. Thank you for reading, I just wanted to express how much I appreciate you and your show, and maybe bring you a piece of the joy you’ve brought me. You could hang the poster on the wall of the recording studio.” Another pause. It is not normal for him not to comment along as he reads. Kaeloo has never felt more anxious in her life. He says the next part much quicker in contrast to the rest of the reading like he needs to get it all out in one breath, “P.S. What is your favourite colour? Mine is green. Orange.”
It's quiet for a few seconds; Kaeloo hears more paper rustling. Mr Cat is flipping the letter over in his hands.
“My favourite colour is orange,” he says again, “and this was written by no one, apparently. It’s not signed, but there is a sticker of a frog at the bottom. So…” The sound of him folding the letter and putting it down. “Thanks.” Though he’s doing his best to sound normal, Kaeloo can hear that he is baffled, thrown, taken aback by her correspondence.
“Yeah, that’s not what I was expecting,” Mr Cat says more in his usual cadence. “I mean, maybe I was on the right track with it being from a crazy person, but…” He cracks his knuckles right over the microphone. “That was twee in a way I would never have called. His handwriting is– well, could be from a girl.” He barks a laugh at himself. “Girls don’t listen to my show, we all know – but hey, if any do! Ladies, if you’re out there.” He shuffles around with something. Fully unfolding the poster? Kaeloo leans in, waiting with baited breath.
Mr Cat whaps the poster with his hand, based on the sound. “Ladies, if you’re out there, there are much better pictures you could be sending than these. Think about something a man would really want up on the wall.”
Kaeloo blushes and scoffs and turns off the radio. She sits back, but only for a few seconds, then bangs her fists on the dashboard in frustration. She switches off the engine and walks her motorcycle over to the wall so it has something to lean on, and she stomps and paces all about the parking lot, swearing and cursing and waving her hands.
From 3:30 she is at her apartment, off for the night, lying in bed. Listening once more. Mr Cat yawns and she does the same, but not because he did it first, because she definitely needed to yawn all by herself.
He has been playing some lofi beats, running out the clock, like he usually does at this time – most of all on Fridays. There are some nights where he won’t even do an outro, but he does tonight, keeping it simple.
“Another week of crappy content comes to a close, beloved listeners. I’m wiped; see you Monday.” And the little jingle from the beginning of the show plays again as Mr Cat takes off his headphones and flicks switches, and the audio cuts out, remaining silent for a full three seconds before the shipping forecast begins. The guy who does that segment gets in just as Mr Cat is finished.
Kaeloo doesn’t listen to the shipping forecast.
She has a good weekend working security in Olaf’s office building. It’s relaxing compared to being out on the street, she likes being alongside Eugly and Serguei, she likes not having to kill people. And when she drives, she gets to do so on her own terms, taking her bike out around the city and listening to music she likes. Sunday night she has a strange dream.
Yes, all in all a good weekend for Kaeloo.
Work for the week begins early; at 5pm on Monday, the enterprise liberates a warehouse from enemy hands, and Pretty’s crew is stationed there to do whatever it takes to get it up and running smoothly again. This is both good and bad news. It means it will be a while of more mellow work, which runs the risk of dulling everyone’s skills. But Pretty is a hardass and Olaf is even more so, so Kaeloo isn’t that concerned. For tonight and tomorrow, it’s a lot of hours-long driving to remote towns outside the city for supplies to be done. Not terribly dangerous work as these are contacts that can be trusted, but Kaeloo must escort the trucks regardless.
Pretty stays at the warehouse. “It’s a dump,” she explains. “Someone has to get it looking presentable, and that someone is me.” Her argument isn’t bad, she’s a terribly stylish lady with an eye for aesthetically pleasing designs of all sorts. Kaeloo sort of wishes she could hang back and watch her in what seems like her true element, but duty calls. Three hours drive out of the city, three hours back.
They hit the road at 9. Kaeloo listens to the police scanner long after the information is even relevant, long after the road is lit by neon signs, long after it all becomes surrounding desert and farmland. A long stretch of nothing.
The jingle to After Hours leads immediately to a song. Kaeloo doesn’t know it by name but she recognises the opening riff, and it revitalises her after an uneventful two hours and she finds herself overtaking the trucks without meaning to; she slows and goes back behind on the other side, pretending it was a deliberate circle. The drivers don’t seem to notice or care.
“That was Smoke On The Water from Deep Purple, I am Mr Cat, and you are listening to After Hours.” If Friday is him at his least energised, Monday is him at his most. He is rested and motivated and clear-voiced. He gladly makes use of the guitar he keeps in the studio – actually, Kaeloo doesn’t know if he keeps it there or not, maybe he takes it home. The point is he strums at it a little bit, a substitute for a drum roll before he speaks.
“Well, listeners, you did it, you broke me with your memes. I’ll start eating lasagna and declaring my hatred for Mondays, because what a rough one it was today. If I were the kind of guy to get up in the morning, I’m sure it would have been rough. Luckily I’m not, and don’t you worry, I slept through my Saturday hangover like a champion and awoke this afternoon a new man, in a new apartment. That’s a figure of speech, of course; it’s the same sh*t as always, but hey! With a brand new carpet. Yes, that’s right, folks, the nightmare is over. The operation was a complete success and peace has been restored. As restored as it can be in my terrible building on the bad side of town – but listen, we’ve got all the time in the world to talk about how sh*tty my life is, and I’ve got some stuff I’d like to address first.”
The shuffling of papers.
“Now, you just know it’s gonna be a great day at work when you come in to a stack of mail with a post-it note on top. Honestly and truly, I think the studio heads are my biggest fans. Might even be the only ones listening. How’s it going, boys? Oh, me? I’m fine. I’m just about to take a look at what you’ve left me this time, which I’ll admit right now I had a little peek at already. It’s mostly your fault for writing in a big red marker - how’s your blood pressure doing?”
His shoes thunk down on his desk; Kaeloo can just imagine the pose. Leaning back in his chair, maybe with one hand up behind his head, one leg crossed over the other from where he’s put them up on the table. The microphone hangs on high from its stand, his headphones are in place. He holds a yellow post-it note, squinting at it.
“As always, last week I said some things that warranted a little feedback from the bosses, and as always I am so grateful for it. My only desire is to entertain and bring joy to the people.” The word choice, the same she used in her letter, makes her heart catch. The fact that he is being extremely facetious is irrelevant.
Mr Cat takes his feet off the table and leans forward now, one elbow resting on the edge as he speaks. “First things first, I would never advocate for using nuclear measures against any sea life, most of all whales. They’re God’s perfect creatures, they’re peak mammal performance, we can all agree. They swim in the ocean, leaping and f*cking around - and eating, I assume. They sing, we’ve all heard a cheap whale song tape at some point in our lives, right? They sing and it’s very beautiful.” He inhales with impressive seriousness; his poker face must be incredible. “Whales are obviously the backbone of our society. The lifeblood of the world. We shouldn’t kill them, we should give them all medals. Frankly, I’m offended that anyone would believe I feel otherwise. I hope that settles this matter once and for all. Now I am going to play a 12-minute long whale song and you’re all going to sit there and like it.”
His audio cuts out and the cries of whales begin to play.
Mr Cat got quite painfully drunk on-air last Wednesday after 2, and at one point he did in fact say the government should just blow up all the whales, calling them freeloaders and sounding very incensed about the matter indeed. Whether that was how he truly felt or not, he didn’t stick to the topic, he’d done plenty of other things that night. Kaeloo most distinctly remembers him singing along to the entirety of Red Vox’s Another Light album, eating up the better part of an hour but somehow not getting old.
She personally feels very strongly about the preservation of whales and thinks he is now being a bit unnecessarily cruel with his jokes. This is what she thinks about most things he says at all times, yet she still listens. It’s a repulsed fascination she feels towards this abrasive and mean-spirited man. It’s impossible to tune out.
Wednesday night’s show ended with him in tears.
“I’ve also got a note here saying I made some sexist comments last Friday, and I’d like to clear the air on that one. I am not a sexist, I was just joking. I have nothing but love and respect for all women, listener or no,” he leans into the microphone and speaks softly though his volume remains the same, “and I would be more than happy to prove it.”
Kaeloo does not like how she shivers in reaction to that. But she does forgive him.
He smacks his lips and speaks in a completely different, bright tone, like that didn’t just happen, “I’m gonna switch over to some emails now because I simply cannot keep squinting at the paper in this light.”
“Maybe you need glasses,” mutters Kaeloo, and is shocked by what feels like a direct response.
“I need to get new contacts. Listen to Bang A Gong by T.Rex while we wait for the offensively long dial-up to load, okay? Okay.”
“Okay,” she says pointlessly, a little dumbfounded. In the fourteen months she has dutifully listened to almost every After Hours broadcast, this is the first time she is hearing about Mr Cat wearing contact lenses. He probably has mentioned it before during a period of time she had to miss, but still – what a revelation.
There’s always something to think about with him.
After Bang A Gong, he plays Thunderstruck without any break in between, not even to introduce it, so the internet connection at the station must be quite poor indeed. But when the song is over his voice returns and he does put a name to it and credit AC/DC, and then Mr Cat starts in on some of the email queries he has received over the last week.
He has been going for a few minutes when suddenly it heats up. “Why would you call yourself Mr Cat if you don’t want anyone making jokes...” He trails off into a grumble that barely resembles ‘about cats’ and scoffs, and Kaeloo hears the loud clacking of fingers on a big computer keyboard, the clicking of a mouse. After a couple of seconds of that, uncommentated, Mr Cat pushes himself away from the desk he is sitting at, his swivel chair making loud rolling sounds against the grain of the wooden floor. Maybe he spins a little.
“I don’t know how many times I have to say it, I don’t know how many times it’ll take before it penetrates your thick skulls, listeners.” He rights himself back at the table, speaking very seriously indeed. “I don’t owe anyone an explanation as to why I would call myself anything, nor do I owe one for why I don’t want people making jokes about it beyond because I said so.” He cracks his knuckles beneath the microphone. “That’s all you get.”
A wave of respect floods through Kaeloo when a sudden crack that splits the air, loud, unprecedented, and her first thought is that it was a gunshot, someone is shooting at them. She brakes hard, turning her bike on its side in the middle of the road so when she stops she provides as much of a one-man blockade as she can between the threat and the trucks, putting on her high beams, preparing for a fight–
But there’s nothing. There are no vehicles anywhere near the convoy in either direction, there are no people or buildings, nothing that could have made a sound. But on the horizon lies the city, lit well thanks to all the light pollution, and in the sky above, dark clouds swirl. Kaeloo follows the sky to what lies above her, and it is cloudy here too in a way that spells eventual rain. It must be raining in the city already. A second bolt of lightning strikes followed by another deafening roll of thunder. Kaeloo’s heartbeat begins to settle, but only just.
“Jesus f*ck!” shouts Mr Cat, his voice going half to static. “Did you f*cking– That was– Oh, god.” His headphones clatter on the table and he actually gets up out of his chair and walks away from it, towards a window. His voice is faint but still able to be picked up by the microphone. “I hate the rain. This better not last.”
It does, for the rest of the night and the entire next day. Wednesday changes things up by having the rain pelt down even harder, without pause. Wind howls, shops close and roads flood; work is delayed until the weather settles and Kaeloo spends the rest of the week in her apartment.
Mr Cat misses Wednesday and only Wednesday because the garage of the studio flooded that night, but come Thursday it’s all cleared out and the facility workers have blocked up all entryways to ensure it doesn’t happen again. The storm continues for days and nights, and Mr Cat still comes in to do the show. On Thursday he is audibly miserable and bemoans his woes over a hot chocolate in between long stretches of only music, as dour as his collection allows – which is quite dour, indeed.
By 3am Kaeloo has been lying in front of her wall-sized window for hours, reading by candlelight and listening to the sad tones of whatever beautiful jazz singer Mr Cat has been playing; he hasn’t introduced anything tonight and she doesn’t know any of it. Her book has been really good and the ambience of the rain and the sad music has done it a great service, but Kaeloo is antsy to return to the road, and Mr Cat ends the show 40 minutes early, citing that he’s “too damn tired” to go on and “no one is listening, anyway.”
“I am, Mr Cat,” Kaeloo gently tells her radio.
And though she told herself it was a one-time thing, though this has always been her one rule when it comes to consuming any media of any kind, though she felt stupid for having done it the first time, having hyped it up to herself only to end up disappointed...she writes a second letter.
On Friday he shakes a bottle of something into the microphone and announces his plans to do shots. Kaeloo exclaims to the radio, “Don’t!” as if her cry will actually reach him, but he assures her – the listeners, the audience in general – that it’s half a flask of bourbon and won’t kill him. Indeed, he’s powered through it by 2 and only slurs his words a little, telling half-finished anecdotes and not muting himself during songs so the world can hear him singing along.
Kaeloo is endeared, but very sad for him. She drifts to sleep half an hour later and misses the end.
The rain has lessened on Saturday, and by the afternoon it’s barely a light shower. The sun is shining through the clouds. Pretty calls.
“Come out for drinks with us tonight?” she asks hopefully.
Kaeloo gazes pensively out her large bedroom window, clutching the curtains, squinting into the grey plumes that still remain. “I don’t know. Who’s us?”
“Me, Eugly and Quack-Quack, of course!” Pretty nearly splutters.
“Not Stumpy?”
“Ugh.” She groans and rolls her eyes; Kaeloo doesn’t need to be present to know she’s doing it. “If he shows up, I’m leaving.”
“If I came, would you stay?”
Pretty thinks about this. “Mm,” she says.
A smile starts to break out on Kaeloo’s face. “Mm…?” she says back, leadingly.
“Maybe,” finishes Pretty.
The five of them have a fun night together. The rain continues as a light drizzle into Sunday before receding completely.
*
Past one on Monday; later than usual because the mail was wet and needed to dry out. “Dear Mr Cat,” reads Mr Cat, “The rain this week has been so dreadful that even the two most productive people I know, myself and you,” he pauses as if to comment on how the sender doesn’t know him, but then goes on reading, “have been affected. When I’m bored or sad, or just have free time, I enjoy playing games to pass it and help myself feel better. Maybe you could do the same on your show; there are plenty of single-player games out there that can be entertaining for both the player and an audience. Or you could try a two-player game and play against yourself, maybe envisioning the audience as the opposition. Think about it! I have included a deck of cards to get you started. Sincerely.” There’s another pause. “Sincerely nothing. No, wait– Sincerely, and a frog sticker.”
Mr Cat loudly crumples the letter into a ball and tosses it; that’s definitely what he does, there’s no mistaking the sound, and Kaeloo’s face falls from behind her helmet. Her spirits are lifted, however, by what he says, “Welcome back, frog sticker, I didn’t recognise you with the ink all runny.”
He remembered her first letter. It warms her heart. She guns down another biker following the convoy.
“I’ll be honest with you, frog, I’m not one for games. Not at all. Didn’t like them as a kid, don’t like them now. I’ll be frank; I hate playing games and this is the worst idea I’ve ever heard in my life.” The sound of nails clicking against a small box. “Thanks for the cards, though. Let’s move on to this next one–”
Kaeloo decides it’s a possible detriment to her work to listen to the radio as she’s doing it, and rips out her earpiece and stuffs it in the throat of the person she is throttling to death. Yes, she thinks, she really needs to be more disciplined and focused while on the clock.
But lo and behold, on Tuesday he is playing Solitaire and narrating the experience. He grows tired of it after a short while and goes on playing music and talking about everything else in the world except cards – but Kaeloo can still hear him shuffling them in his hands, quietly but endlessly, for the whole rest of the night.
“I didn’t go home when I got off the show this morning,” says Mr Cat in lieu of an intro on Wednesday. Kaeloo hasn’t even left her apartment for the night. “I left my car at the station and just walked.”
She puts down her hairbrush, hands gripping the edge of her vanity. She stares at her portable radio the way an archeologist would stare at an artefact of great importance.
“I didn’t have a plan, I didn’t have anywhere I wanted to go; I just went. It’s a blur, I lost time, I was passing my apartment building one second and watching the sun rise on the other side of town the next. It made me feel...something. I hadn’t watched the sun rise in ages. Years. Maybe not since I was a kid.”
Kaeloo watches the sun rise all the time. It’s a lovely and peaceful experience she hopes all people can have at some point in their lives.
“I was at a crossroads; metaphorically, that is, the train line was,” there’s a pause and he’s probably whirling his wrist looking for the right description, “I wasn’t near the train line. I was thinking about...my life, and this show, and wondering if this is all there is for me. If this is all there ever will be.”
Kaeloo’s home phone rings. She waits until it stops, then takes the receiver out of its cradle and sets it down on the table so she will not have to hear it start up again.
“I showed up at my brothers’ office, I dunno, to see them? One or the other?” Mr Cat scoffs. “Neither were there, thank god, it was just janitors and doormen. The guy at the front recognised me and for some f*cking reason thought it would be fine to let me in. I went around by myself, taking a look at the old life, the state of things. On some level, you know, I know it’s what I was made for, I know if I wanted back in, they’d have me in a second,” he snaps his fingers, “and it would be like nothing ever happened. Part of the family again.”
There is a long pause before he finishes the monologue, “f*ck that.”
Mr Cat has mentioned his brothers three times before and has never once been sober while doing so. From his most incoherent drunken tirades, Kaeloo has assessed that the relationship is poor, that “family” for him is not what it should be; loving, safe, stable. She doesn't know who they are or what they do, Mr Cat has never spoken their names and she obviously cannot use his to track anyone down - not that that stopped her from trying, but her results of the time didn’t strike her as terribly viable; too coincidental. She’d found it unlikely that Mr Cat’s life was closer to hers than she initially thought, even if she could picture him in a crime syndicate role. That had been a year ago, and she has a better idea of him now.
Mr Cat sighs very dramatically. “Anyway,” he says in a middling tone, preparing to transition away from this melancholy opening; and Kaeloo hears the jingling of keys, a set hooked onto something like a finger, being swirled around. Traditionally, a triumphant motion. “I got a new car,” is what he leaves her with, blasting a song and starting the show properly.
The song is the Glitch Mob’s Drive It Like You Stole It. Kaeloo pours over these implications with her head in her hands, fingers tightly tangled through her hair, just boggle-eyed at the table. She sees the phone and remembers how inappropriate it is to not answer a call, especially when it could be from work, and returns the receiver to the cradle where it starts ringing immediately. She picks up.
“One of the Chat bosses had his car stolen!” Stumpy blusters loudly. “And the other one is a wreck! All their guys are freaking out and Olaf says it’s the perfect time to move in! Where are you?!”
*
“I take back what I said,” Mr Cat says with mock humbleness the same night. “And I formally apologise to the female portion of my audience for not believing you exist. You’ve been emailing me non-stop with the dedication of – I dunno, a rabbit in heat. Chill out with the selfies, I get it, you’re cute – or a well-prepped catfisher.”
Kaeloo doesn’t make a habit of wearing her helmet while indoors, so she must turn her head to hide how her face falls. She is on the fourteenth floor of one of the previously impenetrable Chat offices, clearing files with Serguei and a dozen soldiers. Mostly it is them doing the clearing and it is her job to make sure Serguei remains safe, but she lends a hand with the task anyway.
“The studio heads had an idea and for once I must admit I agree; it might be beneficial to start answering emails daily and in real time. I’ve gotten two in the last three hours of the show - granted, one’s a sh*tty meme and the other is asking what cologne I use, but hey, it’s a more active form of engagement with you listeners. Maybe one day they’ll grant me an actual phone line. The point is, I’ve got the computer on at my desk here, so write in or whatever.”
He gets a dozen emails in ten minutes. Kaeloo is surprised there are so many active listeners, and by the sounds of it, so is he. Perhaps his jokes about no one listening were his actual perception, and the thought of that makes her feel bad, even more so when it turns out these dozen emails were sent among just three people; one person only writing to say hello, the asker of the cologne question continuing to press him, and a third, the memer, spamming cat pictures.
But it’s three more people than Kaeloo would have counted, so there’s that.
“Yeah, hi, uh,” a pause as he reads the email address, “pinkelephantsonparade. Thanks for spending your precious time on this earth the way you are. How about this; if the email doesn’t include something I can actually respond to, it gets ignored. Delete.” The sharp tap of a key. He reads the next email. “The fact that you really want to know what I smell like is weird; I’m not responding to creeps, either.” He sees the rest of the emails, “I AM SO SICK OF THESE f*ckING,” and goes on a twenty-minute rant about his hatred of the memes.
*
“Mr Cat – oh! Frog sticker, what happened to ‘dear’? Don’t you love me anymore?” He takes a minute to laugh at his fantastic joke before reading on. “Last week you announced your intentions to answer your emails as they come in and I think this is a great idea. Well, that’s a lie, otherwise you wouldn’t still be writing letters, would you? I’ve noticed as you progress through the week and get further away from reading mail on Monday your mood dampens, so hopefully this will keep your spirits up. Jeez, the frog coming in for my throat, huh? What are you, a therapist? I digress.” He clears his throat. “It may also be the perfect opportunity to take my earlier suggestion of playing games on your show seriously. You said it was the worst idea you’ve ever heard, but I don’t know, I’ve heard worse. Like stealing a crime bosses c...ar,” the hesitation is short but can’t have gone unnoticed, and he mumbles the rest of the sentence instead of reading it properly, picking back up at a place he likes better, “Hope the rest of your week goes well after I send this, when you read it next week you can tell me if it did. And to finish, they drew a little smiley face.”
He folds the paper very deliberately, creasing it in the same way it had been when it came out of the envelope. “You know what, frog, I did have a good rest of my week last week. Being such a dedicated listener you probably know that already; but there’s always a chance you called it quits after Thursday, I know I would’ve.”
On Thursday he promised to sing every song requested of him via email; it went on for hours. He’d gotten tipsy and used his guitar and the studio keyboard - it was great. Mr Cat opens the drawer on his desk and takes out his pack of cards, starts shuffling them.
“Tell you what, frog, you’re so into games, you’d better be participating in this with the rest of us. Here’s the next hour of the show: I pick a card, you guess what it is. Listen to Sweet Talk while I make my choice.”
Plenty of emails come in that night, plenty of guesses from plenty of viewers, all of whom he interacts with (someone gets it in fifteen minutes; he lies and picks another card). All the while the game goes on, he pays close attention to usernames and writing styles, and none jump out at him as belonging to the same person behind these letters. The game goes on for two hours and he switches cards 40 times before he declares himself the de facto winner due to his audience being so incapable of guessing correctly.
The shipping forecast guy comes in at 4 as he’s leaving, and Mr Cat tells him not to hold any mail that comes in for Mondays; he wants it right away from now on. He does indeed have two fresh letters that night, but neither bear a frog sticker or that careful handwriting. During the show he lays out his deck for Solitaire and makes plays based on what the audience emails in, still nothing telltale. Wednesday is the same. So is Thursday.
He brings red wine to work on Friday, talks about his day, answers questions sent through the computer, goes on a tangent about the new movie in a series he used to like but doesn’t anymore, does not touch the cards. For the first time in his career, in his whole life, his tongue starts to feel heavy in his mouth, and it’s not that he doesn’t have anything to say, it’s just that he doesn’t have the energy to say it. He plays music for two and a half hours straight, goes home and sleeps for the entire weekend.
He doesn’t dream.
*
“You are listening to 66.89, this is After Hours with Mr Cat, and a happy f*cking Monday to you all. I’ve got a couple of things to set up here in the studio today, so how about you all sit back, relax, and listen to some Kavinsky? This one is a favourite of mine, it’s Odd Look, with the Weeknd.”
It is as much of a mood setter as the dark of the night, the distant hum of her motorcycle. The uneven texture of the sand is uncomfortable, crunching beneath her boots, but the moonlight reflecting off the still ocean is centering enough to make up for it. Yes, she likes the song, it makes her feel very serious and dramatic and cool as she strides further down the beach.
What she is doing here is not so cool. Work has been rather gruesome lately and she finds it terribly draining, she hasn’t been sleeping well, all fitful during the day, disturbed by the sunlight, having unsettling dreams when she does manage to drift off. The job haunts her, and will continue to do so. With luck, the worst she will have to do tonight is stand back and supervise.
Mr Cat is back on air and she is only half-listening; this opening part is important and she has to keep an eye on the subjects. Stumpy is at the helm of this job with Pretty in assistance, much to her disgust and Kaeloo’s mild disapproval, even if he has been getting quite a good handle on things. Quack-Quack isn’t here. Quack-Quack doesn’t ever come out for these jobs.
Kaeloo brings up the rear, walking her bike across the sand, more solid and wet now that they’re closer to the sea, not leaving any footsteps of her own by walking in one of the drag marks left behind from up top. At the front of the caravan, two men are being hauled by two more men each, Stumpy close behind, twirling his dual revolvers between his hands. Beyond him there’s Pretty and two women from her crew flanking her. Kaeloo suspects it’s more for her own protection than anything else, that she doesn’t fully trust Stumpy with the power he has here tonight. Kaeloo feels confident that Stumpy won’t try anything, at least not while she’s around, so she gently touches Pretty on the shoulder and nods at her assuringly when she looks back.
It seems to make her feel better.
They reach their destination and the captive men are released onto the sand. They only barely scramble to their knees, looking back at the group, squinting at the bright headlights of Kaeloo’s bike. Pretty’s women both take a step forward and toss the shovels they’ve been carrying, one each, down in front of the men. Two of Stumpy’s soldiers move behind them while the other two stick to the sides. Stumpy stays in front with his guns pointed.
“Dig,” he says.
Kaeloo starts to tune back in to Mr Cat, catching the last of his response to the most recent notes from the studio heads, “so maybe if you did that, I wouldn’t have as much criticism to offer. Just something to think about.”
Something frivolous as usual, guesses Kaeloo. She plants herself down on her bike; she’s just there to chase the men if they run and manage to escape all the immediate fire, it’s okay for her to sit. In the same vein it’s okay for Pretty to chill, and she and her cohorts unfold the beach chairs they brought along and settle into them. Stumpy doesn’t seem to want to do anything right now except wave his guns irresponsibly and gloat, and he seems to be enjoying himself on that front so at least there’s that.
Kaeloo just wishes she could be anywhere else. She feels anxious in the way she did that whole week after she sent her first letter, listening to Mr Cat speaking, waiting for what she knows is coming, her heart thumping all the way.
“I’ve only got three letters today, if you can believe it,” announces Mr Cat. “I for one can, because my virtual inbox is blowing up, so it’s not like you guys have started ignoring me. I’m getting more attention than ever before, god bless the internet. We probably have new listeners tonight, too, so let me speak only to them for a minute.” He loudly cracks his knuckles and clears his throat. “Welcome, new listeners! I am your handsome and humble host Mr Cat, and After Hours is the show where I come on the air and do whatever I want. Mostly this involves talking and music, but tonight it involves something very new and very exciting. Are you excited? I know I am.”
This is the first time Kaeloo is hearing about a new element to the show, but “excited” is not how she would describe herself. If anything she is all the more tense. Mr Cat must be up to no good, she thinks with absolutely zero self-awareness.
There’s the sound of something shaking; items clattering against cardboard, and the first thing that comes to Kaeloo’s mind is a box of nails.
“Hear that? That’s all the hint you get for now, listeners, but don’t start sending in your emails just yet – save it for after.” There’s a note to his voice, almost a lilt, and she can imagine him smirking. His voice brightens as he continues, “Before we get to any of that, though, let’s tackle the old snail mail,” and it’s her instinct to assume it is sarcasm, but after having listened to him for so long, she feels like she can clock it pretty accurately, and this...isn’t the same.
“First of all, I have here a postcard of, and I don’t say this lightly, an absolute babe lounging on a beach in Barbados. And the message, it’s short, says, Mr Cat. Thought you might appreciate this. Q (miamfan09). And you know what, miam, I do. I do appreciate it. Thank you very much. I’ll put her up on the wall.”
Kaeloo suddenly becomes very aware of her body and how it is sprawled over her bike, at the unpleasantness of the situation she is taking part in, the sinister darkness, how her body is a weapon rather than a thing of beauty. She’s imagining a girl like Pretty on the postcard. Nothing like herself.
“Now this next thing is just a, uh, piece of paper.” It crinkles as he unfolds it. “Neither is it directly addressed to me, and frankly I’m offended that the crew keeps assuming I’m the recipient every time a death threat shows up. If you are a regular listener of all 66.89 shows, I’m sure you would agree with me when I say Jean Claude can f*ck off the end of a pier. But – yes, thank you very much to the scary sender with your promise to get me, by all means you can try. Just know what you’re getting into, okay?” His voice goes low, “I may sound soft and sweet, but I am a dangerous killing machine.”
Despite her concern regarding the message, Kaeloo quietly snorts with amusem*nt.
“Okay but f*ck all that,” says Mr Cat, obviously sweeping his arm across his desk and sending several things to the floor with such a motion, “it is time for the pièce de résistance of the mail, the anonymous writer identified only through their stickers, known affectionately as frog, back at it again.”
It’s just a joke, but her heart flutters.
“Dear Mr–” He reads ahead a little bit and laughs, then restarts. “Dear Mr Cat, please forgive my indiscretion in my last letter, I’ll never forget to refer to you by your proper title again.” He inhales and pauses for a second and Kaeloo has to stop herself beaming with pride at having made him laugh. “You’ll also have to forgive me for sticking to the written word instead of moving into the future with the rest of the audience; my job requires silence and action, which is excellent for listening to hours-long shows like yours, but not for sitting at a computer. Oh my mistake, frog. Last time I said you were a therapist, but I think I get it now. You’re a hitman.”
Kaeloo does not smile at this. The men have made quick progress on their own graves, but they’ll only slow with time, fatigue, and fear.
“Besides,” Mr Cat goes on reading, “I don’t have an email address. Okay, well, your homework for the week is to get on that, because all the good usernames are getting taken.”
Mr Cat pauses to drink, then smacks his lips and goes on - it is now that she notices he is speaking the clearest she has ever heard him. It could be that it’s a Monday, but even the usual Monday doesn’t have him so attentive.
“Nothing would make me happier than playing a game with you, but at least for now it’s not meant to be. I can say this much, however: you’re a dirty rotten cheater and your card was the ace of spades. Kindly, and then their signature frog sticker.”
Distressingly, Kaeloo had started to sign with her name, luckily catching it before proceeding to the second letter. To her it seemed obvious that the K was written with a different intention than the hastily added indly, she half expected Mr Cat to comment upon it.
“That’s fake news,” he says with a smile instead, making it all the more obvious that she got the card right. Then his tone goes a little solemn. “I won’t lie, I’m disappointed. I put today’s special segment together with you in mind, I thought maybe in the new week you’d have joined us in cyberspace, but hey, I get it. Work is work and work is a bitch.” There’s that strange shaking sound again. “That said, I hope you seethe with jealousy while I play,” the sound of the box making impact against the table, and definite pride and triumph in his voice, “Connect-f*cking-Four with the rest of the audience.”
Kaeloo would dig those graves herself if it meant she could go straight home to make an email address right now.
Mr Cat unpacks the box, dumping the little plastic discs in a pile. “The board is seven by six, we’re operating from the left, you’re all playing yellow and I’m red, and my first move is F6.” There’s the clatter of him dropping a piece into the board, and his facial hair brushing the microphone as he leans into it. “If you’re playing at home, and you f*cking better be, that’s six across on the bottom row. First email with a move is the one I use for you.” And much like a dropping of the mic, he plays Daft Punk’s Give Life Back To Music with its strong opening.
She’s mad, actually angry, at what a fantastic and fun idea this is and how excellent it would be to experience it, and how she’s stuck here, on the beach, most certainly not looking like an absolute babe, in a violent job that exhausts her and prevents her from participating in more wholesome activities. She is mad at Mr Cat for taunting her like he knows how much she would like to participate, for playing games at her suggestion, for sounding pleased to hear from her again.
“Kaeloo.”
She looks up. Pretty is standing at the side of the motorcycle, bent to be level with her face. Lit by the sickly green of the dashboard, her face is drawn with concern.
“You okay?” she asks. “You revved the engine, did you see something?”
“Oh,” gasps Kaeloo, relaxing her grip on the handlebars, “no, I’m sorry, I–”
But Pretty isn’t upset. “All good.” She pats Kaeloo on the arm in a way that mirrors how Kaeloo did so earlier. “Turn the engine off, we’re going to be here awhile.”
“The headlights are so cool, though,” whines Stumpy, foolishly taking his eyes off the men.
“Flashlights, ladies,” says Pretty, and at her command her companions do in fact reveal the torches on their person, handing them over to two of Stumpy’s men so they may provide the light.
Kaeloo does as she’s told, switching off the engine and trying to relax upon her motorcycle; which isn’t fully possible because she has to provide the support it needs to stand. She unplugs her earbuds from the dormant dashboard and puts them into her portable radio in her jacket. Daft Punk has faded out by now and she missed Mr Cat announcing the audience move decided by email, and her blood starts to boil all over again. She keeps the volume on low.
Due to the nature of how half of the game is played, it takes half an hour to finish, and Mr Cat wins. He really rubs it in and after a song break he reveals a rematch has been demanded, which he gladly obliges in, and another forty-five minutes are eaten up. He wins again.
Kaeloo knows that f*cker is cheating.
After the third game he declares it’s not fun to keep winning and humiliating his audience, so he plays the entire Mystery Skulls EP while presumably packing up the board and putting it away. By this time, Kaeloo is dragging a bloodied body across the sand. She returns to the graves and flings the man into his, the last few scoops of sand shovelled by Stumpy’s men after he made a run for it. He did this out of instinct, the shock of his friend being shot and dropping dead, the reality setting in that he was going to die. Stumpy is getting good at intimidation, but he needs to improve his aim.
Kaeloo doesn't.
Mr Cat doesn’t touch his emails for a while so when 3 o’clock rolls around, he has a handful banked up to kill the last hour. By now Kaeloo has been to three warehouses and Olaf’s office; he took one look at her and sent her home, telling her he can’t have her run so ragged, she needs to be at the top of her game.
“Take a day or two,” he grumbled, not in a hostile manner but more like an exasperated father. “Take the week.”
She’d panicked at this. “Olaf, I can still–”
But whatever she could or could not still do, Kaeloo did not go up against Serguei when it became clear that he was going to make her leave. She shuffles into her apartment now, despondent, dizzy. She has not been tuned in for the last hour and a half, and she switches on the radio just as Mr Cat is disparagingly describing one of the studio heads for whatever reason.
“–old, bald bastard who’s never taken a sh*t in his life based on his expression–”
She’s not sure whether she should turn it up or down while she goes for a shower. She does neither, just leaves it running out in the lounge room while she washes off. Blood, sand, miscellaneous grime. It’s nice to be under the hot spray, nice to wash her face with cold water, nice to wrap herself in a fluffy towel and go pick a fresh pair of pyjamas.
Mr Cat is describing his dream car now, so someone must have asked something at least tangentially related. Kaeloo only vaguely listens, shaking her head at his desire for the new and shiny, but approving of his comments on the power of the model.
She switches on her computer; it is one of the oldest kinds out there these days. All boxy and two-toned, anyone else would be desperate for an upgrade, but she’s never felt the need to do so. The internet connection in her building is slow, but serviceable. She knows that during the daytime it’s faster, and she knows the ISP does that deliberately because that’s when everyone is up and using the internet, she knows she’s the anomaly here. Still a bit annoying, though.
Signing up for an email address is a mix of simple and complicated. Her password has to be difficult to guess but easy to remember, she has to decipher a code and type it back in, and she has to think up a screen name that will accurately represent her in a social and professional manner. Kaeloo has vivid memories of all the seminars from when the internet first came out; NEVER give your real name to strangers, NEVER give out personal information, be VERY CAREFUL and keep AWAY from shady chat rooms. All of that she won’t have a problem with, this is just a means to communicate more easily with Mr Cat.
It sounds silly when she thinks of it like that. It sounds silly to do it at all. But Kaeloo has had time off work enforced upon her, and Mr Cat made it sound like he wanted her to do this, so…
She makes a secretive smile as she types frogsticker, and is delighted when the email service informs her that that username is available. And that’s that, the account is made, the internet is open to her now. Well, no, specifically her inbox is open to her now, but it’s a start. And she’s still been listening to Mr Cat this entire time, he is still reading emails; how easy it would be to send him one right now, and he would see it as soon as she sent it - that’s how it works, right?
A mix of excitement and anxiety and exhaustion bubbles in her stomach, a headache pressing at her temples. Kaeloo clicks on NEW and a window pops up prompting her to enter the addressee. The blinking line in the empty text box dares her to type.
“Okay,” says Mr Cat, yawning. “Couple more then I’m outta here. This one is…” He is silent while he reads it, gauging if it’s worth a response based on his own rules. Whatever he was going to say about it, he abandons the thought, opting to just read it. “Is it weird that I’m starting to ship you and frog sticker? Also still waiting on that cologne.” He grunts thoughtfully, leaning back in his seat, possibly folding his arms. “Well – you know what, yes, it is weird. It is very weird how much you want to smell me. As for the other thing,” a pause, she imagines him throwing up his hands, “you do you, you filthy animals. But you’re not getting my f*cking scent, you freak.”
Kaeloo is frantically trying to log out.
“Hey, frog, you’re probably still listening.” Kaeloo is clicking on the X with all the desperate fervour of a teenager hiding a forbidden item. Mr Cat speaks in a dead tone. “Your handwriting is cute. Or something. I don’t know. Is that enough fodder for you, listeners? Did you squee? Can you feel the burning passion?” He brightens a little as he snaps his fingers, “Oh, no, wait, I’ve got a good one. Listen to this.”
And he puts on a voice that Kaeloo cannot reconcile, cannot process, not after the rest of the night she’s had. Soft and sure in an almost dangerous way, he says, “Nothing would make me happier than playing a game with you,” and she does not like it. Does not. Does not like it. It is terrible and very bad.
It’s not the correct protocol for turning off a computer, but she just switches it off at the wall. The radio goes off, too.
*
Quack-Quack comes over, because he is a good friend. It’s not long past 11 in the morning and Kaeloo is running on three hours of sleep, but she is glad to play host and have some company; it’s much more preferable to feeling stuck indoors and alone while tired.
She sets their cups of tea down on the small, circular dining table with great care, and only sugars hers (one teaspoon, not too sweet) after she’s offered him cream. Quack-Quack takes it eagerly and puts three whole spoonfuls in his mug, and after he’s stirred it it barely resembles tea at all. He drinks it by taking sips using the spoon. He’s an odd one, but Kaeloo does not love him any less for his habits.
We were worried about you, he signs with delicate motions, trying to keep his tone neutral, not wanting to heap any guilt upon her. I’m happy you’re taking time off.
“I’m not,” admits Kaeloo, twirling her teaspoon between her fingers and idly gazing out the window. “But I know I wouldn’t be happy not taking time off, so I may as well go along with it.”
Things should stop being so intense soon, promises Quack-Quack. For everyone.
“I hope so.”
I think I can convince Olaf to get you to bounce the club when it reopens.
Kaeloo blinks in surprise at this. “Really? But isn’t it important that I be out on the…”
He waves his hand and replies, You’d still have to come along for special jobs, if I’m on one, for example. But that would be rare. The worst you’d have to deal with day-to-day would be drunken idiots. Quack-Quack peers at her, trying to gauge her reaction. Do you want to do that?
She can’t blame him for not being certain on where she stands on this; usually her face is open and easy to read for her friends, but at the moment she is simply too tired to emote at all. This doesn’t stop her from attempting a smile. “Yeah, I think I do. I loved visiting the original club, you know – seeing all the stylish people, feeling the atmosphere. It was a real never-ending party energy, I’m sure it’ll be like that again!”
And, adds Quack-Quack emphatically, you’d be allowed to listen to your radio all you want.
Something about that makes the blood drain from her face, and her mouth twitches uncomfortably. When she doesn’t feel like she can hold the smile anymore she pretends to drink some tea, but honestly, he is her oldest friend and can see right through her. Quack-Quack folds his hands on the table and looks at her with concern but understanding, not wishing to press when she clearly doesn’t want to talk about what is bothering her.
And because she appreciates that understanding so much, Kaeloo offers, “It’s too much violence.”
Nodding, he replies, It sucks to be used as a tool.
“Yes, exactly! That’s exactly it.” She rolls her shoulders and feels a little bit better already. “I’d just like to be out on the road without having to run anyone down. I’d like to visit the beach properly.”
Well, Quack-Quack signs, standing with confidence and authority, you do that, and I’ll deal with Olaf.
Kaeloo smiles widely, warmly, genuinely, and gets up to give him a hug. “Thank you.”
He stays for almost an hour, but his duties eventually call; and Kaeloo is starting to feel like she could reliably sleep, anyway. They part on good terms, as they always have, with intentions to meet on Thursday for brunch and perhaps even dinner. And when she lies on the carpet to be in the perfect trajectory of a sunbeam, there are no horrible images waiting on the insides of her eyelids, and she naps peacefully.
Kaeloo wakes at 3 and goes for a walk. Her building boasts a beautiful courtyard and rose garden, and she enjoys spending time out there. No other residents seem to, as they never appear, at least not while she’s around.
Back home she lays her yoga mat and takes part in a much-needed session, afterwards feeling all limber and relaxed, aching in a rewarding way. She catches her reflection and allows herself a moment of vanity, preening, making sure her face is clear, her eyes are bright, her hair is shiny. Yes, all of that is in order. As far as faces go, she thinks she has quite a nice one. But when it comes to her body… She is less kind to herself.
She is soft but strong, generously curved and toned with muscle. Kaeloo strips to her underwear and looks at her tattoos, those deep purple swirling patterns that run from her shoulders to her elbows, her chest to her stomach, crawling around to her back. She looks back at her face and does not see what she saw before, instead focusing on the scar that runs down her eye, a jaw that is too wide and intimidating, how her frown can be quite fearsome indeed.
Not a pretty little thing one would find on a postcard. A monster, is what comes to her mind instead.
Kaeloo showers and goes to bed. Anything to run out the clock that won’t leave her alone with her thoughts. And as the evening crawls on, she eventually emerges, making more tea, preparing English muffins for a snack - sitting at the computer.
She has an hour and fifteen minutes to think of something to send.
*
There’s a black car parked across the road from Mr Cat’s apartment building, and when he notices it he swears loudly and starts wondering how long it’s been there. He wonders if it’s anyone he knows behind the wheel, if his brothers would risk sending someone he might have had a rapport with growing up, because if they have Mr Cat feels pretty confident in his abilities to talk himself out of getting dragged away, at least for the time being.
He watches the car for longer than he should, smoking a cigarette down to the stub, and glances at the clock to see he should have left twenty minutes ago. He squashes the stub in the ashtray, grabs his jacket and goes, taking the stairs down to the garage rather than the elevator, as if it will make a difference at all. There’s only one exit. His tail will see him leaving.
Laying eyes on the car does make him briefly forget all the trouble it’s brought him; it’s a beautiful thing, a shiny red convertible in perfect condition, Michael’s pride and joy. For a self-proclaimed vehicle enthusiast, he’s stuck to one style all his life, a career of gorgeous cars that all look the same; not that that made Mr Cat any less envious. Gabriel’s selection has been more varied and less numerous, he rarely drives his personal vehicle and sticks to underboss muscle cars, probably a holdover from how he and Michael were taught to drive in the first place; in those and their dad’s limo. When Mr Cat was learning to drive, it was in cars like the one out the front, by guys lower on the totem pole. He’s never been behind the wheel of the limo.
Yes, wrecking Gabriel’s underused Porsche and stealing Michael’s convertible will have disastrous and possibly fatal consequences, but he would do it again. Mr Cat relishes the start of the engine and is well aware that it has the power to keep him ahead of that soldier car, even if the driver probably knows where he’s going.
That threat sent to the station makes him think they definitely do. He bets they’re in the early intimidation stage, and he’ll come home to an upturned apartment in the morning.
Whatever.
Mr Cat has keys to the station as all employees do, but he never finds it empty when he arrives, even when he’s late as he is now. Friedrich always sticks back, likely wanting to see for himself that Mr Cat has appeared and the building can be accounted for - it’s important to him that someone is responsible for it at all times for reasons that Mr Cat cannot fathom. He parks his brother’s car and Friedrich is on the other side of the garage, leaning on his bike with his arms folded and a scowl on his face.
“You’re late!” he shouts. “Which means I’m late!”
Mr Cat throws up a peace sign. “Your mother will forgive you,” he offers, the elevator doors closing behind him before he can hear whatever insult Friedrich replies with.
Almost all the lights are turned off in the station proper, which as far as Mr Cat’s purposes go is much preferred. He keeps one light on in the kitchen down the hall from the third and final recording studio, the one he occupies, as a general indicator that it’s there, a reminder to go back in a minute. For now it’s straight to the studio, where the overhead light is somehow unpleasantly yellow and pleasantly familiar at the same time, to the cramped desk space of switchboards and wires on the left, the boxy Intel on the right, and the empty middle marred with coffee cup stains. A folded piece of paper and collection of post-its have been left on the chair, his only new pieces of physical mail, which he transfers to the middle desk before he switches on all the tech.
The light that indicates he’s on air blinks and he hits the button on the keyboard – the piano-type keyboard, not the computer keyboard – that plays the jingle and queues up a song to start right away. With that taken care of, Mr Cat takes off his jacket and slings it over the chair, then walks back out to the kitchen and puts on the coffee. He’ll call for pizza in an hour, he’s not hungry yet.
Song’s just about done as he sits down at long last, putting on his headphones and adjusting the microphone to its desired angle, and when it’s finished, he unmutes himself.
“The prodigal son makes his return, and only,” he glances at the digital clock hung up beside the on-air light, “ten minutes too late. Well, it’s always better to beg for forgiveness than ask permission; and with that opening piece of wisdom, welcome to After Hours with Mr Cat. I am the titular character and you are my rapt audience, as rapt as you can be on this purgatory of radio stations, 66.89.”
He drinks. “Now I’d like to give you an excuse for my tardiness today, but I don’t have one and also I’m lying; I don’t owe you leeches any explanations. Let’s all just move forward like grown ups and settle in for another mediocre show.” The computer has booted up by now and sits open at the station-mandated inbox, with 16 unread emails awaiting him. “Speaking of leeches, plenty of emails tonight,” he comments, and then laughs. “I’m kidding, you know I love the attention; it’s the only thing keeping me from skipping town or offing myself! But we’ve got some hard copies screaming at me for attention, so let’s get on those first.”
The studio heads have sent their usual nonsense. “Preferential treatment of listeners is unprofessional and inappropriate,” he reads, and screws up his face in bafflement. “I literally don’t even know what you f*cking mean here, guys. Vetting emails isn’t preferential treatment, I just don’t wanna be reading out creepy sh*t or acknowledging memes; I’m still f*cking seeing it. This is my show and it’s my choice what I talk about and what emails I respond to. Dumbasses.” He flings the post-it away. “So we’ve got some listeners who are engaging with me more than others, that’s on them. I for one don’t mind having regulars; pinkelephants, blackmouton, that miam guy, all those accounts with ‘sheep’ in the name that I know are run by different people based on all the different styles and mannerisms – for god’s sake, why is sheep the thing you all want to be? Oh, and how could I forget? The frog, my dear–” He catches himself at this and chokes on the word, coughs and tries to chuckle. “Well, you know, this is what happens when you’re in a position like mine. You catch some favourites, it’s a normal thing. Let’s hope the suits upstairs can learn to deal with it.”
An only mildly related thought comes to him, his subconscious mind trying to stop him idling at all that could be inferred from this discussion. “And by the way, listeners, don’t think you’re slick. I’ve noticed. I’ve noticed the prevalence of animals in your names and I know it’s just the latest way you’re giving me sh*t for mine. You’re not clever, and you’re not getting to me, either, because now you’ve just opened yourself up for me to say stuff about whatever you’ve chosen to associate yourself with. I am an expert at this. You have no idea what you’ve brought on yourselves.”
Mr Cat hears the loud revving of an engine and sits up to glance across and out the window, but there’s no chance of seeing anything from his chair. “Here, since we’re all comedians now, let’s get some thematic music going.” And he puts on Eye Of The Tiger, which doesn’t particularly help with the dramatics of getting up to look out the window; rather, it fits perfectly, which Mr Cat finds stupid.
He peers into the gloom, out into the street, and it’s the same car from across from his apartment, now parking across from the station. It’s kind of a surprise, actually; it means there’s two teams on his case right now, the one for following him, the one for sticking back and going through his sh*t. With his dad in charge, it’s always one crew assigned for intimidation tactics, that way when it comes around to killing the guy, their recognition of the crew makes it all the more of a victory, or so the logic goes.
But then, it’s not his dad in charge anymore, is it?
“I need a vacation,” he tells the unseen audience when he returns. “I think you guys are bad for me, I should have skipped town or killed myself by now.”
He chooses not to dwell on that.
“Here, I’ll play Foster The People’s Supermodel album but not tell you how many songs from it, that way we’re all not sure what the f*ck’s happening next.”
Mr Cat orders that pizza now, so at least if he is murdered in the next half hour there will be a witness or someone to find the body. He looks at the piece of paper left for him as well, and it’s another threat like he thought it would be, written in a hand he doesn’t recognise, and the idea that neither of his brothers could be bothered to personally threaten him is more offensive than the idea that they plan to have him killed. Maybe “the good old days” is a real thing; at least in the past they beat him up themselves.
He decides to look at his emails. There are 18 now, but he reads them chronologically. The first one sent was only an hour and a half after the end of yesterday’s show.
“My public, how they adore me,” mutters Mr Cat.
There isn’t anything too insane in the inbox. Some questions and comments inspire Mr Cat’s mind away from his impending death, he has received yet another selfie from a lady listener who is obviously very dedicated - and pretty, of course, just not in a way that speaks to him. Someone has challenged him to play more songs from female artists, not as an accusation of anything, but he does play an awful lot of men with not much from women, and the idea interests him, he’ll have to look at his collection and maybe take the opportunity to expand. The memer has sent pictures of an orange tabby that Mr Cat sees and, admittedly, completely identifies with on a deep, spiritual level, so he does not delete it.
Not that he’ll acknowledge it on air.
His eyes are a little glazed over by the time he’s reached the fifteenth email, the first line of which smacks him violently in the face and leaves him rushing back to the beginning, scanning details, fervently reading and rereading.
to: mrcatafterhours@6689
from: frogsticker@PTM
subject: Proper Title
Dear Mr Cat,
I say this with all due respect and hopefully your understanding that my previous positive comments about you have been sincere, but you and your jokes can get very nasty at times!! It wasn’t nice of you to try to make me jealous, and I don’t like being made fun of, either.
But all said and done I don’t think there’s any way you can act that I haven’t already experienced in my time as a listener. That’s to say I won’t be shocked or frightened away. It seems you’re stuck with me! As you can see, I have completed my homework, in no small part motivated by your new affinity for games (you’re welcome), and I may even have time to spare to communicate like everyone else. When the time comes for you to face my skills, I’ll have you know I won’t let you cheat!
I feel a bit bad for taking up your time, writing a message for social reasons and with no practical purpose, so here is a question for you, I will try to come up with one per email: Since your favourite colour is orange, does that mean you own many orange things?
Behave yourself tonight. I will be listening.
🐸
Something important is lost through the electronic medium; the cute handwriting, and Mr Cat knows the sender has noticed it too, because they’ve made the font Corsiva rather than the default Arial. People send emails using italics, bolds, underlines, different colours and sizes, but this is the first of a different font, so to a degree it does have that degree of uniqueness that seems only the frog sticker can capture, even if it’s an emoticon now. That’s something else that’s lost, perhaps more tragic of one than the handwriting. Mr Cat is very amused by the stickers - for each so far has been new and different to the point that this person obviously owns multiple sheets of frog stickers of numerous styles - and he has peeled off each one and reapplied them to the pack of cards sent by the same person.
The email was sent at half past ten.
Back in the inbox Mr Cat scrolls up, only skimming the subject lines and senders of the three most recent emails, hoping for something he can’t describe. And the eighteenth email, added to the inbox a quarter of an hour ago, not long after Foster The People kicked in, is another from the frog sticker. He clicks immediately and it starts to load, and he’d be happy to just sit here and watch the empty screen, but he is interrupted by the buzzer from the front entry of the station. Mr Cat grunts and grumbles, gets up and answers the door, flinging it open like an invitation for someone to take the shot.
The delivery person is very tired, a kid at the end of their shift rather than the usual fresh-faced one who is happy to be delivering pizza in the middle of the night. That’s what he gets for ordering early, but it’s the perfect opportunity to peek across the street.
The car seems empty, but it’s just the tinted windows. Mr Cat would estimate at least four guys in there, watching, waiting, maybe hoping he’ll freak out. If anything, taking a look has helped centre him; he’s sure, he’s not gonna die...tonight.
Tomorrow is another story. And the day after that, and the day after that…
Supermodel is halfway finished when he returns, and he intends on just letting it run. He even queues up the Born This Way album (Lady Gaga is the first female singer he can think of) just in case.
to: mrcatafterhours@6689
from: frogsticker@PTM
subject: (empty)
PLEASE don’t kill yourself or even say you might as a joke!!!!
And that’s the whole thing. Mr Cat puts the pizza on the kitchen counter and leaves it there, brings just a beer back to the studio, where he keeps his headphones hanging around his neck and one eye on the broadcast as he logs out of his work account.
*
Kaeloo has been having the worst forty minutes of her life. The music is so good and to her tastes, but she can’t properly enjoy it, it’s all poisoned with anxiety while she waits for Mr Cat to speak again. It doesn’t have to be anything important, it doesn’t have to be anything of any worth. But if he speaks, it means he’s alive, and Kaeloo would like for that to continue being true.
She knows his tone, she knows when he is joking, and the way he’d spoken about the possibility of suicide had been too flippant for her to brush off. Something is bothering him tonight, and she can only hope and pray that it’s nothing like what she’s experienced in both her career and her life - or worse.
Her computer makes a strained noise in the back of the monitor, and her attention is brought to the screen. Her first ever email has arrived! The sudden surprise knocks her squarely out of her worries, for perhaps her distressed plea reached Mr Cat safely and he’s letting her know – and the possibility of that is completely wild. Kaeloo flinches away from the computer like it’s on fire, stares at it from across the room as Tabloid Super Junkie starts up over the radio.
She thinks, This is a nice song, and it empowers her to approach. A second noise emanates from the computer and she plonks herself down in front of it to investigate.
to: frogsticker@PTM
From: lchat@PTM
subject: (empty)
i think you’ve made a major error in judgement, madame/monsieur
YOU are the one stuck with ME
And the second notification:
lchat@PTM has invited you to a DM
What the f*ck does any of that mean.
Mr Cat returns at the end of the song. “I got an email here outright demanding that I play more songs made by women, and I am up to the challenge. In fact, I’m gonna try and see if I can only play songs made by ladies for the rest of the night. I know, I know, I was late getting here and have just played an entirely male-driven album, but how about instead of focusing on the negatives we look into the future – and let’s hope it’s a good one.”
Kaeloo is equally taken aback by this as well.
“I had an initial idea of who to play but I think I’ll save it for later; I remembered a song I love, even if I cannot relate to the lyrics at all, which don’t worry listeners, I will be sure to explain in detail afterwards. This is This Girl.”
Instead of looking anywhere near the computer, Kaeloo gets up and looks out the window, down at the city below. She presses her forehead against the cool glass and closes her eyes, and the song swirls around her and puts her at ease.
There is no time limit to the internet, she tells herself. If she feels overwhelmed, it is okay to step away, it is okay to leave something for later. Even if it feels silly, it is okay to be intimidated by words on a screen. Actually, it’s probably not okay to be intimidated, but it’s okay to feel that way. Feelings are valid, her therapist said so, so Kaeloo uses it as a bit of a mantra in the background of the song. It’s more music than it is lyrics, but it is good. Yes, she rather thinks she likes it, too.
When Mr Cat comes back he does indeed explain his issues relating to the song (“being showered with riches would be great, actually”), but Kaeloo isn’t entirely listening. She is on The Google, looking up definitions to terms she isn’t familiar with, as well as looking up things she already knows but just needs to be 100% sure on, needs to check that her memory isn’t failing her and these are the facts and the things that are happening.
A DM stands for “direct message”, and it refers to instant messaging, a form of text messaging but for the computer as well as the telephone. Sorry– smartphone. Kaeloo doesn’t keep up with modern technology. But this information does help her make sense of things Stumpy has said in the past; “sliding into her DMs” must refer to starting a new online conversation. Easy.
The Chat syndicate is a derivative of the mafia stationed in the city. Previously run with Albert Chat in the sole position of boss, it now lies under the shared control of his two eldest sons, Michael and Gabriel. Recently their main office was infiltrated by an unidentified perpetrator, Michael’s car stolen and Gabriel’s destroyed, and the office was swiftly captured by Emperor Enterprises, crippling the Chat syndicate. She knows all of this. She is just double-checking that there is a third, unaccounted for but undoubtedly real, son and youngest brother. Whose name starts with an L.
Kaeloo, having been listening to After Hours for some time now, can say with complete certainty that Mr Cat is not on the side of his family – biological and business – at all. She can also say that if she, a high-ranking security guard working under Emperor Enterprises, were known to have been in any contact with anyone even slightly involved with the Chat syndicate, her job and her life would be over.
“Turns out I really got under the frog’s skin last night,” says Mr Cat.
“Oh, you f*cking think?!” Kaeloo screams at the radio.
“Which means we’ve successfully turned them to the dark side, listeners, they’re caught in the net. I’ve got the email they sent open here, where they take credit for my new life as a game enthusiast and all but declare war on my integrity. Again with the accusations of cheating, frog! I think someone’s a little obsessed, but I accept your challenge anyway. Connect Four isn’t the only game I have on site and I’m not afraid to break any of ‘em out.”
Kaeloo is pacing. She should shut the radio off and never put it on again. She should throw it out the window. She should delete her email address if possible, she should wipe her computer of all its data, she should have it destroyed.
“They say I have a tendency to be nasty, and they’re right, but come on,” his voice turns to a gently mocking coo, “you know I’m teasing.”
She should get out before it’s too late.
“And to close, they ask, Since your favourite colour is orange, does that mean you own many orange things? which is an interesting question, I have to think about that one. No, not really; at least I don’t think so. I do like the colour but I wouldn’t paint my wall orange, I wouldn’t sleep on orange bed sheets, it feels too tacky. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I am the coolest cat around, I keep it real. My apartment is low key, the tackiest thing I own are some flowery paper napkins I’ve never taken out of the plastic. My highlights are subtle. And my clothes, well - I’m sure I’ve got an orange scarf somewhere. But most of the colour in my wardrobe, that isn’t black, is red.” There’s a quick pause as he presumably glances down to himself. “You know what, I’m lying. Turns out my shirt has an orange stripe on it. How about that? Never noticed before. But that’s what I’m wearing.” Another pause, a second longer this time, and when he speaks again it is in a smug, flirty tone, “What are you wearing, frog?”
The only part he really read was her question, all else was paraphrased. He doesn’t acknowledge her other, less carefully thought out email, but he must have seen it. He is being guarded, he is keeping specific details from the other listeners. But why? For what purpose? An indication that he’s not one to repeat everything he reads to his audience?
Mr Cat answers questions and responds to comments from other emails, he gets into a topic Kaeloo has little reference for and interest in, but this is good. It gives her time to think.
Kaeloo has been a careless fool up to this point, not realising just how close she came to disaster. Everyone knows she listens to the goddamn radio, how easy would it be to turn that into a narrative of treachery if what exactly she was listening to got out? Maybe Olaf already knows. Maybe that’s the true reason for her enforced break, maybe it’s all been a front and her own associates are going to burst in right now and–
She needs to do her breathing exercises.
“Hm, I can’t decide if the song counts if a man shows up during the song. Does that count? Well, listen, it’s Britney Spears, how can you go wrong with her, and the dude doesn’t even have a real verse if I’m remembering correctly, it’s still mainly her…” Mr Cat makes exaggerated thoughtful humming sounds before he eventually says, “No, I’ll play Toxic for now; listeners, email me if Gimme More counts because there’s that guy in it for a second.”
Kaeloo would definitely count Gimme More as a solely Britney song and would also like to hear it. She shakes her head, whirling to the nearest mirror, pointing furiously at herself. “The longer you listen the more likely you are to get yourself killed!”
The lyrics start and are, of course, the lyrics to Toxic, which everyone knows and therefore do not need to be noted. Kaeloo immediately recognises them as being offensively relevant to how she’s feeling and she just gets on the floor, just drops to her knees and sits there in the middle of the room, glaring across at her reflection.
It would be good to take a drive to clear her head, but it’s just started raining. Nowhere near as intense as the torrent of the other week, and Kaeloo could easily operate as normal and navigate the wet roads. She decides she’ll just enjoy the rain from indoors instead, and gets up and goes over to her gigantic windows, opening them wide. The wind is directing the rain away from the windows so there’s no danger of anything inside getting wet, not that Kaeloo would mind if that had been the case. In fact, the misty air has only served to tempt her outside, to just go and stand under the spray, to be cleansed by the natural phenomenon; but that sounds a bit crazy, so Kaeloo goes to the sink and splashes water on her face instead, returning and sitting by the window to take in the cold, pleasant breeze and the relaxing drops of rain against glass.
After the office raid, the Chat syndicate isn’t bound to last much longer, anyway. Olaf’s takeover bid has been an immense success, Quack-Quack was right, things will soon settle down into the new order of things. Kaeloo thinks again of the cars. She thinks of those two men digging their own graves. She thinks of all the violence and death she has bore witness to and participated directly in. She sticks her head out the window and meets the rain, and hopes beyond hope that when she goes back in the invisible sludge in her eyes will be gone, and she will be clean.
But when she pulls her head inside and opens her eyes, she doesn’t feel changed in any way. Just wet.
Kaeloo goes over to her computer and shakes the mouse to wake the screen. She clicks ACCEPT and the box telling her about the DM goes away, and a new, small tab pops up in the top right corner. The title of the box reads frogsticker, lchat and beside her username is a little green bubble and beside his is an orange one, and it gives her an actual fright, and paranoia zips through her, wondering how could the computer know what their favourite colours are–
And the orange icon beside lchat turns green and a partially greyed message appears in the box, lchat is typing, and Kaeloo understands and breathes out, slumping her shoulders. God, she hates technology. She clicks around and finds a key and some settings, seeing she can change the icon from green (online) to orange (idle) to red (offline) as she likes, learning that if she leaves herself on green for long enough without doing anything it will switch to orange, and that she can receive messages when red, but not send any.
She realises it’s been a few minutes and Gimme More has come and gone, it played without pause after Toxic, and now the beginning of another song is coming in. Mr Cat’s voice very briefly introduces it, “Little less known but objectively a classic from Kylie Minogue,” and then he’s gone again.
Except not really. Two seconds later Kaeloo’s computer attempts to make another sound; she wants to just pat it and tell it it’s okay, don’t strain yourself.
L: i hope you can appreciate how rarely i give out my personal email
L: incidentally don’t go leaking it or i’ll cut you into little pieces
A minute passes where Kaeloo is just looking dumbfoundedly at the screen.
L: i’m joking
L: or am i
Her fingers shake at the keyboard. She hits the keys very carefully.
F: Why give it to me then?
And he is very quick to reply.
L: well i can’t go using my work email socially can i?
L: the station owns it
F: OK, I understand.
F: But I don’t think you should be being social at work!
L: oh damn you got me, if only there were a way around this
lchat is offline
Kaeloo sits there and stares until she can see the words when she blinks.
“That was Can’t Get You Out Of My Head, which I definitely can’t,” says Mr Cat. “And we’ll get back to the tunes shortly, but right now I think it’s the perfect time to play another game with my dearest listeners.” He shakes a box full of game pieces for emphasis; it’s a different sound to the one Connect Four made.
“Oh, you...you…!” Kaeloo waves her hands like she’ll be able to catch the right word with them, and ends up laughing instead at the ridiculousness of it all. This has been so strange that for a second she considers it could all be a dream, but a quick pinch on her arm proves that theory incorrect.
“It’s good old Chutes And Ladders, I’m sure we all have nostalgia for this one. And hey, it doesn’t require any input from you guys, I’ll just roll for you! Now,” he audibly unfolds the board and smacks it down on the desk, “I’ll go first, because I’m the host. Hear that?” He shakes the die in his hand. “Alright, here we go,” rolls it, “a five. Lucky me, huh? Haven’t hit any ladders or chutes at this point but it’s early days. Let’s give it a roll for the listeners.” He rolls again. “Two. Tough break, but like I said, early days. Me again.”
Kaeloo is rifling through her board game collection like her life depends on it. She needs to be keeping track of this.
“Okay, I got a three and that’s a ladder, actually. So I was at the eighth space and now I’m going up to thirteen; remember, the goal is the hundredth space. Another go for the listeners, listeners. Four, on to space six. No chute or ladder again, guys, sorry.”
Kaeloo has three versions of Chutes And Ladders. Two of them are Chutes, one of them is Snakes; of the Chutes, one is the original 1941 design from Milton Bradley, the other is the present day definitive Hasbro version. Neither of them are as Mr Cat is describing. The Snakes version she has does have a ladder going from eight, but it leads to twenty.
That bastard. She dives for the computer.
“Oh no, listeners, there’s a chute on the twentieth space and it goes all the way down to two.” He hisses in false sympathy. “Yikes. Well, keep your chins up.” The sound of him rolling again. “As for me, that was a six, I’m moving up to thirty-two. And hey, four for you guys, takin’ it one step at a time. Oh, sh*t, what’s this?” There is a full-blown grin in his voice. “Wow, listeners, you’ll never believe this, but frog is online right now and DMing me. I wonder what they have to say.”
F: You are a CHEATER.
He reads this aloud, of course. There’s a distant smack, Mr Cat dramatically putting his hand to his heart. “You wound me, frog, you really do. For someone who allegedly likes the show so much, you really have it in for me. I swear, I would never cheat.”
Kaeloo is typing faster than she has ever typed before.
F: I have three boards and not one is as you describe
“Well, the answer to that puzzle’s pretty easy, isn’t it? Obviously I have a different board to you. That’s not my fault. That’s not cheating.” He pauses for a second, playing with the die, tapping it against the desk. “Three boards, huh? I think I’m starting to fully understand just how into games you are.”
frogsticker is typing
frogsticker is typing
frogsticker is typing
“Isn’t it all about having fun, anyway? Aren’t you having fun? I know I am. Other listeners – oh, god, more of you are DMing me; look, I’m not accepting any of them, I just wanted to hear from... Just email me, okay? I’ll reply to those.” He groans as he leans back in his chair, looking over and considering the board. “Y’know, maybe this isn’t a great game to play on-air, I mean, you guys don’t even get to make any inputs. That’s not fair. Maybe that’s what the frog means.”
Kaeloo deletes her three paragraphs and intends to type THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEAN, but Mr Cat goes on.
“Oh and by the way, frog, you never told me what you’re wearing.”
frogsticker is offline
And Mr Cat laughs and laughs and laughs.
*
She stopped listening and went out in the rain for a drive. She drove a ring around the city border, came in and did a ring around the city centre, and went back out to the border again. She drove until she was sick of it, and she drove some more. She arrived home at a quarter past five, drenched, exhausted, fully aware that she should at least get dry but simply unwilling to do so; she threw herself onto her couch and was asleep in seconds.
At nine, Kaeloo wakes, bathes, grooms herself to her satisfaction. She dresses in shorts and a yellow-striped loose shirt, all cute and summery; her hair is nice and fluffy, and she thinks positive thoughts about her body with intent on having A Good Day. She packs a pocket book of poems, money and her keys into a black quilted crossbody bag, and with that, Kaeloo goes out, passing first through the building courtyard and rose bushes. There’s plenty of puddles abound and the rose petals and leaves are all dotted with drops of water, but the sun is shining and the clouds are white, the rain has definitely stopped for now.
Being out during the daytime is good. Dressing in bright colours and non-restrictive clothes is good. Walking is good. She feels solar charged, her skin has been warmed by the sun and powered her up, she can do anything. Birds twitter in the trees and she smiles at them, she waves at a squirrel that scampers by. She reaches the park a few blocks away and sits at one of the stone benches by the pond, reading poetry, enjoying the sunshine and the fresh air. Distantly she can hear children laughing and playing. Life is beautiful.
Every day should be like this.
The sun is directly overhead by the time she gets something to eat, a sandwich and a cupcake from an open cafe where everyone is nice to her. Kaeloo is beaming the entire time she’s interacting with them, the cashier girl asks about her day and she tells her it’s been good, and by the way I like your nails they’re very nice. Maybe Kaeloo will paint her nails, too. She’s going down the street licking the last of the icing off her fingers, keeping an eye out for somewhere to purchase nail polish, when she spies a new electronics store, all sleek and modern, unlike the place across town that she’s more familiar with. And she’s curious, so she brushes any crumbs off her shirt that may still be there, rights the strap of her bag over her chest, and marches inside.
By 2 o’clock she is back in the courtyard, sitting cross-legged and tinkering with her new purchase. The instruction manual and startup guide is spread open across her legs and beside her, and Kaeloo checks it regularly but all in all she’s having a pretty easy time working it out, maybe new technology isn’t as confusing and malicious as she thought. She consults her watch for the time, she searches her memory for the password to the building’s internet connection, and eventually the trendy little smartphone tells her that it’s all good to go and ready for use. In the contacts app there’s a place for her to enter her home phone number so that if someone rings it while she’s out she can answer it on here, which she thinks is very clever.
Kaeloo only spends a minute frivolously tapping her freshly-painted nails across the screen at things that don’t actually interest her before she goes to the email app. It prompts her to log in and she does so, and the phone dings at her much more clearly then her computer can, informing her of new messages she has to look at. There are two; one from not long after she rage quit and left home last night, and the second from about an hour later.
L: sore loser
L: bah it’s no fun if you’re not around
lchat is offline
For the first time Kaeloo does genuinely wonder how the rest of the show went, but doesn’t feel any unnecessary anxiety over it. She makes sure she’s all calm and centred, and navigates the strange keyless keyboard to reply.
F: I’m sorry Mr Cat but it’s no fun either when YOU are being mean. It’s not nice to enjoy yourself at the expense of others when you could be polite and everyone can have fun instead! That’s what I believe.
Satisfied, she puts the phone down beside her and nods to herself. Her mind free of what has been ailing it, she can now think about more practical things, like her brunch tomorrow with Quack-Quack. She’ll have to show off her new phone and give him the number for it; he’ll probably be surprised by this development, but it’s more likely than not that he’ll be pleased as well, and she can get all the contact details of her other friends off him, too. Stumpy is a big fan of technology and Kaeloo can imagine that he would be willing to teach her about it; she’d really appreciate that.
She has a reason lined up for getting a phone all prepared, too. You can have your own music and the radio on a smartphone, it’s all in one place! There’s a camera; Kaeloo can take pictures of cute things she sees during the day and look back at it later. And of course it will be easy for her friends and colleagues to get ahold of her. Yep - plenty of perfectly good reasons to get a phone.
lchat is online
L: are you sure you really listen to my show
L: i think you have me confused for someone else
L: i don’t know what makes you think i could be polite
F: I don’t know Mr Cat, I’ve caught glimpses! I think you might actually be a good and nice man inside and you try to hide it
L: lol
F: Oh, well that’s all I was really holding out hope for so I suppose I’ll leave you be.
frogsticker is offline
L: whOA HOH WAIT
L: no i’ll be good
L: i’ll be the goodest
frogsticker is online
F: Thank you :)
lchat is typing…
L: you’re
L: pushing my buttons aren’t you
F: You do it to me so I figure two can play at that game
F: And I like games
Is it weird that she’s grinning at her phone out in the courtyard where anyone could see her? Kaeloo becomes aware of her physical presence and curls a little in on herself, hugging the screen close to her chest and trying to force down her smile.
L: you’re crazy
L: lucky for you i’m into that
L: what’s your name?
The smile falls on its own.
frogsticker is typing…
frogsticker is typing…
F: Why do you need to know??
L: well you have to agree you have me at a major disadvantage here
L: you’ve been listening so long you feel entitled to say what i’m really like
L: so obviously it’s been a long time
F: A year or so.
L: and i talk endlessly about myself so much i lose track of what i’ve said on air and what weird personal sh*t complete strangers must know about me
L: isn’t it fair i get to know something as simple as the NAME of my new friend?
F: I’m just a listener!!!!!
L: you don’t wanna be my friend? :((
F: No this is a parasocial relationship it would not be healthy
L: oh my god you are a therapist
L: is it really so wrong to want to get to know you
F: Yes!!!!!!!!!!!!
L: i don’t know how you manage to be no fun and extremely fun at the same time
L: you should come on the show as soon as i get phone lines running
L: we’ll play that game you’re so eager for
frogsticker is idle
Kaeloo packs up all the papers and plastic into the box her phone came in and brings everything up to her apartment. The glare from the sun was making it hard to see the screen, anyway. She goes and takes a long look at herself in the mirror.
Usually she’s good at guessing at what her therapist would say or advise, good at getting into that mindset on her own and policing her own behaviour, but she’s having difficulties at the moment.
F: Thank you but that might not be wise for me
L: ohh sh*tt
L: right i forgot you’re a hitman as well as a therapist
L: the mafia would come after you
L: dw i completely understand they’re after me too
Kaeloo has to look up what “DW” means.
F: Are you joking or being serious right now?
L: i dunno you’re the expert
F: Because if you’re in danger it wouldn’t surprise me, you did take your brother’s car
F: Maybe it’s not safe for you to be on air either!
L: DAMN NOTHING GETS PAST YOU
L: are you saying you get to know my real name and i don’t get ANYTHING from you???
F: I think frog is a cute nickname, I like it
L: literally who are you. what do you do
L: are you like the spy who was supposed to keep an eye on me but over time couldn’t help but succumb to your feelings and urges to protect me
L: a love story for the ages
frogsticker is typing…
F: No.
L: you took a long time to work it out
L: are you sure there’s not some espionage going on here?
L: maybe a little romance?
L: i wouldn’t be opposed
frogsticker is offline
L: LOL
Minutes pass. Kaeloo just stares at the ceiling.
L: aw come back i’m just joking
frogsticker is online
F: You’re not a nice man at all.
L: i tried to warn you
F: You’re not even trying to be friends with me!!!!
L: yes i am
L: do you have a better way in mind
L: oh wait don’t tell me
F: I think the best way to make a new friend is by playing games.
L: ok play something with me
F: No you’re a cheater
L: innocent until proven guilty
L: and you can’t prove anything
F: There’s no game I can think of to play not in person with someone that wouldn’t be based on trust, therefore we can’t play anything because you ARE a cheater!!!
F: Not even cards would work because you’ll just LIE
L: never with you bby
F: You have to PROMISE
L: sure
F: Do you PROMISE????
L: YES
F: OK tell me what games you have and I’ll cross reference with my collection
L: i don’t have any games at home
L: and even if i did it’s kind of a mess rn
F: More to do with the carpet?
L: ha ha i wish
L: my apartment was broken into last night
F: Oh no!!!!!!
L: tbph i’m probably throwing myself at you because i might be f*cking dead soon
F: For the car?????
L: among other things
F: That’s terrible!
F: I will help you.
L: oh my hero
L: admit it, you’re a hitman
F: I would like to play a game before I say anything about myself
L: how about this
L: we play something high stakes with gradual losses like chess
L: every time you lose you have to tell me what i want to know about you
frogsticker is typing…
F: I have checkers.
*
At brunch, Kaeloo shows off her phone to Quack-Quack and Eugly, and both are impressed with her for taking a step into the modern era. Over pancakes with ice cream Eugly asks what she’s been using it for so far, and Kaeloo just shrugs and reports that she’s been transferring her CDs onto it via the computer.
Stumpy can help with that, Quack-Quack says. If you’re still on for dinner, he’s gonna be there with his girlfriend, you can ask him about it.
Kaeloo clasps her hands together. “His girlfriend! I haven’t met her yet!”
She’s great, you’ll love her, and she’s sure that he’s right about that. But Kaeloo can’t help but wonder, does the elusive girlfriend know about what Stumpy does? What they all do? The thought unsettles her a bit, and she rolls her shoulders and pretends to stretch.
“Can I come back to work, yet?” she asks.
“You’re obsessed,” Eugly says teasingly, but not unkindly. Her voice is the sweetest lilt Kaeloo has ever heard, and she signs everything she says.
Quack-Quack smiles and furrows his brow, shakes his head a little. Strict orders, Kaeloo. Couple more days.
She inhales carefully and leans over the table, whispering, “Can you at least tell me something?”
His brow furrows further, in confusion now. Of course, anything.
“What’s up?” Eugly says softly, leaning in as well.
“I was wondering what’s going on with the...with the Chat syndicate.”
Quack-Quack looks taken aback for a second. Eugly whirls her head to him almost in a panic, but then he scoffs, waving his hand dismissively, and she seems to relax. They know it’s over, he says. There’s going to be a sit-down next Saturday where everything gets divided and it’s all made official, but they’re done. At this point those brothers are only tying up loose ends and prepping to leave.
Kaeloo blinks, unsure of what to make of that initial reaction. “Just like that?”
Quack-Quack shrugs.
“And Olaf is going to meet with them? Next Saturday as in not the one coming up?”
He snaps his fingers. Yes, and you definitely need to be there for it. Sorry. Should have said earlier.
She shakes her head emphatically. “No, no problem.” Her phone is a great weight in her hand. “No problem at all.”
That evening, she advises the valet on how to properly park her motorcycle due to its lack of a kickstand, thanks him, and hops up the steps to the front of the fancy restaurant. It’s rare that Kaeloo gets to have an outing like this, so she’s dressed herself as nicely as possible; her tuxedo is sharp, her shoes are shiny, and she picked a rose from the courtyard garden to tuck into her breast pocket.
She gives her name to the fellow at the door, who checks his list to find it before he lets her in. It occurs to her that he is a complete stranger that she just gladly shared her name with, so she has to tell herself that it’s literally that man’s job to hear people’s names, he must hear hundreds every day, and also it’s not even the same thing– And she hears her name called across the restaurant, saving her from her own thoughts.
It’s Stumpy in an attractive mauve getup, waving her over to the booth where the others are already sitting. Quack-Quack and Eugly are to the left, Stumpy and his girlfriend are to the right, and there is a big free space in the middle. Pretty is not here, with no indication that she’s around and just out of sight. This is oddly distressing. Kaeloo had assumed that Pretty would be here. Why isn’t Pretty here? Why does this suddenly feel very strange, having an uneven number of people?
Good lord, Kaeloo realises. She’s a fifth wheel.
“Hey, Kaeloo!” Stumpy is calling her again. “Come sit down, we’re gonna order soon!”
“Don’t rush her, sweetheart,” says the girlfriend, standing up and coming over. She’s a gorgeous, tall, blonde thing, wearing purple to match Stumpy. She takes Kaeloo’s hands in hers. “It’s so nice to meet you at last, Kaeloo! I’m Ursula.”
Kaeloo must resist the urge to flee. She puts a big, bright smile on her face and goes in for a one-armed hug. “It’s so nice to meet you, too! I’ve heard so much about you! How are you?” She feels like she’s talking too fast, being too frantic in her partially faked enthusiasm; Kaeloo is sincerely pleased to meet Ursula, but if only they were anywhere else. She feels like an intruder, an interloper, on what is clearly supposed to be a double date.
Her friends don’t treat her like an interloper, of course, they’re all behaving as normal - but Kaeloo’s anxieties tell her it’s just to be polite and they want her to leave. She doesn’t say much, just tries to make herself small and invisible in the middle of the booth, and it’s really hard to do in a party that is one-fifth mute, one-fifth deaf and shy about talking too much, and one-fifth a newcomer still getting used to the group. Granted, with Stumpy dominating so much of the conversation and being as social and easily accessible as he is, Ursula slots into the group easily and is a truly welcome addition, telling her own fair share of stories and jokes and being a pleasure to be around.
“I love your rose, there, Kaeloo,” Ursula says
“Oh, thank you, it–it’s from the garden my building has!” She offers a little smile. “It’s almost perfect, I just wish there were lots of different flower species instead of one.”
“You could plant some,” suggests Ursula, which captures Stumpy’s interest.
“Oh yes, you should grow giant venus flytraps to eat your enemies!” He claws his fingers and closes his hands together to demonstrate the eating. “The perfect crime.”
Venus flytraps don’t grow that big, points out Quack-Quack. Pitcher plants would work much better for traps, but again, not so big. They really only get big enough to eat frogs.
Kaeloo swallows. “I don’t think I want anything getting eaten.”
“Of course not, it’s so cruel!” agrees Ursula, earning her more points. “How about some daisies, those are nice and simple. Butterflies like them.”
“Fine, plant those,” grumbles Stumpy. “But you’d better make sure they’re giant!”
“I’ll have to go searching,” Kaeloo says with an amused smile. “Maybe I’ll visit the florist tomorrow and ask.”
“You better before you have to come back to work,” says Stumpy, whistling and rolling his eyes. “Whew! It’s cool for you to take time off and all but we need you out there.”
She must be making an awful facial expression because Quack-Quack swerves the conversation down a different path. Kaeloo got a phone.
“You what?” Stumpy is overwhelmingly excited by this. He makes grabby hands at Kaeloo. “Show me, show me!”
Kaeloo smiles placidly. “Oh, I left it at home.” It is in her trouser pocket. She has observed that when she receives a message, a notification and preview waits for her at the lock screen; Mr Cat messaged her twice twenty minutes ago and she does not want to have to explain any of that situation to anyone right now.
“Kaeloo!” whines Stumpy. “The whole point of having a phone is that you bring it everywhere with you!”
“She can just show you later, honey,” Ursula tries to soothe him.
Yeah, agrees Quack-Quack, Bring it over sometime, Kaeloo, Stumpy can help with your data.
“Do you have antivirus? Do you have a VPN? You gotta have a VPN,” exclaims Stumpy. “Look, my plan lets me share the license on ten separate devices, you can have the last keys.”
“I don’t know what any of that means.”
“Oh my GOD, please take it.” And he starts furiously mashing on his phone. “Tell me your email, I’ll send you all the links you need.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. She says, “I don’t have an email,” to which Stumpy just starts wailing and it’s up to Quack-Quack to provide him with her phone number.
“You should make one!” says Ursula. “I’d love to see your garden, you can send me photos.”
“I think it would be a good idea,” Eugly says, nodding delicately, patting Kaeloo gently. “I have a subscription to a cooking magazine, I can share it with you.”
“All this sending and sharing!” cries Kaeloo. “It’s wonderful, but it’s so confusing. When you share something, does it mean everyone can see it?”
“Oh, that’s social media,” Ursula explains. “Email is private, you only see what someone sends you, and you choose what you want to share back.”
This means nothing to Kaeloo, and perhaps Eugly can sense that, so she uses a comparison to help her understand. “Email is like a phone call, but social media is like radio. Anything you put out there can be seen by anyone.”
“Oh my goodness,” says Kaeloo, her hand jumping to her throat. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
Everyone goes at their own pace, says Quack-Quack. You just do what you feel comfortable with.
“And for the love of god,” pleads Stumpy, finishing up and putting his phone away, “do everything I just texted you.”
Right on cue, her phone buzzes with his instructions.
Kaeloo arrives back home around 10:30, and it’s a relief. In the end she started to feel more welcome at dinner, but she is still embarrassed to have thrown off the numbers and dynamics the way she did - or feels that she did. She sets her phone down next to her computer and puts on the radio to the last half hour of grand, orchestral music that plays before After Hours, and goes off to the kitchen to make herself some tea.
In the interim she carefully removes the rose from her jacket pocket; it won’t keep long, but she finds it a little jar of water anyway. The jacket she takes off, straightens, hangs back up in her wardrobe, but that’s as far as she undresses, aside from rolling her sleeves up her forearms. Kaeloo decides she so rarely gets to wear a cute little bowtie and it’s not going to hurt anyone to keep it on for now.
With her tea she sits at the computer, mindful to put it down where it’s not in danger of doing much damage in the event of a spill, and picks up her phone to get started on what Stumpy wants her to do. Below the text notification from his number, which she’ll be sure to put in her contact list, is the latest from Mr Cat earlier in the night.
L: checkerboard acquired
L: we are f*cking DOING this tadpole
L: and tell me your favourite band it’s very important
lchat is idle
Kaeloo breathes steadily and does not reply right away, nor feel the need to. She takes herself to the links Stumpy sent her, downloads what he has advised her to install, copies the codes he’s provided; she does this both on the computer and the phone, and when it’s all over nothing seems terribly different aside from the faster loading speeds, but Kaeloo is sure that everything has worked as intended and she owes Stumpy a big thanks for his help.
She checks the time and sees it’s almost eleven, so she opens up her DM with Mr Cat on the computer and types a quick response–
F: Caravan Palace
F: I will set up my board.
lchat is typing…
frogsticker is idle
–and collects her checkerboard from where she left it on the dining table this morning. Kaeloo brings it over and sets it on the ottoman she moved over to the desk (which didn’t have enough room for the board on it), and opens up the box of pieces and lays them on the black spaces of the 12x12 board - which makes her realise they never discussed the size of the board, so she turns her attention back to the screen.
L: cute
frogsticker is online
F: What size board do you have
L: that’s kind of personal isn’t it
F: I have 12 by 12
L: ah f*ck
L: i got 10
F: OK that is fine, I will cover up the unnecessary rows
F: Do you want to be black or white?
L: i’m mixed
F: The PIECE COLOUR MR CAT
L: red
F: Red/white goes first
L: hold on
L: duty calls
lchat is idle
It’s true, the orchestral music has long since faded out and the host with the slowest, most boring voice in the world is wrapping up for the night. That’s fine, Kaeloo just keeps putting down the pieces and sips her tea.
When the last piece has been placed, she looks at the board and feels like she’s missed something. Her brows furrow and she frowns, glances around, waiting for the answer to fly out at her. The After Hours jingle starts to play.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and all those between, it is I, Mr Cat, once again.” He loudly sets something down, shuffles with papers, drinks. “And I’m going to be completely honest with you, listeners, I’m going for low effort tonight and you’re gonna have to live with it. What a rollercoaster of a week it’s been and it’s not even f*cking over yet; isn’t it funny how literally the worst things can happen but you can still be in a good mood? Seriously! I’ve got a skip in my step, I showed up early to work, it’s all upside down. So that may make you wonder, Mr Cat, if you’re feeling so great then what’s all this talk about low effort? Are you not talking to us right now? And yeah, I am, but frankly f*ck you guys, I can’t wait to switch off and flood the airwaves with music rather than my beautiful instrument. My energy doesn’t belong to you tonight. Or does it? It might, if you’re the right person.” He grins, she can hear it in his voice. “Before I leave you, take this incisive note from the studio heads.”
Mr Cat clears his throat and reads, “Do not alienate the audience.” He crumples the note in his fist and throws it away. “And with that, audience, prepare to be alienated. Welcome to After Hours with Mr Cat on 66.89, where I’m going to play Caravan Palace’s entire discography back to back.”
Lone Digger starts up and Kaeloo finally figures it out, she figures out the thing that was picking at her. It’s that she is actually for real about to do this, she is going to play a game with Mr Cat, and he wants to, he would rather do it than host his show properly. She’d assumed – she’s going to have to stop that because she’s finding herself often wrong – that he would be multitasking tonight; playing in song breaks, outright narrating the entire thing to the audience, or any other variant. He just said, his energy belongs to her.
Kaeloo stands and walks a circle around her apartment, running her hands through her hair. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. Alright. Okay,” and then she returns to the computer. Lone Digger is a good song to start with, she likes it very much, she likes the whole robot face album, she wonders if he’ll play it in order or not.
L: ok i’m all yours
L: and if i’m going first then i move g4 to f5
Kaeloo goes around to the other side of the board and moves the corresponding white piece. She reports back that this is what she has done and that she expects him to do the same - that is, move pieces from the point of view from the player so they can ensure they’re accurately keeping track of where they are - and tells him that she moves her G2 to F1.
L: afraid of confrontation?
F: I like to spread out my pieces.
L: g10 to f9
L: i’m out for blood
F: That’s a silly move, you can’t take me next turn and I can only send that piece back!
F: I move G6 to F5.
L: my f5 to e4
F: That’s bait!!
F: Oldest trick in the book, Mr Cat, it won’t fool me.
L: oh yeah?
F: G10 to F9.
L: no no no
L: in the version i grew up with
L: when there’s the opportunity to take a piece
L: you MUST do it
F: That’s not a real rule.
L: yes it is
L: take the piece
F: >:(
F: G8 to E6, I take your E4
F: BUT I’M NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT
L: oh would you look at that
L: g6 to e4 and your ass is mine
L: my first question
Kaeloo huffs and sits back in her chair, folding her arms.
L: are you a boy or a girl
L: or other
L: sorry don’t mean to be restrictive
Kaeloo hates being asked that question. It is the worst question to be asked. She has been asked it so many times and she does not like being asked it.
F: My preferred pronouns are she/her but I will also accept he/him and they/them.
F: H3 to G2.
L: interesting
L: a she but not a girl
F: I’ll say nothing more on it unless you take another piece from me
They continue like this, and the game is riveting; Kaeloo feels very motivated to beat Mr Cat and she finds matching number and letter combinations to spaces tedious in a way that she can enjoy, like folding clothes. The game settles into a routine; she takes one of his pieces, he takes one of hers, he asks something about her, she tells him. Mr Cat wants to know what her real job is and she tells him private security - which he takes as confirmation of his own pet theory. He asks what kind of car she drives and she tells him she owns a motorcycle. This obviously intrigues him because his next question is about the model. Kaeloo tells him it’s a Honda VTR1000F Superhawk and he expresses how impressive he thinks that is, and she beams with pride because yes, yes it is impressive. It is nice to be recognised.
Mr Cat asks if she knows what he looks like, and she admits she has seen a photograph; he appeared in a short article about little-known local celebrities a few months ago and it included a waist-up shot of him. That and the surreptitious pictures of him and his brothers, but those are from years ago and she doesn’t mention them. Kaeloo is sure to clarify that she has never seen him in person.
And the thing is, she’s winning the game. She is two pieces ahead of him, and yet she still finds herself answering his questions. Does she live alone? Yes. What does she like apart from games? Driving, reading, flowers, music. It feels like he’s getting an awful lot out of her.
Kaeloo takes a step back and considers the board. In almost all places she has a piece primed to take one of his, and in almost all places he is prepared to take the one that took his in turn. It is calculated. She is winning, but still takes enough losses that his curiosity can be satisfied. Kaeloo had thought he wasn’t a very good player, but no; he is better than anyone she has ever played before, barring Quack-Quack.
She says nothing to indicate she’s worked this out and just starts moving her pieces away, making a retreat to her end of the board. It’s designed to seem like she is closing ranks, only wanting to protect from any of his pieces coming and kinging itself.
They have been taking long pauses to consider each move for some time now, but Mr Cat has been thinking for so long that he goes idle. He starts typing right away to make his move. He keeps his formation tight but with necessary gaps, not proceeding up the board. Likewise, Kaeloo sends her pieces forward and back, forward and back, close knit on their row.
L: feels like you’re suddenly afraid of winning
F: I’m being cautious. You’re not doing anything either
L: you force my hand
Mr Cat sends his pieces up to hers. Kaeloo tries to manoeuvre them away, but according to the rules, when there is a piece to be taken she must take it, and that’s when it all falls into place, and she sees that he’s set it up so that from each move from now until the end of the game they will continuously take pieces from one another, every single one; and at the end she’ll win, but... She has eight pieces and he has six, so he’ll still take five of hers on the way out. He has five questions to ask.
“Aw man,” says Kaeloo.
F: I see what you’ve done and I think it’s very clever, bravo
L: thank you
F: Would you like to finish the game properly or will you get started right away?
L: let’s finish
L: it’s not a win for you if we stop here is it?
They quickly and coldly get the numbers out of the way. With three pieces left, her victory is secure. Kaeloo rubs her face, her eyes, feeling quite spent. Ghosts has just started playing; the robot face album did indeed play entirely in sequence and it’s been the same for Chronologic, Ghosts is the penultimate song and it only goes for about a minute.
L: do you like your job?
It’s a banal question but she has to think about it.
F: Yes
F: But it doesn’t make me happy.
F: Does that make sense?
L: more than it should
L: what made you stick with the show? because it’s clearly not me
F: No, it is. I told you in my first letter, I get lonely
F: Your voice is comforting and you make good company and I like to hear what you have to say
F: And I feel like you’re lonely too, so I wanted to stick around for you even when you didn’t know I was there
Ghost finishes and April begins; it’s a particular favourite of Kaeloo. Mr Cat doesn’t type for ten seconds, and takes ten seconds more to type his next question, slow for him.
L: did you mean it when you said you’d help me? like stop me getting killed
F: Yes.
L: well thanks
L: but i feel like your answer is about to change
F: Why?
L: oh you know
L: what are you wearing?
frogsticker is typing...
frogsticker is typing…
L: take your time
Kaeloo doesn’t like her body and doesn’t want to describe it, and of course he’s not directly asking that of her, but she feels that curiosity in the subtext. It will be easy to give a visual, she can throw it out there and not have to look at herself, just forget about it. That is what she would prefer to do. She gets up and goes to her bedroom mirror, phone in hand.
With both hands she holds it close to her chest but to the side, as not to obscure her bowtie. She shuffles her feet, not sure if she should stand as she does naturally or keep a straight back, opting for somewhere in the middle, the heels of her shiny shoes put together and not favouring one leg over the other. She doesn’t put her jacket back on or unroll her sleeves, she takes a picture as she is, hoping her arms aren’t terribly distracting, hoping he won’t catch that hint of tattoo at her elbow. One final touch is for her to crop the picture so as little of the reflection of her room can be seen, and she cuts her head off, too.
Pure and simple. This is what she is wearing. She fiddles with her phone, putting the picture in a new email and sending it off to Mr Cat. Kaeloo nods to herself in satisfaction, glances again at the mirror to see if her fringe needs fussing with - it does not - and returns back out to the computer. April is just finishing up.
She’s sitting there putting the checker pieces into the box where they belong when her phone and computer scream for her attention.
L: WHAT THE f*ck YOU’RE HOT
It starts as confusion, but it’s mostly rage that spikes through her. Her stomach churns, her heart pounds, she feels her face flushing and scrunching up as she tries to hold it down - but she doesn’t have to hold it down, she loudly growls and takes to the keyboard. Mr Cat has more to say.
L: OH MY GOD THIS WHOLE TIME I’M PICTURING YOU AS A LITTLE THING
L: WHICH NOW I’M THINKING ABOUTIT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE SENSE I DON’T KNOW I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ANYMORE
L: STEP ON ME
Her fingers still at the keyboard and she deletes what she’s typed; maybe he is not making fun of her.
L: literally a f*cking amazon my GOD
L: where have you BEEN
L: are you single?????
L: WHY would you cut out your face i HAVE to see
Kaeloo’s hands go to her throat, her cheeks. It’s suddenly very hot and uncomfortable and she needs to take off the bowtie. When her neck is free of it she puts it down next to her phone, undoes the top two buttons of her shirt. Her hands are shaking a bit but she tries to keep calm.
F: Please be nice
L: I AM BEING NICE YOU’RE GORGEOUS
L: i need you to come punch me in the face right this second
F: I just might if you don’t stop!!
L: PLEASE
lchat is typing...
lchat is typing...
lchat is typing...
Kaeloo is already sitting down but she feels like she needs to go sit down. She rubs her arms anxiously, protectively - and with a bit of pride? Based on everything, mostly the frantic and all caps messages, it really feels like Mr Cat isn’t joking, or is very dedicated to the ruse. He’s been taking an awfully long time to send whatever it is he plans on sending next and Kaeloo doesn’t think she’s at all prepared to read it.
She barely notices that she’s sitting in complete silence; the radio is quiet, no song has come on after the end of the last album.
L: okay
L: i just need to process this
L: like you realise how absolutely insane this is
F: I don’t.
L: you’re the hottest person i’ve ever seen and i haven’t even seen all of you
L: i NEED that face frog
F: I’m not hot!!
L: i don’t even know what to say
L: i just
L: where have you been all my life
F: You have one question left.
F: Is that the one you’re asking?
L: n
L: NO
F: OK well I wish you would decide what it is because I don’t want to talk about this anymore
F: If you’re being serious then thank you but I was just showing you my outfit that’s all
lchat is typing...
L: alright well here’s my question
L: what’s your name?
She takes a deep breath.
F: Kaeloo d’Lac.
lchat is typing...
L: hi kaeloo d’lake
L: i’m lucifer chat
F: Hello, Mr Cat.
L: and did you know
L: that i am single
F: Nothing’s playing on the radio.
L: f*ck
lchat is offline
There’s an unpleasant, static-like sound that resembles a bubble in the audio itself being popped, followed by a clattering and a shuffling, the moving of the microphone.
“Sorry about that, listeners,” comes Mr Cat’s voice after a second. “I was– It’s– It’s a low effort night, I said that before. Everyone calm down. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.” There’s the mechanical whirring of nearby machinery, the clicking of a mouse. He speaks quickly, only out of obligation, “Arctic Monkeys’ Do I Wanna Know.”
The song plays and Kaeloo gets up. She puts away the checkerboard and the box of pieces and takes herself back to her room, gets undressed, gets into her pyjamas. She doesn’t idle on her reflection long out of fear, fear of seeing brand new flaws - or for once, none at all. She can’t be sure which would be worse and she does not plan on finding out.
She returns to the computer only to turn it off, she does the same for the lights in the apartment. Her teacup goes into the sink for now, she’ll wash up in the morning. Right now, though, Kaeloo is utterly exhausted, and she takes herself off to bed with her phone.
She thinks she’s worked out how to turn off notifications for the night so she won’t be disturbed by them, but she does quickly go back into the DM with Mr Cat.
F: Goodnight. Thank you for playing with me.
frogsticker is offline
L: wait
Kaeloo hurriedly closes it down before another message can appear. She plugs her earbuds into the headphone jack and finds 66.89 on the radio app, where Arabella, another from Arctic Monkeys, is almost done playing. She locks her phone and tucks it under her pillow and wraps herself up like a burrito, eyes shut tight, as if that’s going to make her fall asleep faster.
His voice is low and soothing. “Goodnight, frog.”
*
The shipping forecast guy had a grave look on his face when Mr Cat passed him in the hallway, and he had no interest in asking about it or talking to him at all; but then, of course, the guy called back, “Hey, man, good luck.”
Mr Cat didn’t have it in him to do any more than to scoff in irritation and roll his eyes, but that was then. This is now. This is in the garage, where Michael’s car is gone, and Mr Cat’s car, left here since the night he stopped using it, is a smoking husk of its former self. He screams and swears and tears out his own hair.
The black car is still parked outside. Mr Cat storms across the road and hits his fist against the window of the drivers’ seat three times; in his other hand he clutches his switchblade. “Hey, dickhe*d!” he shouts. “I hope you’re prepared to get me a ride home!”
The window slowly starts to roll down. Mr Cat is so worked up he’s fully expecting to just stab the driver in the eye as soon as he sees them, no matter how many guys are in the car. He glares at his reflection in the descending black glass, and when it reaches his nose a voice emerges from within.
“Not impressed with your show, Lucy.” The voice, which has turned Mr Cat’s blood to ice, does not belong to the driver, who only glances at him impassively. The window fully comes down and it continues, “I expected better, I mean – a guy leaves his family to pursue some passion a’ his, you think it’d be something special, right?” Gabriel leans over from the passenger side so he can meet his little brother’s eyes and jerk his head in the direction of the back seat. “Get in.”
Mr Cat does not so much get in as he is thrown in by the guys who come out from the back; he’s squeezed in the middle seat between them, trying to keep from shuddering as the car takes off. All is silent for a minute; except for the very faint shipping forecast on the radio.
Gabriel turns his head a little to get a look at him. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” he asks, then laughs, and the guys flanking Mr Cat do the same in a more subdued manner.
His throat is dry and his tongue weighs more than the sun, but Mr Cat manages to swallow and reply, “What took you so long, afraid of damaging the goods?”
“Bit a’ that,” says Gabriel, nodding concedingly. “Michael was advocating real hard to just put one in your head.” He motions to his temple, then wags his finger. “Dad didn’t like that, but his resolve was weakening, so best to operate before anyone decides to pull the plug.” He turns back further so he can look at Mr Cat properly; Mr Cat looks at his cheek instead of in his eyes. “He’s fine, though, now he’s got the car back.”
“Oh, so we’re square,” says Mr Cat with false brightness, slapping on a grin. “Everything’s back where it belongs, you go your way and I go mine.”
“No, Lucy, you know it don’t work like that.”
The corners of his mouth go down so now he’s just baring his teeth. His shoulders slump further and the guys at his sides knock him with their elbows. Gabriel smiles a little at this and turns his eyes back out to the road.
“I dunno if you heard, but we’re being run out of town. Partially on account of you.” He waves his hand. “Now, I don’t mind that. We got our ways, we always bounce back. But we are in this mess because of you, so you have a debt to pay.”
Softly, Mr Cat says, “Back to work.”
“That’s right. And there ain’t no getting out this time.”
The car reaches the edge of the city, near the marina. Here are the warehouses that are making up the Chat syndicate base of operations, at least temporarily. Most everyone is stationed here; even higher-ups don’t feel too comfortable going home. Mr Cat can’t help but wonder very briefly, but he knows what his family’s like, he remembers similar wartime circ*mstances as a kid. Dad and Michael will be at home with bars down.
The guys are sure to keep a tight hold on him once they’re all out of the car, sans the driver. Gabriel walks them to the furthest unit down the line, closest to the ocean, where the air is cold and salty. Mr Cat hates the ocean; they picked this place on purpose. They take his jacket and boots, his keys, his knives, his gun and his phone; and they throw him inside. The guys stay back, but Gabriel enters after him, taking off his gloves.
“Obviously you won’t be starting right away,” he says.
“Obviously,” Mr Cat sardonically agrees into the floor.
“I’ll go easy on ya, I can only imagine how soft you’ve gotten.” Gabriel hangs up his coat. “I’ll keep from breaking your legs until this whole merger is over.”
“Finally something to look forward to.” He’s not tied down, but Mr Cat just stays on the floor, only rolling to be looking up at the ceiling, at his brother approaching. “Fun for the whole family.”
“More fun than your dumb show,” replies Gabriel, catching on the end of his sentence and laughing; endlessly mocking like it’s always been, “‘Mr Cat.’”
*
Kaeloo buys daisies and tulips and peonies. She uproots an entire rosebush to clear space for them, and plants and waters each one with care, arranging them by colour and species. She’s careful with the rosebush as well, repotting half the flowers and placing them around the building, saving one for her apartment, and collecting the rest into a bouquet she feels confident she’ll be able to keep at least for a few weeks. It’s all very involved but she enjoys doing it, it’s been nice to be awake during the day while taking time off work. The daytime feels so much better for her, but the night does have one thing going for it, at least.
She naps from 5pm to 9 so she’ll be able to stay up, and she prepares to make a new cup of tea every hour, sets out her favourite deck of cards, a notebook and paper, and the cabinet that houses her game collection is unlocked. The computer is online and awaiting input, her phone is fully charged, a concept Kaeloo is still thrown and somewhat disappointed by. How smart can a smartphone be if it can’t stay active all the time?
Kaeloo sits down at the computer and rereads the end of last night’s conversation with Mr Cat, as well as the additional messages he sent after she went offline. She’s already seen them, almost memorised them by now; she’s been looking back at them all day.
L: wait
L: sorry i was queueing up some songs i’m here
L: any requests?
L: oh you’re actually gone
And some more a couple of hours later, nearing 4 o’clock.
L: you’re right i am lonely
L: i don’t have any friends and my job is to pretend like i do
L: i really was starting to think no one was there
L: and your letter came and i felt seen. listened to
L: you’re a kind person kaeloo and i know it’s selfish but i want that
L: i want anything and everything you have to give me
L: i want to be loved and love in return
L: i mean this in a more general platonic way but incidentally you ARE gorgeous soooooo
L: anyway
L: your companionship is appreciated. let’s keep doing this
L: gotta use the cards you gave me sometime
lchat is offline
Kaeloo has been thinking nothing but positive, dreamy thoughts. She finally types up her response at 10 and sends it off, and she sits with her hands folded in her lap, patient but expecting a quick response, waiting. Waiting.
Waiting.
Mr Cat does not come online. Mr Cat does not appear on the radio. She gives him a half hour to be late, but after that the concerns begin to flood in, and she’s done with brushing off coincidences, the fact of the matter is that he felt targeted by the syndicate and her intuition is screaming danger. At midnight, Kaeloo suits up in her work gear and leaves.
She has been near the 66.89 station in the past but never before stopped to take a proper look; she does so now, idling across the road at the darkened building. She hears the door to the underground garage opening up and a man on a scooter drives out, looking furious through his little open-air helmet. He doesn’t notice her at all nor does she try to catch his attention; he won’t be able to tell her anything. Kaeloo flips up the visor of her helmet and puts her earbuds in place, tears off one of her gloves with her teeth so she can navigate the screen of her stupid phone.
The recipient picks up almost right away but Kaeloo still blurts, “Hello, Pretty?”
“Kaeloo, my sweet!” It’s a relief to hear her voice, it feels like it’s been much too long. “I’m surprised; when Eugly passed on your new number I really thought I’d be the one calling you first.”
“I was…” The words die in Kaeloo’s throat as she remembers her original dilemma, the very high possibility that Emperor Enterprises would not be happy about her associating with a blood relation of the Chat syndicate. “That–That sit-down is still happening, isn’t it?”
Pretty takes a second. “Yeah,” she replies guardedly, almost like a question. “It is.”
“Okay, great, I was, I just wanted to check,” says Kaeloo with forced enthusiasm. “Thank you. Do you think I could– Is there anything you need a hand with tonight?” She’s talking a bit frantically. “I know I’m not back on until tomorrow, well, on Saturday – which it is Saturday now, isn’t it, so it’s today, so technically I should be allowed to come back–”
Pretty laughs, and it’s a nice laugh, one to try to put her at ease. “Come on down, my girls and I are at the warehouse.”
It’s the one from weeks ago, stolen back under EE and restocked and in business. If all Kaeloo can do is go there and keep her ear to the ground, so be it. If she has to wait until the Chats come to her, she will. She decides then and there not to return to her apartment until she has an idea of where Mr Cat is, if he’s safe; and if he is not, until she makes sure he is. She turns her motorcycle around, flips down her visor, and takes off.
*
“I hope you’re aware of how much power you have, Kaeloo.”
“I try not to think about it.” There are many things that fit this description, presently.
Exactly a week has excruciatingly passed and it is dawn; they are returning to the inner city from a supply drop on the outskirts. Pretty’s orders to her crew had been specific, to stay behind and keep working at the warehouse. She only wanted Kaeloo along, and it seemed it was just for the purposes of getting her to drive and keep her company, until now.
Pretty glances up from her compact mirror, which she’s been preening into since the first few hints of the sun. “Oh, but you should,” she says, all conversational in tone, but there’s an insistence in there that Kaeloo cannot miss.
She keeps her eyes on the road and nods guardedly. She says, “Okay,” and hopes that’s the end of it, but no, it seems this is something Pretty would very much like to talk about.
“You’re such a valuable member of the team, you know. You’re so valuable to me.” Pretty lays her hand on her heart. “I mean it! I want you to know that.”
Kaeloo allows herself a smile and is sincere in her reply. “Thank you, Pretty, you’re a valued friend to me, too.”
“I’m really glad to hear that. We need friends going into this next stage of things.” She presses her hands together in a thoughtful motion, all the while Kaeloo supposes she’s referring to the big meeting today. “It’s been such a mess lately, I know you know that.”
“I do.”
“It’s only going to get worse before it gets better,” warns Pretty, “but when it does get better, it will have been all worth it. Don’t you think so?”
Kaeloo turns her head to look at her for a second, but just a second. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“We all need to stick together. You, me, Eugly,” she lists everyone using the fingers on her hand, “my girls...and Quack-Quack, I guess.”
That’s concerning. “And Stumpy and Olaf,” offers Kaeloo.
Pretty hums very lightly in response and goes back to her mirror. It takes 20 more minutes to return to the warehouse, and while Kaeloo is opening up the back of the truck for the supplies to be collected, Pretty touches her on the shoulder blade as she’s passing by.
“Those two,” she says, her green eyes locked onto Kaeloo, “look at us and don’t see people. They see tools and technology, and we’re not either of those things.”
“We’re not,” agrees Kaeloo, “but I don’t think–”
Pretty doesn’t let her finish. “I’ll see you at the sit-down,” she says, one final cryptic puzzle piece tossed on the table, and departs. And she’s right; Kaeloo won’t see her again until the event.
She’s unsettled as she returns to her bike, watching the crew operate from afar, people coming in and going out. Something is going on here and she’s seeing it for the first time; why is she only noticing now? Kaeloo opens and closes her hands, flexing her fingers. She feels the weight of her silent phone in her pocket, the same all-encompassing, loaded quiet on her back, in her heart. Of course she hadn’t noticed anything until now. She’s been quite occupied, off in her own world, living in her head, once filled with music and a man’s voice, now gone.
In an hour’s time Quack-Quack has arrived at the office building, and he texts Kaeloo instructions to join the rest of the security force in a debriefing. All to do with the sit-down, all to make sure everyone is on their best behaviour, to prepare for whatever issues may come from either side of the table. It is standard fare; Kaeloo will watch the Chat limousine approach from the back road it will use, and she’ll be up in the meeting room when they enter. It’s all fine. She just doesn’t like carrying a gun.
And she doesn’t like that she hasn’t been able to learn anything about Mr Cat’s whereabouts. He has been missing this whole time and it seems only she has noticed. In the early days she sent messages at first asking questions, even knowing he wouldn’t answer, then sending updates, little notes on where she’s been, how she is still looking. Begging him not to be dead. Finally it did occur to her that it wouldn’t be wise to keep sending things in the event everything was being received by a third party, so on Thursday she sent one last message, an assurance. He may have not had much faith in his continued life, but she does, and she will save it.
It’s all so embarrassing.
Last Saturday, when Olaf evaluated her in her return to work, he was pleased. Serguei behaved almost sheepishly, and it took Kaeloo some time to realise he may have been unsure about the state of their relationship after he made her leave. Kaeloo would never fault him for something like that, and she hopes soon enough they’ll be able to make good-natured jokes about it. At least once she feels like joking again.
Her reconnection with the boss went well, to the point where it now conflicts with Pretty’s statements. Olaf can be tough and quite unforgiving to low-rank soldiers, which certainly isn’t a redeeming quality of his, but he treats his trusted operatives with respect, as almost-equals. The man has a heart. Kaeloo doesn’t recall ever seeing or hearing of him being unkind to Pretty - and she’s well aware that not seeing or hearing about something doesn’t mean it can’t be happening, but in this situation, with these people? There’s not a chance it would go unheard of. Pretty is fine.
Olaf assigned Kaeloo to stick with Pretty’s crew, for heaven’s sake; handing over precious human resources, how is that not fair treatment?
All of this week, people, fellow employees, have eyed her; mostly the ones who work with numbers, who run the money, the accounts. These are the ones who whisper in people’s ears, which means they’ll all be valuable for this upcoming subsuming of the Chat syndicate. Among these are some of Olaf’s closest, the people he sees and talks to the most, so it makes sense that they would be loyal to him, but what’s the use in glaring at Kaeloo? They all know her, they should know she’s trustworthy, just another one of them. What’s changed? What’s wrong with everyone?
Kaeloo takes herself off to her personal quarters on the eleventh floor. When she was working only in this building, oftentimes she would sleep here instead of going home, and that is what she has been doing recently. It was a noble idea not to return home until Mr Cat was found, but for an entire week? Not possible. But she has been spending more time here than at her apartment.
She washes and changes uniforms; this one is a very dark green, resembling a racer’s outfit. The torso is bulletproof and the limbs stab proof, but those specifications don’t apply the other way around. She knows this very well. She catches her eye in the standing mirror as she tucks her helmet back under her arm; there’s no chance, at least, of someone getting a knife through this model.
Quack-Quack knocks and Kaeloo bids him entry. Showtime, he says, and they leave together.
*
He emerges from the last unit down the line, battered and bruised, sporting a small cast on his right wrist that will be able to come off in another day or so, and a limp that might take longer. He’s also dressed to the nines, so it’s really not all bad. Yup - if there’s one thing Mr Cat loves about the life of a mobster, it’s the style. The sharp suits and crisp shirts, shiny shoes and cars; and when you’re the youngest kid of the boss – correction, kid brother of the two bosses – you get to wear sunglasses to hide your black eye.
The glare of the sun hits the windshield of the approaching cars and reflects onto his face, and he just keeps smoking. It’s been a diet of cigarettes and painkillers since having to get stitches the other evening, and it’s great because he can’t feel anything. The limo pulls up and the door opens, Gabriel barks at him to get in and Michael smacks him upside the head once he has, and it means nothing to him but it does knock the sunglasses to the floor.
“You think you’re hot sh*t boss material already, huh?” Michael kicks the sunglasses away and they go skidding across to where Gabriel is sitting. He jabs his finger into Mr Cat’s chest. “You’re f*ckin’ nothing.”
Mr Cat just throws up a peace sign.
“The attitude on this guy!” exclaims Michael. “You make one sound in that meeting room and I’ll shoot you dead, I promise you.”
“Tell us how you’re really feeling, Mike,” says Gabriel with a smug grin. “Never took you as the nervous type.”
“Hey.” Michael points out the window and snaps, “The pier’s right over there, why don’t you take a long walk off of it?” which only serves to confirm Gabriel’s assessment, because in stark contrast to their treatment of Mr Cat, these two are tight. Couldn’t find a better brotherly bond in a frat house in ancient Greece. But Michael is anxious, and he gets very into threats when he is anxious.
Mr Cat just unrolls his window a bit to fling the stub away. He is detached, he does not exist during the car ride. His brothers talk and he does not; it’s back in the old routine, it’s practise for once they get to the old man’s offices and everyone gets to talk but Mr Cat. He just stays in the background and doesn’t even have to pay attention; they’d even prefer if he didn’t, he just has to stand there. He’ll be among a couple other capos of crews and he’ll fit right in, which he’s supposed to, but everyone on their side of the table will know he’s only there because they can’t leave him alone.
Mr Cat has so completely accepted his role as the prisoner, the baby being sat, that he hasn’t even taken much time to consider what he would do if he was alone. So many fun options, none of them viable because, as established, he’s going to be under a lot of supervision for a long time. It feels weirdly reminiscent of his former radio audience, except worse. Except bad. Except Kaeloo isn’t there.
She’s the only thing he’s given any real, proper thought to for this last – what, week? His phone was half-wiped by the time he got it back, obviously for the purposes of keeping him isolated, but her picture was still saved to the camera roll. And that image alone has served many purposes, but most of all it’s been a comfort. Even if by rights he’s dead to the world, dead to her, disappeared into nothing, she’s still there...sort of.
The station issued an announcement on Tuesday that his show was cancelled, his timeslot replaced with hours of f*cking whale songs. One last spit in the face.
Well, that part of his life is over. Mr Cat does a sad sort of smile at the passing streets outside. It was cute of Kaeloo to want to help him, cute of her to seem to actually think she could, and it was cute of Mr Cat to want to believe it. He should have just signed himself back up on the team that night instead of taking the car. He never had a chance of making a real connection with anybody. Their game was a cruel dangling of hope right before the void.
They’re close to the building, and Mr Cat knows this because of the trucks and cars all lined up along the road, engines running but with no intent on taking off. In the last stretch of road before the garage, the door to which comes up as the limo and its surrounding convoy approach, their reception is made up of motorcycles, dozens of them with their drivers, all black-clad and anonymous in their helmets. They’re the most ominous welcoming party Mr Cat has ever seen.
“You’re nervous for nothing,” is the last Gabriel has to say on the topic of Michael’s state of mind. “I’m excited. f*cking look at all this! All this manpower, and it’s about to be ours.”
Mr Cat hopes something goes horribly wrong at the sit-down and everyone present gets f*cking killed. As the limo enters the garage, the final motorcycle in the line, closest to the door, catches his eye, because it’s the only one out of the sea of black that’s red.
Once out of the limo, Michael shoves Mr Cat over to where the capos are emerging from their cars, sign enough to go hang around them and pretend he doesn’t exist. From there the Chats are subject to processing, opening their jackets, going through metal detectors, all with the understanding that the home turf players have done or are doing the same. Usually for sit-downs like these a couple of bodyguards come along, but the Chats are arrogant as well as their own best friends. Michael and Gabriel are each a boss and a consigliere for themselves and each other, and neither are fragile. They just think they’re an all-in-one package, leaving nothing left for the runt.
All this to say they didn’t bring bodyguards.
An EE soldier grabs Mr Cat’s arm as he’s heading to the elevator with the rest. “What’s this?”
“A cast, dipsh*t,” he snaps.
“Oh?” Like it’s an object rather than a part of a human being, the soldier thrusts Mr Cat’s hand to their capo. “Run it through the x-ray?” they suggest, and what he’d give to tell them he wouldn’t smuggle a dime for his rotten syndicate–
“You took his sunglasses. He came clean through the metal detector.” A Chat capo appears at his side. “That should be good enough for you, ice-for-brains.”
The soldier takes a step forward and Mr Cat briefly entertains the idea that he won’t even have to wait to get to the meeting room before the big shootout, but the EE capo reigns them in and the Chat party continues unhindered to the elevator. There’s fifteen floors in the building according to the buttons; if Mr Cat remembers correctly that’s one less than the Chat office, which either is or isn’t still theirs based on what happens when they reach the fifteenth floor.
The ride is uncomfortably quiet and kind of cramped at the back as the capos try to give Michael and Gabriel a respectful amount of room, but thankfully it doesn’t last forever, and the doors open to a long, coldly lit corridor. A young man is standing right there, waiting, kind of creepily. Mr Cat hates his vibe, his watery eyes, how he easily shakes the hands of his brothers and welcomes them in sign language, which Mr Cat is not fluent in but is sure he could follow along fine if he cared to. Which he does not. Along the way another joins the group, a short thing, a kid in a blazer that’s just a little too big for him, and the buck teeth don’t help much.
It all converges in the conference room near the end of the hall. The door is guarded by an exceptionally tall and fat woman with long bangs covering her eyes, and she when opens it and steps aside, cold air blasts out of the room. It’s been a theme in this building, Mr Cat has observed, and one he’s not fond of.
Olaf, the Emperor himself, and most of his goons are already situated in place on one side of the table, Olaf sitting in the centre on a chair that lifts him high off the ground, comfortable and powerful as if it were his desk rather than a communal space being shared. Mr Cat knows his brothers will try to alleviate that attitude as soon as possible; he tunes out of the greetings, none of it interests him. He stays in line with the capos and takes the time to note everyone on Olaf’s side of the room, thinking of how he’d describe them on-air.
He’s been thinking a lot about that, even knowing he’ll never do it again.
There’s the creepy guy with the watery eyes and unsettling smile, he’s established himself at this point to be Olaf’s consigliere. There’s the buck-toothed kid, looking way too excited to be here, clearly too early in the game to fully understand how badly this could end up for him. There’s four capos, all dressed like waiters, with a gap in the middle for a fifth who hasn’t arrived yet, and security; the butler-looking guy built like a f*cking fridge, the woman who had been stationed at the door, and a third person who at first looks like a statue they dressed up as a race car driver, but Mr Cat sees the rise and fall of their chest, how their fingers flex at their side while he’s looking at them. They’re all uniform and helmet, not much more than the general idea – the certainty, really – that they could break his spine over their knee, and the possibility that they’re the owner of the red bike.
His brothers sit and the rest stand, likewise on Olaf’s side of the table, his people remain standing as the duckface and nutcracker take their seats at either side of him; negotiations have begun. Or so the old man thinks. As far as Mr Cat has been informed, everyone in this building save a few are ready to turn coat for the Chat syndicate, and have been planning this for some time now, right under the Emperor’s nose.
Again, the best case scenario as envisioned by Mr Cat is that no one leaves alive.
His eyes just kind of glaze over, so it makes sense that a slight movement from the otherwise statuesque people on the other end of the room catches his eye; the cyclist, flexing their fingers a second time. Something about it makes Mr Cat self-conscious about possibly doing the same without realising it, so he gathers his hands behind his back and resumes looking at the ceiling corner, but yet another movement draws his gaze back. The cyclist again, but not their hand, they’ve tilted their helmet an inch to the left, and Mr Cat considers the possibility that he is having some kind of moment with this person, but does not go any further down that road.
If Mr Cat were not half-checked out of the situation or hoping for a sudden and painless death, which he is, he may have then considered the possibility that the cyclist knew him in some way, recognised him from something. He was, up until last week, a form of local celebrity, after all; it may have been a listener of his show who also knew him by appearance. After considering that, Mr Cat may then have considered the people who fit those specifications, as well as cross-referenced with who he knows to work in security – private security, one could even say – as well as owns a body that could reasonably be under that uniform. And at the end of it all, a process that may have only taken a matter of seconds, Mr Cat may have realised that that’s Kaeloo, he’s looking at Kaeloo and Kaeloo is looking at him–
But Mr Cat is not presently operating at full brain capacity. He has seen better days. So instead he just kind of frowns to himself and fully turns his attention back to that very interesting ceiling corner, at least until the door opens and half the room turns their heads to see a finely-dressed woman enter, her chin held high as if she owns the place and not, as Olaf describes her, “Late. You’re late, Pretty. We’re almost done here.”
“Deepest apologies, boss,” she says, not moving from where she is standing behind Michael and Gabriel in what should be tremendous visual foreshadowing from Olaf’s side of the room, not that the old man seems to notice.
“Then it’s settled; you vacate town with your closest associates and personal valuables, leaving all else, employees of all ranks, contacts, facilities, vehicles, every resource,” and with great triumph in his voice, Olaf clasps his hands together with finality and leans menacingly over the table, “to me.”
“Sounds good,” Michael says, nodding.
“Oh, yeah,” agrees Gabriel. “Yeah, that’s perfect. But there is one thing–”
Olaf pulls a repulsed face. “What is it?” he tries to demand, but Mr Cat’s brothers are doing a little double act routine; and they say he’s the poor comedian.
“What’s that, Gabe?” asks Michael with exaggerated curiosity, almost fully turning to the side in his chair, an action that Gabriel mirrors.
“Well y’see, Mike, it all sounds good and perfect, but...for him, and not for us. Don’t you think?”
Mock surprise from Michael. Mr Cat puts his face in his hands. If he were in their position it would be over by now. “Does it?”
“Golly, seems like you boys are getting the short end of the stick.” Oh, and now the f*cking– the late capo is getting in on it too?
Olaf is just as unimpressed as Mr Cat, if not more so. His face has gone red. Beside him, the nutcracker’s eyes look like they’re going to pop from their sockets. “What is this?”
Pretty puts a hand on the back of each of the brother’s chairs, leaning a little over them with a jut to her hip in Michael’s direction. “If only it went the other way,” she says with the manufactured brightness of a voice in a commercial.
“Oh, now that,” says Michael, wagging a finger at her, “that sounds good.”
“That would be perfect,” agrees Gabriel with a nod.
“Pretty–” begins Olaf, but silences immediately with the clicking of the safety of the gun she pulls from her jacket. The barrel points right between his eyes.
“Stay where you are,” she says authoritatively as Mr Cat’s brothers lounge and relax at her sides, putting their feet up on the table, hands behind their heads, the whole performance. “No one’s going to help you,” there’s a short pause before she adds a little hastily, “and if anyone tries, you’ll already be dead.”
It is for this reason and this reason only that the butler and cyclist don’t move; Mr Cat knows that body language. It’s the body language of the muscle that was left out of the plan, he’s seen it a million times over. The kid at Olaf’s side is similar, except he’s actually shrieking.
“Pretty, you traitor!” Stumpy stands without fear, not that Pretty even shifts her focus to him when he does so. He points his finger, which is the best he can do – after all, everyone gave up their weapons to get in here. The only one armed is her. “You turncoat! No one’s gonna stand with you!”
“With us,” corrects Michael, because of course he does. “She’s not… We’re just letting her do a thing, she’s not in charge. This is all us.”
“And take a look around, kid, you’re in the minority,” Gabriel rejoins. “Everyone here wants that crusty shrimp outta here.”
“Yes,” says Pretty loudly, gesturing forward with the gun, trying to recapture the spotlight. “I think you’ll find it’s you, Olaf, who will be vacating town with only the bare minimum. Emperor Enterprises is being subsumed by the Chat syndicate, not the other way around. Now begone!”
“Oh, yeah, about that.” Michael snaps his fingers like he’s just remembered, looking at Pretty all casual. “We were thinking–”
“Most a’ the job, really,” supplies Gabriel.
“–that actually we’d just kill him.”
Pretty is shocked by this, as is everyone. Stumpy cries out in alarm. It even gets a distinct reaction from the duckface, who up until now has just been sitting there placidly. He raises his hands and signs, That wasn’t the deal.
“Deal just changed,” is all the explanation Gabriel provides. “Either you change with it, or.” He shrugs. “Be out in the ditch with the old man.”
Michael addresses Pretty, “If you don’t shoot him, you’re on his side. And it may be worth remembering, that would be a very small side. So you have reservations about killing your former boss; who cares? We’ll find someone who doesn’t. Someone more useful.” He reaches for Pretty’s wrist and she jerks back, opting to point the gun up into the ceiling for a second before she realigns it with Olaf’s face.
“No!” she gasps, then inhales and calms herself. “No, I’ll do it. I’ll shoot everyone in this room who doesn’t come with us,” and that last part is very pointedly directed to the back wall, to the cyclist. “You know it’s for the best.”
“You’re wrong,” says the cyclist, their voice not terribly clear from behind the helmet.
And Pretty seems especially hurt by this, her face twisted in sadness and rage, and the gun wavers one last time in her hand and for a second Mr Cat thinks she might deviate from the plan. He doesn’t know who she’d shoot instead, but he can see it in that girl’s face, she will be shooting someone right here and now, even if it’s not Olaf.
She does, however, end up going for the original target.
But not right in the head, not for lack of trying; no, Pretty would have surely killed Olaf stone dead if it hadn’t been for Serguei lurching forward and tackling him to the ground. The bullet tears through his cheek instead. Blood spurts.
“Lame,” sighs Michael, making a motion for the capos to move, not just the Chats but those of Emperor Enterprises as well.
Quack-Quack scrambles up from the table and grabs Stumpy, hauls him over to the wall where Eugly takes hold of him, not to harm him but keep him out of the way. Stumpy kicks and screams and wails, and Olaf is having a good scream, too, from beneath Serguei who rises to his feet and prepares to fight off the capos. Pretty is panicking with the gun, crawling up over the table to get a clear shot at the old man, and the cyclist darts forward now, throwing themselves right in front of the barrel, arms spread. Everything seems to freeze.
“Don’t!” cries the cyclist.
“Move!” snaps Pretty.
They do, but not in the way Pretty meant. They raise their hands up to the helmet, unlatch it and remove it, throwing it aside, and Mr Cat – who has literally not moved even a little bit from his spot – sees her face; her dark skin, her soft features and fluffy, green hair, as well as the signs of a battle-hardened warrior, the deep scar that runs down one of her eyes, her strong jaw.
He sees this, he processes this, and he is caught up to speed. Falling a little bit more in love all the while.
Now, Mr Cat is not privy to the intricacies of the relationship between Kaeloo and Pretty, but he can hazard a guess that before this exact point in history they had been solid, they trusted one another, and even now that it is clear that they are on opposing sides of a fight, they don’t want to hurt one another. Pretty could easily shoot Kaeloo, and Kaeloo, with her hands slowly moving towards the gun, could just as easily break Pretty’s arm. Neither of them move to do these things.
“Don’t,” Kaeloo says softly.
“Move,” sobs Pretty.
“Just f*ckin’,” Gabriel stretches out his leg and tries to kick across the table, “shoot ‘em.”
Kaeloo’s hands close around the gun and she tries to wrench it away just as the shot rings out. Mr Cat feels immediately sick, and over at the wall, Quack-Quack, Eugly and Stumpy all react with loud shock and horror. Kaeloo drops to the floor beside Olaf who continues to cry, and the capos are stunned just long enough for Serguei to pick up his master and bolt for the door.
“Stop him!” yells Michael at Mr Cat, who is moving further into the room instead, intent on vaulting over the table.
Pretty roars incoherently, emotionally, tailing the gun after Serguei and firing wildly, hitting only the wall. Mr Cat yelps and crouches, but keeps coming for the table, now having to deal with the surge of capos all running in the opposite direction. They all run out the door and Pretty runs out of bullets, and Stumpy squirms free of Eugly’s grip and tears screaming from the room as well. Quack-Quack and Eugly take a second of processing time before they go after him, and as Michael is getting up from his seat he calls after them.
“We’d prefer that one dead, too!”
Gabriel grabs Pretty’s arm; she drops the useless gun and howls in pain. “Stupid bitch,” he chides, hauling her toward the door and all but throwing her out into the hall. “Fix this. I want blue blood on the streets by the time I find a chair and a f*ckin’ window.”
Clearly deeply anguished but still dutiful, Pretty scrambles away. Michael and Gabriel are silent for a second before turning to each other, sighing exaggeratedly, because it’s so tough being a pair of mob bosses performing a coup.
Mr Cat, meanwhile, is on his knees on the floor behind the table, putting his hands on Kaeloo’s body – her perfect body – and stroking her face – her perfect face. She’s alive, she’s breathing, her eyelids are fluttering while she deals with the dizziness one can feel from being shot, and she’s here, she’s real, not locked away from him behind a screen.
“Lucy.” Michael.
He doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t want to hear any of it. Not an unkind derivative of his birth name, not a word from either of his brothers, not a word from anyone. He’ll only listen to Kaeloo speak; he only got to hear her say one thing.
“We know you’re there.” Gabriel. “We don’t forget about you when you’re not in our line a’ sight.”
“f*cking get up and come with us. This is a mess.”
“A manageable mess. We still won, Mike, we still got the–”
“I want that Emperor f*ck dead! Do you hear me?! f*cking dead!”
Silence. Then Gabriel says, “Lucy.”
Kaeloo groans and shifts, squeezing her eyes shut for a few seconds before definitively opening them. They are bright and wide and clear, and when she realises that Mr Cat is kneeling over her, touching her tenderly, they almost roll back into her head.
“Oh god, don’t tell me that guard’s alive.”
“I want him dead, too,” snaps Michael.
And as if there haven’t been enough sudden, quick developments, as if Mr Cat still isn’t trying to figure out who all the players on the board are and who is aligned with who, Kaeloo grabs hold of him and drags him with her, fluidly under the table and right by his brothers’ legs, out the door before either of them can start shouting. All that, then Kaeloo fully scoops him into her arms like she already knows he’s in poor running condition, and she flings open a door to a stairwell and launches them both down it, away from the swarm of operatives, associates and friends who have betrayed her, away from Emperor Enterprises, away from Mr Cat’s brothers.
*
She runs on adrenaline and instinct, pure and simple. There’s no time to stop and think, certainly no time to talk, she just gets him and puts him on her bike and speeds away. There’s nothing to be said during the ride, she doesn’t notice or care that neither of them are wearing helmets, it’s just a transitional period. It’s mostly out of habit she even parks in the garage, but it’s a smart move – can’t just go leaving it out in the road.
The halls of her apartment building seem darker where they’re usually well-lit due to the prevalent windows, and it’s because of the dark clouds swirling in the sky above, an omen for all to get indoors before the storm begins. But Kaeloo doesn’t plan on staying long.
The timing is almost perfect and the adrenaline starts running low after she bursts into her apartment, leaving the door wide open; she may well have just left it like that, but Mr Cat kicks it shut behind her. He’s kept a good pace, and even though this is supposed to be a quick detour Kaeloo almost fully snaps into hostess mode after coming six paces into the lounge room. She whirls on her heel to face him.
“Sit down and rest that leg while we’re here, I’ll get you a glass of water.” Firm but not unkind, these are the first words she speaks directly to him, and instead of letting them settle a second she turns again and disappears around the corner into her bedroom.
Kaeloo crouches, pulls the go back out from under her bed, brings it back out to the lounge room and throws it on her armchair. Mr Cat hasn’t moved from where he came to a stop in the middle of the room, but she is on autopilot, he may as well have sat down. She runs water from the tap into a glass and marches it back out to him, forces it into his hand, sloshing the contents – and when she tries to draw away a half second later, he grabs her wrist with his free hand and gets dragged along with her until she stops. There’s a small puddle forming on the rug.
They look at one another.
Mr Cat is taller than Kaeloo by just a little bit; he’s somewhat broad and probably quite formidable, definitely durable, but not a match for her. That his suit has gotten all rustled up and dusty doesn’t do much to obscure his handsomeness; he has firey hair and a close-cropped beard, an intense gaze and serious brows. Like his brothers, he has vitiligo and his face possesses an equal measure of his colours in a pattern that’s been defined solely by nature.
He looks nice even through the deep purple and black bruise that covers one of his eyes, the markings on his neck that indicate there are more to be found elsewhere. His nose probably doesn’t always have that slight bent to it, but something makes Kaeloo feel that it’s not the first time it’s been knocked awry. He heavily favours his right leg and his matching hand – incidentally, the one clasping her arm – is injured on the wrist.
Kaeloo knew what he looked like, but it is still different to stand in his presence. To have stood across the room from him hardly half an hour ago, to stand hardly an arm’s length away now. Very different indeed, is how he stares at her like she hung the moon.
The voice she knows so well, yet feels she has not heard in an eternity, comes out of that face of his. “Say that again.”
Kaeloo takes a half-stride backwards, puts one hand on his shoulder, then rocks herself forward and uses the momentum to push him back towards the lounge. “You need to sit down, Mr Cat, your leg is–”
“You have a lisp,” he interrupts, which is very rude, but he does sit.
It’s such a non sequitur and so unrelated to the situation that Kaeloo has to laugh. “No, I don’t!”
His initial look of awe settles into a fond familiarity, a light smile plays on his mouth. “Yes you do, you talk like thi-th.” To be sure the message is getting across, Mr Cat sticks his tongue at her, gesturing between them.
It’s like a match has been lit under her. “I do not! How dare you say that!” Highly offended, she heads back in the direction of her room, whirling one last time to point commandingly. “Drink your water!”
The only coherent thing she can make out from Mr Cat is, “Oh my god,” and the rest is just him mumbling to himself, into the glass, and she can’t hear it by the time she’s in her bathroom.
Kaeloo is very much feeling it now, the pain of being shot. It has happened before, but never so close; this was almost point blank, right into her abdomen. Before even touching her uniform she retrieves the medical kit, prepared for the worst. It feels too quiet and she turns on the tap, but that doesn’t alleviate her discomfort any, so she comes to the ensuite door and shouts out into the lounge room, “Can you please talk?”
Mr Cat shouts back, “What, like it’s the f*cking radio?”
“Yes, that would be helpful.” Then before returning to the sink, “I would also appreciate it if you didn’t swear; I let it slide before because you were in your own space but you’re in mine now, and I don’t like that sort of language in my home.”
Silence, then he bursts out laughing. “Oh, you’re too much, frog! Just like I thought and better. Alright, alright–” He pauses and downs the whole glass. Kaeloo turns off the water now that the basin is full, stares at herself in the mirror for a second to psyche herself up, then goes for the zipper.
Out in the lounge room, Mr Cat is baffled and Mr Cat is delighted. He cranes his neck to look up at the ceiling and all the way around, drums a beat on his knees, then gets up. Clears his throat. “Well, Kaeloo–” And saying her name sets him off into a chuckling fit for another half minute. “Sorry, I’m fine. Well, Kaeloo, here I am in your apartment on the day we properly meet face to face. I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to move to fast from how you presented yourself, but everyone has hidden depths, right?”
Kaeloo doesn’t say anything.
“I mean, take this for example; it goes without saying just how deeply entrenched we are in the criminal underworld and how f*cked up we must be for it–”
“Mr Cat.”
He’s started to move away from the lounge to explore, but her voice makes him freeze. “What?” Then, “Oh, no swearing in your space, got it.” Mr Cat takes a quick glance at the go bag on the armchair; completely normal to him that she would have one ready. “What was I–? Talking about being here, yes. I can’t say I have any complaints, you know, it’s interesting to be able to pull the curtain back and,” he spots the computer desk, “see where the magic happens.”
The bullet was embedded in the vest and required tweezers to dig out, and likewise the matching point on her skin is punctured, marked with the hit. The surrounding area is red, blood that’s come up beneath the surface expecting to have to clot, now just sitting there. Kaeloo thinks she may have broken a rib. The great and terrible bruise that will occupy her abdomen and chest for the foreseeable future has already begun to form, and it all hurts so terribly. The wound stings when she applies disinfectant; she’ll put a bandage over it and wrap her chest tight. That will have to suffice for now. If she can get her hands on some ice later, it will help.
“I know I said this already, but you’re just like I expected.” Mr Cat smiles when he sees her deck of cards laid on the desk still and takes them out of the pack, shuffling them as he continues to poke around. “A person’s surroundings says a lot about them, and yours is no different. You’re like a...not a kid, no, but it feels like you’re really retained the vibe, the innocence, and now that I’ve said that I’m thinking that shouldn’t be accurate because you are absolutely not an innocent, there’s no way you haven’t been involved in some fu– messed up mob stuff, all that.” There is a bowie knife in the second drawer of her desk; it sends a tingle up his spine and he asks, “How many people have you killed?”
There’s a couple of seconds of silence and it seems like she might not answer, but then Kaeloo replies, “I don’t keep track.”
His face hurts from how hard he grins. “No judgement here, not that I should have to say. You know about me, I lived a life of this stuff before my show. I’m not... Well, I am one to brag, but I get the feeling you wouldn’t appreciate me trying to, like, relate to you by telling my own stories of blood and guts.”
Kaeloo keeps a cheery tone. “Go with that feeling, Mr Cat!”
In the third drawer of her desk he finds it; her collection of stickers. Sheets and sheets of colourful and glittery creatures and objects, all of them in perfect condition, save the ones with holes in them. Frog-shaped holes; and it becomes somewhat clear that this is a proper collection, the type that the owner doesn’t tamper with to uphold its integrity, and it’s been made incomplete. Defaced by its owner, the gesture reduced pointless now that Mr Cat doesn’t even have the separate pieces anymore. But Kaeloo was willing to do it and doesn’t regret her choices, at least where stickers are involved.
She has finished securing her wrappings, and just in time because she’s not sure she can keep quiet with all this pain collected in her, she needs medication for certain, and medication means a drink of her own and probably some food. After that she plans on checking Mr Cat for anything that will require attending to, even though he hasn’t mentioned anything of the sort, and after that they will have to leave. Leave and never come back.
Kaeloo’s face falls at that and she indulges in a small moment of looking over her bedroom in mourning; she loves her room, her apartment. But the Chat syndicate– the former Emperor Enterprises– the mob will be after her for her refusal to bend the knee and hand in Olaf’s escape, as well as her absconding with Mr Cat. She pulls on a tank top and comes out to the kitchen just as he’s starting to talk about how old and awful her computer is. While waiting for him to stop, she takes painkillers and drinks.
It actually slips her mind that she can speak and be heard now, that if she says something while he’s talking he should stop and listen, respond.
“Tell me what happened to you instead?” she tries.
He begins his answer with his back facing her. “Oh, the usual. I get a good racket going, I f*ck up, my family swoops in; go to jail do not pass GO.” He wanders away from the computer and turns, approaching the breakfast bar. “You like games, that shouldn’t be hard for you to–” It’s only now, however, that he lifts his eyes off the deck of cards and up to her, and he just stops.
Kaeloo furrows her brow and smiles a little, concerned by the sudden halt. “Understand?” she offers.
“Uh.” Mr Cat’s eyes fall down her body, then more slowly come all the way back up, and Kaeloo wants to scream because she hadn’t fully internalised that he can see her now and she’s exposed, he’s looking at her with what she can only interpret as horror; and why wouldn’t be be horrified?
“Sorry, forgot you’re physically here, sorry,” blurts out Kaeloo, darting back toward her room. “I’ll get a jacket and we’ll go.”
“You, no– Go?” Like it’s a word he’s never heard before despite only having said it himself a minute ago. Mr Cat starts towards her, throwing – not dropping, throwing! – the cards behind him, and scoffing in amusem*nt to himself like it’s comical he was ever interested in them. “No one’s going anywhere until you let me see you, frog.”
Right, right; attraction, not horror. They look the same to her. She blushes and curls a bit into herself, but doesn’t depart, doesn’t stop him taking one of her arms in both hands, one cradling her elbow, the other at her bicep. His hands are warm, she likes them on her, likes him touching her, fully aware that she should not.
“Oh my god.” Mr Cat speaks softly, with reverence. “You’re a goddess.”
That makes her jerk away. “Don’t make fun of me!” snarls Kaeloo.
“I’m not,” he says, following. “Let me prove I’m not.”
She turns her shoulder to him, putting her hands up in her hair, covering her ears and shutting her eyes. “No, it’s a joke,” Kaeloo insists. “You’re telling jokes and I don’t like it.”
Even through her hands, she can hear him. “I’m sorry, but I think we need to both step back for a second and take a look at this from an objective point of view, because I am literally losing my mind over how my life has become some whirlwind action romance movie. You’re seeing this, right? You’re feeling this?”
“NO!”
But he’s on a tangent, and now Kaeloo can at least take in the hand motions he does as he talks. “I don’t know how you can keep denying it when you’re the one who started it in the first place. You were lonely and I was there for you, and you knew I was lonely too so you reached out–”
“Mr Cat!”
“–and now we’re entangled with each other so completely, and I know it’s moving fast but we’re really in it now, you rescued me from my f*cking family, you’re this, this…” He laughs, kind of manically, slapping his palm against his forehead. “You’re like a f*cking fairy tale hero! A beautiful and mysterious and annoying-but-god-I-love-it knight!”
The haze of rage takes her over; the same kind that leads her to squish men into the road, that compels her to punch out teeth and break spines, the absence of her conscience and her want to be good and do the right thing.
No, she can’t do the right thing now. It is time to lean into what she has been telling herself she should not.
Kaeloo takes his face in both her hands, squishing his cheeks a little and possibly making his bruise hurt a lot, and drags him into her and kisses him. Mr Cat is stunned for only a second, he immediately and easily slides his arms around her and pressing one hand into her back and latching onto her thigh with the other. He opens his mouth and Kaeloo goes in, and he breaks away to gasp.
“Yes,” he says before resuming.
One of her hands goes to the back of his neck to hold him in place, the other idles at his ear. She runs her fingers along him and he makes a sound of approval, and her hand goes to his shoulder to slip off his blazer.
“Yes,” Mr Cat says again, missing on reentry and finding the corner of her mouth. He chooses to just roll with it and trails down to her jaw, her neck. His hands both move to her hips to begin the ascent to her torso. Kaeloo means to inform him that she can’t take off the jacket if he doesn’t take his hands away, but for whatever reason never gets around to it. Instead she picks him up – Mr Cat puts his legs around her right away – and makes for the lounge.
This is wrong, she thinks. Shouldn’t be doing this. But when she sets Mr Cat down and puts her hand on his chest, holding him at arm’s length, he pleads with her, begging permission to touch her, and it’s a fairly compelling argument, so.
Kaeloo sits on his lap and holds his hands above his head. Mr Cat squirms a little but clearly likes it, he’s red-faced and beaming, breathing heavily. Excited.
“Ask nicely,” growls Kaeloo.
Mr Cat swallows. “Please.”
She inclines her head away. “You hear something?”
“Kaeloo.” He says her name in a way she has not heard before, but it’s very welcome to her ears. “Please,” and she grinds on him and he shudders and needs a second before he goes on, “Please let me touch you.”
She releases his hands and they go straight on her, magnetically drawn. Mr Cat wetly kisses all the way up her arm, humming, and he explores up under her top and he grabs near her wound–
“Augh.” Kaeloo hisses in pain, arching her back, smacking his wrist–
“Ow.” Mr Cat withdraws, fully pressing his back into the lounge to get a good look at all of her. “Right,” he huffs. “The whole...getting shot...thing.”
She grumbles, “Broken rib.”
The haze needs to clear before she can speak properly. Obviously, she is capable of speech, but she feels like any serious attempts will just embarrass herself. So Kaeloo remains seated on Mr Cat, looking up at the ceiling, doing her breathing exercises. He is oddly patient during this, rubbing her thighs, perhaps trying to suss out what she has between them.
“We can make out,” he suggests. “I’m– god I want more but I think I’m on too many painkillers to really–”
She snaps her head down at him, back in reality. “Are you alright?” she asks, sincerely sweet, untightening her leg muscles so she’s no longer keeping him completely pinned. “I’m sorry about your wrist…”
“I’m sorry you got shot!” Mr Cat barks jovially in reply, going back in to kiss her, which she gently but firmly keeps him from doing. His eyes go wide with earnestness. “Kaeloo…”
She shakes her head. “This isn’t right.”
“Right,” he says back, nodding. “Take me to your room.”
“N-No, Mr Cat,” laughs Kaeloo nervously, climbing off him and standing, ignoring his whine and how he reaches after her. “No, I mean we can’t…” Alarm strikes her. “We can’t stay! It’s not safe, we have to go right away!”
“I think I could, actually,” he says.
She looks at him. “What?”
He shuffles and grunts in pain, putting too much pressure on his bad leg, but still stands. Mr Cat closes the gap between them and Kaeloo is in too much of a state of shock – at him, at her, at everything – to stop his hand finding her breast, his other going to her hip.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be good,” he purrs in her ear, pecking kisses on her temple. “Please let me touch you.”
“You are touching me,” squawks Kaeloo.
“I wanna f*ck you so bad,” Mr Cat confesses. “You’re so perfect, you’re so wonderful… We were made for each other.”
“We need to run,” Kaeloo tries to remind him.
“Yes,” he murmurs into her neck. “We’ll run away. Goodbye forever to this rotten town, just you and me…”
It sounds so good. He feels so good. Kaeloo is desperate to give in. From the moment she fell in love with his voice, she’s wanted this, and he is so much better than she ever envisioned, they could be so much better together.
She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, exhales just as thoroughly, then opens them. Wrong time for this, wrong place. “We have to go,” she says evenly, taking his hands and pressing them into his chest, looking at him very seriously – and it seems to get through a little. “I am sorry for distracting us from the goal. Please let me get dressed.” Without awaiting his approval, however, she steps away.
The bouquet of roses finally catches her eye, she had completely forgotten about it, and without her care it withered and the flowers all died. That upsets her more than anything, and Kaeloo rushes into her room and locks her door. If he comes after her, she doesn’t know what she’ll do.
But he doesn’t even knock, or call after her. Mr Cat accepts the present moment for what it is and goes and collects the cards off the floor.
*
They’re out of there shortly afterwards. After recovering her two spares Kaeloo insists on helmets, on all safety measures, of making sure Mr Cat will not go flying into the road the second she starts raring the engine. She removes the keys to her apartment from the ring where they lay beside the keys to her bike and tosses them, and they drive into the sunset as the rain starts to fall.
They’re really in quite the predicament and don’t have any concrete plans or a place to go, only off-the-cuff ideas. Kaeloo had never particularly planned for the event of being on the run from the mafia, what with her secure role within it, and Mr Cat had been living his post-mafia plan up until the other week, so it’s all a bit of an improvised wreck.
At first it seems like Kaeloo just drives in whatever direction the wind takes her, but by the time she’s almost there she has realised her subconscious mind was leading her to it all along; the other corner out of the city, where the desert lies beyond, the last strip of road and the establishments there. Yes, she decides with all the resolve she has, that is where they will go for now, and where they will stay long enough to try to formulate a plan.
There’s three businesses on the strip, but they’re a 3-in-1 sort of deal. Everyone who lives there works there, and anyone who works at one will inevitably find themselves working for the other two. Left from the road in one line, in order of which is closest to the city, is a gas station, a diner, and a motel. All open 24 hours, all cheap, very rarely seeing anyone but the nearby regulars who have chosen to spend their time and money here rather than anywhere else in the world. It’s all so removed from the other side of the city, the similar attitudes from the people here being the only through line. That, and Kaeloo.
Not that anyone from either side should know about the other, she’s been sure to make it the case. Of course, it won’t stay that way forever after this visit, but it’s unavoidable. There’s nothing else for her to do.
Pulling into the shared parking lot, she glances back to explain to Mr Cat, who snarks over her, “How romantic.”
Kaeloo ignores this, unclipping her helmet. “I know it doesn’t look very nice, but we’ll be safe here for now. I never…” She can’t look at him, but can’t look at the buildings yet either, so she just stares off into the fading sunlight. “I never told anyone about this place.”
“Can’t imagine why,” says Mr Cat, opting to keep his helmet on while they’re outside. “But hey, it’s a roof, and we’re in need of one.”
They are. The rain has only grown heavier as the evening draws later, and those clouds denote much worse than what they’re getting now. Kaeloo starts to walk her motorcycle over to the open garage of the gas station. She indicates with her head to the diner, and he doesn’t need to be told twice. Mr Cat crosses the parking lot and hops up the two stairs to the glass door.
The gas station appears unattended from the outside, not that Kaeloo plans to go into the business proper, just make use of its garage. She turns on the overhead light, a bare lightbulb swinging on a chain from the ceiling, and takes her bike down to the empty car bay. That’s the end of her business here, but she can’t help but linger a moment, let her gaze settle on the wall-mounted shelves and disarray of tools and oily rags, the junk heap of a Cadillac deliberately set so passerbys can’t see it when the door is open. It doesn’t seem any different to how it was when she was here last.
How long ago was that?
“Got no kickstand,” correctly observes a voice from the entryway behind her, and Kaeloo only flinches a little bit when she hears it. Her turn starts off slow before she completes it in one motion, already walking away from the bike and back to the door, to the grizzled older man with the even more grizzled moustache.
“I had an accident,” she explains with as much nonchalance as she’s able, but no doubt the timid undertone doesn’t go unnoticed by the mechanic.
“I see,” he says knowingly, nodding and crossing his big arms across his chest. “Don’t seem too recent.”
“No, it was a little while ago.”
He nods once more, keeping his chin lowered this time, sizing her up beneath his heavy brow from where she stands before him. Whatever it is he sees, whatever it is he thinks, he does not share any of it, which is much preferred to the alternative, and he unfolds his arms and waves Kaeloo away, stomping further into the garage.
Taking one last look at the interior before departing, Kaeloo speaks almost involuntarily, the words coming out in a croak, “Thank you, uncle.”
Jack says something along the lines of, “Bah,” but she’s not entirely certain because she’s rushing for the diner next door, telling herself she is hurrying because of the rain.
Opening the door to the diner is opening a portal to another world; it is warm, nicely lit, smells of good food, of home. That is how it feels to Kaeloo, and she’s aware that her experience is not universal, but she does remember how regulars used to tell her they felt at home here, too. There’s a couple of people in here now, a trucker nursing a strong mug of coffee, a road-tripping man and his young son, and none of them seem to be experiencing any sort of nostalgia or feel-good magic. But Mr Cat, sitting with his arms resting on the counter, the go bag on the stool next to him, has this little smile on his face that only widens when he sees her.
Something about that is nice.
“Now this is the mobster experience,” he says probably too loudly considering they’re not alone. Kaeloo sits on the seat next to the go bag and his smile falters. Still, he goes on, “I’m more partial to the expensive restaurants, but the dinky diner aesthetic has its charms.”
The front is unattended, all employees are in the kitchen, Kaeloo can glimpse them from behind the counter. Three, one of them breaking away to return out front now that they’ve heard the door opening a second time. There’s limited time to explain. She leans across at Mr Cat, who eagerly meets her in the middle.
“Mr Cat,” says Kaeloo in a hushed voice, “I should let you know that–“
He cups her cheek in his hand and plants a kiss on the corner of her mouth, short but meaningful. “I ordered us steak and bacon,” Mr Cat tells her.
She rears back, trying to tone down her surprise, how her body reacts to him or how shrill voice has probably gotten, “That’s great, but–”
But she’s missed her opportunity to give him a heads up, and one of her cousins has already come out and seen her; however, of the three, she has drawn her pick of the litter. And though she shouldn’t, when his shocked expression turns into a grin she smiles back. They hug over the counter.
“Kaeloo!” He’s soft-spoken and sensitive, and there’s no need to tell him not to say her name too loud lest the other two get alerted. “You’re here!”
“Kevin,” says Kaeloo fondly, squeezing him tight before releasing. “Hi.”
“Oh sh*t, you’ve taken me to meet the family already?” Mr Cat licks his palm and runs it over his hair, straightens out his blazer. “Guess I can’t can’t complain, you’ve met mine…”
“Ha ha!” laughs Kaeloo through gritted teeth, giving Mr Cat a rough shove on the shoulder that sways him pretty significantly. She goes right back to Kevin, “Such a joker. He’s joking.”
For his part, Kevin isn’t much interested in Mr Cat at all. Like the last half minute didn’t happen, he asks the question Kaeloo knew he would ask first, “How long are you back for?”
Having expected it doesn’t stop her from feeling bad, from grimacing and patting his arm. “I’m not back, Kevin. Just stopping in. I have some...some very important business to take care of.” She shuts her eyes and regrets the thought as she thinks of it, but she still says it aloud, “I’ll visit properly when I’m done.”
“Oh. Oh, I understand.” It’s one of Kevin’s many merits how he is easygoing, never swimming against the tide, never making a fuss, but Kaeloo can tell he is disappointed and a little hurt, even if he would never say so.
“Kaeloo, you haven’t introduced us yet,” Mr Cat says with mock offence, along the lines of a high-class housewife whose only purpose is to keep up on the local gossip. He plays haughtiness well.
Kaeloo inhales and grits her teeth for a second before sighing it all out and trying to keep calm; not cheery, just steady and functional. “Mr Cat, this is my cousin. Kevin, this is my– Mr Cat.”
Mr Cat flashes his teeth and sticks out his hand, which Kevin just sort of looks at, all shy now that the man before him has transcended beyond the role of customer.
“How d’you do,” says Kevin.
“Still undecided on if I’m dead or dreaming. Does that answer your question?”
Kaeloo’s hand cracks as she closes it into a fist. “I’m sorry, Kevin, could I ask you to get my usual?”
“Of course,” he says, and recedes.
Mr Cat calls after him, “Honeymoon phase.”
She reaches over and grabs Mr Cat by the collar, dragging him almost all the way off his seat to her, and hisses, “Please stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Everything!” Kaeloo pushes him back a bit, still holding him. “I’ll tell you whatever you want, but please let me collect my thoughts first. We are in big, big trouble, don’t you understand?”
“I understand fine,” argues Mr Cat, raising both hands to his throat and placing them over hers, gently working her fingers out of the knot in his tie. “You might have noticed, I’m kinda dissociating at the insanity of it all. I use humour to cope, you should know this.”
“I do, but–”
“Shh.” Her hand off him and now lying in his, he traces circles on the back with his thumb. A simple affectionate gesture that does wonders for her blood pressure. “You have a think, I’ll sit here and be your rock.”
Slumping completely in her seat, Kaeloo smiles a little. “You make a good rock,” she says.
“Thank you,” replies Mr Cat, and for that one statement he is entirely sincere.
“I’m feeling very stressed out,” admits Kaeloo, “and I don’t know what to do or where to go next.”
He looks at her. “Can I suggest something?”
It pleases her that he asked. “Yes, you may.”
“Yeah, it’s uh, it’s that we run away,” Mr Cat says very matter-of-factly, his pause only performative. “I thought that was already the plan.”
Kaeloo shakes her head. “I can’t do that, Mr Cat. We can’t leave your brothers where they are, they’ll run the city into the ground.”
“f*ck the city,” scoffs Mr Cat.
“I can’t allow them to kill Olaf,” she goes on.
To that, too, he says, “f*ck Olaf. You said so yourself, your work doesn’t make you happy. We’ve well established that this town isn’t any good for either of us, and neither are the people in it. I’d rather have an uncertain future on the road with you than a certain sh*t one back there.”
Kaeloo is conflicted. She is touched by the sentiment – though she thinks maybe she shouldn't be – yet he is completely wrong. Things have not been terribly pleasant in the city for either of them, and they have encountered many unpleasant people, but that is not reason enough to give up on it all. She believes in change, in making things better. It can be done. It has to be.
And, of course, there are less selfless reasons to stay, too.
She says softly, “I can’t leave my friends.”
And Mr Cat is silent for a few moments as he considers this, his brow furrowed like he can’t fully understand what she means but is making an effort. “Your friends who turned on you,” he points out. “Your friends who sided with my brothers and would have killed you if you didn’t do the same.”
That wasn’t the deal, Quack-Quack had said; it hadn’t been his intention to see Olaf killed. He thought he was working towards calmer waters, and Eugly would have thought the same. Pretty felt overlooked and under appreciated, uncared for. She was wrong to do what she did, but Kaeloo will never forgive herself for breaking her trust. As for Stumpy, he is a boy caught up in the glamour of being a gangster, he is foolish and lost but not unkind, not cruel. Not deserving to die. And Olaf…
Kaeloo looks down at her free hand. She is not one to judge that man, for she is no less of a sinner. His crimes also do not invalidate how he has been generous to her, how he does care in his own way, his devotion to his work – and his wife.
“Yes,” says Kaeloo, looking back at Mr Cat.
His expression is unfathomable. It’s the most passive he’s seemed so far, unreadable as a blank page. But she understands his voice better than anything. “Okay.” Sure of himself, of her. Wary but willing to go ahead. “Let’s talk business.”
They move from the counter to a booth, just that little bit more private, even though the father and son have left by now and the trucker has fallen asleep. Kevin brings food and drink, but gets the message and doesn’t linger.
“I think my highest priority is Stumpy,” says Kaeloo, after she and Mr Cat discuss all the players on the board. “He’ll be able to hide for a little while, but not forever. And they’ll kill him. It’s the same with Olaf, but he’s not an immediate concern.”
“How so?”
“Only I, Serguei and Quack-Quack know the location of his home,” she reveals. “That’s where Serguei will have taken him, and it’s the safest place he can be. It’s a fortress.”
“You and Serguei,” Mr Cat repeats back.
Kaeloo nods. “Yes.”
“And Quack-Quack.”
“Y…” What he’s implying hits her and she shakes her head vigorously. “Oh, no, Mr Cat, he wouldn’t tell. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to.”
Mr Cat thinks about this. He drinks from the milkshake Kevin brought out, through the curly straw. Kaeloo has to actively keep herself from being amused by his serious face juxtaposed with the silly imagery. There’s a drop of the shake caught on his lip when he pulls away.
“I’m just thinking; no one ever keeps anything entirely to themselves. You yourself just told me about the old man’s safe house. The duckface can’t have kept it to himself.”
“I don’t think–”
“If he did,” Mr Cat interrupts, stopping her with his hand, “even just hypothetically, who would he tell? There’s got to be someone. You don’t have to say.”
Kaeloo’s face falls.
“Okay. Now, hypothetically again, say this person is present while my brothers torture Quack-Quack to find out what he knows.”
Her voice is a little cry, “Mr Cat–”
“They will,” he says seriously, gripping her by the shoulders. “And there will be other people there. So you have to be honest with yourself. If that person is there, will they crack?”
Kaeloo puts her face in her hands, whelmed with empathy. “Oh, Eugly… Alright.” She sniffs, wipes her face, returns her hands to the table. “Then it would be wise to check in on Olaf.”
“While looking for the nutcracker on the way,” agrees Mr Cat.
“Yes.” She smiles warmly at him, despite everything. “Thank you. I...I know the last thing you want to do is face your brothers again…”
“Hey.” He reaches across the table and clasps her hand in his, his eyes intense. “If you give a sh*t, then so do I. If it’s so important that you help these dumbasses, then I’ll be with you. And no one wants to see my brothers’ faces stomped on the curb more than me.”
Her smile falters. “Great.”
“Mostly I want to see you doing the stomping,” Mr Cat says in a light growl, leaning over the table now. Underneath, his ankle twists in between and around hers. “Something tells me I have yet to see just how–”
“Is that f*cking Kaeloo?”
“YES IT IS,” Kaeloo calls enthusiastically, even though there are few people on the planet she cannot stand more than her remaining two cousins.
Kevin has given it a great effort to keep her presence hidden from them, but the shift changeover – Kevin moving to the motel, leaving space to be filled at the front of the diner – has made it unavoidable. And all three of them are coming out from behind the counter now, over to the booth where Kaeloo is holding one of Mr Cat’s hands on the table, while the other resides underneath on her leg.
“I was suspicious when I heard the order for your special,” Kurt is bellowing, wrapping his arm around Kaeloo’s shoulders and roughly rubbing his fist into her skull. “But I never woulda’ thought it was for real.”
Karl punches her on the arm. “What’re you doing, coming back unannounced? Unless you’re back workin’ it better not be permanent.”
They talk with a similar jokey malice as Mr Cat’s brothers – and to a lesser extent, Mr Cat himself. Kevin idles behind them, his hands gathered about his stomach. Kaeloo’s eye starts to twitch as she forces an accommodating smile on her face. “I’m not staying.”
“Then you’re paying,” counters Karl. “You know the rule, no freeloading. The f*ck happened to your eye?”
“Who’s this twerp?” Kurt demands, jabbing his elbow into Mr Cat, who is objectively not twerpish but could reasonably be mistaken for it while surrounded by these brutes. Kaeloo is not alone in her family; they’re all very big and strong here. “Your boyfriend?”
“Yes,” Mr Cat says.
“No,” Kaeloo says at the same time. “This is Mr Cat.”
“What kind of name is Mr Cat?” Karl wants to know as he inspects their customer-slash-guest.
“My name,” he answers.
“Why’s your face so f*cked up?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Before her cousins can process this, Kaeloo stands and loudly claps her hands together. “How lovely to see you both again, except of course for how your manners haven’t improved one bit! Kevin, you’re off to the motel? Fantastic, so are we. I will bulk pay in the morning.” She grabs the go bag in one hand, Mr Cat’s wrist in the other, all the while keeping a peppy tone. “Come on, now, Mr Cat! Off to bed!”
“Gross,” says Karl.
“We don’t need to hear about any of that,” complains Kurt.
Mr Cat cackles as Kaeloo drags him out into the rain.
They’re only in it for a couple of minutes as Kevin fiddles with his keys; he takes on a more comfortable demeanour the further away he is from his brothers, as does Kaeloo. Mr Cat has begun to draw parallels.
None of the rooms are occupied at present, and Kaeloo has first pick over them all. Ultimately she chooses the one furthest from the office, as it has a direct path to the back of the garage and she is keeping in mind that they may have to be quick when they leave. Mr Cat is not wild about going out again in the rain but she promises him a warm bed and hopefully a good sleep.
The first thing she notices is the curtains are different. The sheets, too. The curtains are no longer made of the faded but beautiful floral pattern, they are geometric shapes now, not to her taste at all. The sheets are a dark grey instead of the pale blue she has known all her life. The carpet is the same. Kaeloo assumes this is how all the rooms look now, and she doesn’t like it. She makes sure the door is locked and the windows are closed.
There is a tiny wardrobe and equally tiny bathroom, a moderate table with two chairs sitting at it, a king-sized bed. The go bag is thrown upon it, the helmets to the table. Kaeloo takes off her leather jacket and goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. The lock clicks as she turns it.
Mr Cat deduces what she’s checking on. “Everything okay?”
Kaeloo hisses as she peels away the fabric bandages. It’s awful and ugly and it stings and hurts. “I’m alright,” she replies. “How are you?”
“Oh, you know,” he says conversationally, leaning on the other side of the door. “Nothing broken yet.”
“When did you last take medication?” She rustles about the cabinet that contains the most generic painkillers on the market, as a courtesy. “There’s some here.”
“I’m good,” declines Mr Cat with what she imagines to be a wave of his hand. “I’ve had way worse than a sprained wrist and busted face, Kaeloo.”
Her curiosity overtakes her and she asks, “Have you been shot before?”
“I’ve been shot at,” he offers.
“Sorry to hear,” Kaeloo says, wrapping fresh bandages and pulling her top back on. “It’s not very nice, is it?”
He chuckles for reasons she can’t fully comprehend. “Nope.” She doesn’t have a response to this, but there’s a wanting in the air that he expected her to, so he speaks again. “My face isn’t all f*cked up, is it?”
“No!” she cries. “Not at all. You’re hurt, but you’re still very pretty. Karl is awful. So is Kurt. Don’t… Try not to take what they say to heart.”
“I’m not affected by that kind of stuff,” says Mr Cat quite confidently. “I just wanted to hear what you had to say about me, so thanks for that. Pretty is a new one but, y’know, from you, I think I can live with it.”
She glares at her reflection and inhales deeply. “Hrm.”
“I notice you’re not coming out of there.”
“Not yet, Mr Cat.”
His voice turns sultry. “Are you afraid?”
She scoffs and laughs. “No!”
“Then come out. I want to pick up where we left off.”
“No,” Kaeloo grumbles. “I’m hurting too much.”
“You said you were fine.”
“I was being polite!”
“You’re frustrated,” says Mr Cat understandingly, patting the wood of the door. “Come take it out on me.”
She latches onto the thought that passes by, something that started picking at her on the drive over, in the diner. “That’s something I’d like to talk about, Mr Cat. I’m sorry to bring it up, I’m sure it’s a sensitive subject, I know it would be for me, but,” she takes a deliberate breath. “Y-you seem to have been...abused. Physically, by your brothers, probably for your whole life. Is that true?”
There’s a pause, then a somewhat somber, “Doesn’t look like you’ve been treated much better.”
“We’re not talking about me! It’s just that, it’s a concern, it’s been concerning me that...you’ve spoken like you want me to hurt you? And I don’t, I don’t like this whole grey area of… I worry those kinds of wants aren’t good for you, aren’t healthy, considering everything.”
Another pause, longer this time. “So, are you like, trained in this stuff? You take some psychology course? You wanted to be a therapist before you decided to kill people for a living?” Deflecting, as he likes to do.
Kaeloo frowns at the door. “I have a therapist,” she growls. “Or, I have had therapists. Please, Mr Cat, be serious about this. I do… I-I do like you, but I’m stressed out enough by the nature of our meeting, the possible ethical quandary, that there’s a power imbalance–”
“I like a power imbalance.”
“There, you see! That’s not helping! That makes me afraid, Mr Cat. I don’t want to hurt you, not for real. I understand hurt as a…” She swirls her wrists, the word caught in her throat. “A kink, but with your history I just worry that it might not be what you really want, it’s what you think you do. Does that make sense?”
“I think you’re thinking too much about it.”
“You’ve been sad and lonely, and I want you to be happy,” Kaeloo says emphatically. “And if you think you can be happy with me, then I’m...honoured. Really, I am.” She leaves it open for him to interject at this juncture, but he does not. She goes on, “It’s not that I don’t...feel the same. And sometimes I really want to hit or strangle you, but not–! Not hurt you.”
Mr Cat sighs; she can feel his weight on the other side of the door.
“I feel like none of this makes sense,” Kaeloo implores. “And I feel like you’re right, a little bit. I think too hard and too much, but I can’t stop myself. I have an anxiety disorder. And you’re mentally unstable, too! So I can’t rely on you for objectivity, and I can’t rely on myself, even though we only have each other right now. But that could be good, we could learn to be better and heal together– But that’s not right, is it? We’re supposed to heal on our own, we can’t be dependent like this, it’s not right, it’s not healthy.” She’s spewed enough nonsense that she’s run out of words while still having something inside to express, so she hums behind her teeth now. But it’s not enough; it gets louder, and she lets out a roar and punches the wall, cracking a tile.
Kaeloo looks at the tile. The crack is a spider web of confusion and anger and want. She breathes in – one, two three – then breathes out – one, two three – and repeats that a few times until she is calm.
“Mr Cat,” she says quietly, “tell me...tell me what to say. Tell me what to do.”
He lets out another sigh, so close to her and yet so far. “Come out,” Mr Cat mutters.
Kaeloo only takes a second of consideration before she does, opening the door and finding him right where she knew he’d be. He takes her face into his hands and looks at her with what seems like every emotion in existence, and in the end he is something she can’t fully identify.
“I had a therapist, once,” he says. “Not for long, but something they said stuck with me. Recovery isn’t linear and perfection doesn’t exist, and it’s okay to go for what feels right, for you, at any time, even if it doesn’t seem like it’s a lot, or anything at all.”
Kaeloo blinks and her vision blurs; she realises she’s all teary-eyed. Not the same as crying, no – she’s not crying. But it’s the same principle, the same build up and release, and hopefully catharsis. Mr Cat pushes back her hair and plants a kiss on her forehead, and she wraps her arms around him. They stand in the doorway to the bathroom and hold one another, saying nothing but feeling quite a lot, and Kaeloo thinks, yes, some catharsis has been achieved here.
“Hey,” Mr Cat says brightly after a few minutes. “If you’re up to it, can you pick me up again? That was fun.”
Kaeloo lets out a little giggle, then a grunt as she complies with his request, holding him up by the thighs. Mr Cat keeps one arm wrapped around her shoulders while reaching up to touch the ceiling. He laughs.
“Rad. Okay, now take me and throw me on the bed.”
“Mr Cat,” whines Kaeloo, taking a few steps over to the furniture but not completing the second half of the order, “I wasn’t myself this afternoon.” That isn’t entirely correct, but what she follows up with is still honest, “I would prefer to slow down.”
Mr Cat sounds rather delighted by this. “Going steady,” he translates to himself. “Nice, I like it. You still have to throw me.”
Kaeloo thinks about arguing with him about how he has a hurt leg. She thinks about being reasonable, and perhaps even a little romantic, and setting him down gently. Then she chucks him.
And for a little while, things feel normal and nice.
Kaeloo investigates the contents of her go bag and sorts out the money she plans to pass onto her relatives in the morning. Mr Cat reveals that he took her deck of cards from her apartment and plays Solitaire on the bed. They talk idly; he makes mention of being a child during mafia wartime, and she tells him a bit about her history here, of how the rooms used to be decorated and that it brought her a lot of joy and comfort to attend to them. She tells Mr Cat about how she came to live with her uncle and cousins. She tells him about her father, who had served as a surrogate for many families before deciding he wanted a child of his own. Kaeloo kept a list of the identities of all her half-siblings for a while before leaving the strip.
“My uncle might still have that list,” she says, “but I don’t think he ever approved of what my dad did.”
“Do you?” Mr Cat rolls onto his stomach, head positioned at the foot of the bed, watching her sit at the table. “How do you feel about it? Having family out there you don’t know?”
Kaeloo puts on a smile, practised, but genuine. “I’m proud to have had a father who helped people like that. But I don’t have any compunction to meet his other children; my family is here, for better or worse.”
Mr Cat considers this, folding his arms beneath his chin and resting his head. “For better or worse,” he muses. “Makes it all sound so important.”
They look at one another. Kaeloo fiddles around and closes up the bag, Mr Cat gathers up the cards and shuffles them. She comes over and sits on the bed and he deals them both a hand.
“What are we playing?” she asks, trying to keep down the excitement in her voice.
“Whatever you want,” he says flippantly, but immediately suggests, “Strip poker.”
“That’s not a two person game. Go Fish is.”
He nods. “Strip Go Fish.”
They do not play Strip Go Fish, but they do each remove a top layer to get comfortable. Back down to her tank top, Kaeloo basks in Mr Cat’s admiration of her arms, sits there and lets him touch, lets him trace the patterns of her tattoos. He can tell there’s more, on her chest underneath the bandages, on her back, but he doesn’t ask to see them yet. He is patient. They play seven rounds of Snap before turning in, and there’s plenty of room for them to keep separate and that is Kaeloo’s initial plan. Mr Cat holds her hand, lying a gap beside her and gazing adoringly. She briefly wakes a couple of hours later and finds that she’s completely wrapped herself around him, and he’s limp, in a dead sleep; she thinks she should let go, but, it’s okay to go for what feels right for you at any time – so she hangs on.
Grease Is The Word by Frankie Valli blasts from the bedside radio at 7 sharp. Kaeloo uses the diner kitchen to make breakfast and falls easily back into the routine of it; she almost starts helping Jack tend to the other customers, all truckers, but he doesn’t want it. Her uncle behaves as if he’s unsettled, having her around, saying nothing and waiting for her to go.
Mr Cat sits at the counter and drinks coffee. He likes her bacon better than how whichever of her cousins made it last night, and has to keep himself from getting too dreamy; there’s a goal to focus on, now. Save the city from the tyranny of his brothers first, fantasise about the rest of his life spent with this person afterwards – think about having sex if there’s free time. He just hopes that the syndicate hasn’t wrecked Kaeloo’s apartment too terribly, because he likes it a lot more than he likes his own. That said, she probably doesn’t plan on returning, considering her tossing of the keys and very final attitude about it all. What a shame.
Jack is gruff and barely responsive to Kaeloo’s goodbye, and she imagines he will be much happier once she’s left, like she thought the first time. She doesn’t belong here. Better that she never be seen again, no longer be a bother to her uncle – not now that she’s an adult, has been one for quite some time. He doesn’t have to look after her anymore, certainly doesn’t have to help her.
But when Kaeloo collects her motorcycle from the garage, it’s fitted with a brand new kickstand.
*
Stumpy is unwise and reckless and more than often foolish, but he is not stupid. His mind is only highly specialised, he is beyond skilled and knowledgeable in plenty of things, but they are things most people don’t really care much about, they are things that don’t matter too often. The most mainstream skill he possesses is that of strategy, though he works best under extreme stress which is, rightfully, not always available.
It is now.
He knows the casino is the safest place for him to be, even being the high-profile target he is. That’s because the casino isn’t run by Emperor Enterprises, nor is it run by the Chat syndicate; it’s run by the third group playing puppet master to the city, the Sheep. And the Sheep will know Stumpy immediately and they’ll watch him closely, but as long as he throws some coin around they won’t force him to leave. There’s no current EE/Sheep beef to worry about, just everything else.
Stumpy is surrounded, he is in enemy territory, he has no proper shelter, but for the time being he is safe.
This strategy is known to Quack-Quack but he hasn’t appeared yet. Neither have Chat syndicate operatives; Stumpy thinks they are trying to wait him out, lull him into a false sense of security. Well, it won’t work – they’ll come in here to look for him eventually, and that’s when the trap card will be activated. The Sheep cannot stand the Chats, and they will not allow them to commit any violence or put their hands on a patron, even if that patron is also their enemy.
Stumpy doesn’t plan on behaving like an enemy. Stumpy plans to be on his best behaviour and he’s doing better than expected. But he is stressed, afraid, in a panic; he hasn’t taken his medication and he can’t go home. The bright, flashing lights and loud, tempting sounds of machines and games aren’t helping him at all. He has a minor breakdown in the bathroom, wheezing and sobbing and trying to keep his neck from spasming.
He is so upset and offended that no one let him in on the plan to overthrow Olaf; literally how unfair is that! He would have gone along with it, if only they’d told him! He bets it was Pretty’s decision to keep him out of the loop, that snake. But it’s clear they left out Kaeloo, too, so that makes him feel better about it. Just for a minute. Until he remembers she might be dead.
This is not fun anymore. He doesn’t like having to guess at how much power Quack-Quack may or may not have in this, if Quack-Quack even has a stake in keeping Stumpy alive at all. Maybe it was on purpose that they left him and Kaeloo out, maybe they want them both dead.
Stumpy frantically reasons with himself that it can’t be the case. It was Olaf they wanted out, not him. They didn’t even want Olaf dead, if Quack-Quack is to be believed – and how could Stumpy not believe his best friend, even after all that’s happened? No, it is clear what the original intention was, here. They wished to move Olaf out of the position of ruler and take the Chat syndicate’s resources. Stumpy wasn’t told because he wouldn’t be able to keep his big mouth shut about it, and Kaeloo wasn’t told because she would have tried to stop them. Quack-Quack and Pretty planned for her to be overwhelmed by the amount of people already on the side of the plan that she would be forced to go along with it. And Stumpy, well, he wouldn’t have needed much convincing. Olaf is great, but hey, that’s business, baby! You’re in, you’re out. You’re an underboss one minute, you’re hiding in a casino the next.
The coup might have worked. But it didn’t. For whatever reason, it didn’t, the Chats gained ultimate control, and now Stumpy is crying in a bathroom stall with a broken lock, eating a hot dog he got from the bar outside, not even knowing how long he’s been in this awful place because casinos are designed so you can’t keep track. It all sucks. He wants to go home. He wants to talk to his girlfriend.
It occurs to him, she might be in danger, he should probably warn her. He should be able to get a message to her, protected by his VPN in cyberspace and the Sheep in the physical realm. Stumpy takes out his phone and sees he already has messages waiting for him.
URSULA - TEN HOURS AGO
Some weird guys are hanging out around my apartment. Should I be worried??
URSULA - NINE HOURS AGO
They look like security actually so I’m sure it’s fine. Love you xx
URSULA - THREE HOURS AGO
I’m out of cereal!!!! Bring some over later
URSULA - TWO HOURS AGO
Sorry you’re working late. Love you xx
KAELOO - ONE HOUR AGO
Dear Stumpy, if you are safe please let me know where you are and I will come get you. Best wishes, Kaeloo.
Kaeloo. She’s okay! Stumpy quickly sends off a message asking Ursula which cereal she wants, then replies to his friend, telling her a text is not the same as an email and she doesn’t have to compose like that.
It takes him half an hour to navigate his way back to the entry of the casino, where he idles at the reception and bounces on his heels, until a red motorcycle screeches around the donut of road out the front of the place, and Stumpy bursts out those glass doors and hops right on and they speed off in seconds. There were guys lying in wait, plenty of them. A half dozen cars placed strategically around the casino so there was no way Stumpy could get out without being seen or followed.
But Kaeloo is a TAS of a racing game in real life. She could lap these fools tenfold, they have no chance of catching up. Stumpy laughs and cheers and holds her tight, more thankful for her than he’s ever been and excited to work with her to get those rotten Chats back.
*
The secluded mansion is too big, too cold, too uncomfortable, and certainly not welcoming. There is an endless spiral of banisters going all the way up to the ceiling, and whenever Mr Cat passes through he can see Serguei watching from the very top. Even when Mr Cat is on the ground floor, if he is in that space, he must be watched. If he goes anywhere near the idea of Olaf’s private quarters, he must be watched.
He gets the distinct impression that there are usually more staff around, because someone has to look after this enormous place and it certainly isn’t the old man and his fridge. Especially not now, while Olaf’s face is bandaged and he’s confined to his bed in recovery, guarded by Serguei and kept company by his wife. Mr Cat has not yet met the alleged spouse, but this was the scene of Olaf’s room as Kaeloo described it to him after she was allowed entry. He just wonders where everyone else who’s supposed to be here got to; but he’s aware this is wartime, they’re in lockdown, and perhaps they’ve been more than dismissed.
Maybe, he doesn’t know.
Despite the chill and unsettling emptiness, the knowledge that he’d never be allowed in here if the circ*mstances were any different, the mansion isn’t all bad. No, actually, Mr Cat has found plenty of things to be amused by, to admire, none more so than Olaf’s collection of music. It is the biggest, most extensive, most varied library Mr Cat has ever seen, and it takes up all the shelves on all the walls of this giant room that probably was more meant to serve as a library for books. It’s beautiful.
Olaf owns vinyl to tape to CD to digital. There are two of every possible machine that sound can be played from. His collection includes orchestral classics to rock, jazz to rap, lullabies to obscure throat singing, film and musical soundtracks, entire discographies, lost tracks, traditional Russian music, j-pop. It’s all there, and Mr Cat is so impressed and jealous. How incredible it must be for Olaf to just have all this, in his house, owned by him and free to play at any time.
It does occur to Mr Cat that Olaf might only have all this music for the sake of having it, for the sake of being a rich man with an elaborate collection, for the sake of possessing something objectively valuable even if it means nothing to him personally, never listening to one second of it. Mr Cat thinks that would be awesome, too.
If he could go back to having a radio show, he’d operate from this room. He’d never play the same song twice. He wouldn’t ever talk about anything.
Mr Cat considers this possibility as he spins a record between his hands, stalking from end to end of the great library while a little music box plays Old MacDonald, and he thinks that could be pretty good. He could live with never having to narrate his thoughts or his life onto the radio waves for the entertainment of strangers ever again. No, the world no longer owes him an audience, not since Kaeloo stepped out from the crowd. Mr Cat decides it’s not that he wants to operate a show from this room, it’s that he wants to play things for her here. Play things for her in general, wherever they are, and he would talk, for as long as she wanted him to and then even longer – because he’s a bastard like that.
He sits in a giant armchair, arranging and playing around with discs, blasting Grandson. He’s taken off his blazer and tie and dumped them over on another chair because it feels like the right thing to do, the right image to project, sleeves rolled up to his forearms and the first couple of buttons undone – but he hates it because it’s so cold. Why would anyone want to live in this kind of environment?
Mr Cat leaves the library and sticks his head out into the banister spiral. Serguei appears from above, and he's a bit closer, as only four floors separate them now. Mr Cat is about to shout at him to turn the AC off, or up, or whatever, when below he hears the mechanical clicking of locks, and both of them look down to the bottom of the spiral, to the glimpse of the front hall of the mansion. The front doors swing open, the pissing down rain can be heard, then it’s muffled when the doors shut again, and now there’s voices, indistinct.
The mission was a success, after all. Kaeloo recovered the nutcracker. Mr Cat glances back up at Serguei to see him leaving his post to come down, and he nods a little at the quality of the amassed party. It’s just a matter of waiting for Olaf to wake up and sign off on the plan, such as it is.
And after that, the rest of his life with this fantastic frog.
It takes Mr Cat more than a couple of minutes to get down all the stairs with his limp; it was doing better but the damn cold has him all rigid. Serguei passes him on the way and surely hits the destination before he’s even close. He finds they’ve moved into the ballroom because evidently that’s what Stumpy wanted to see first.
“Think of how far you could go in VR!” Good to know the kid has his priorities straight.
Kaeloo spots Mr Cat and she motions for Stumpy’s attention, waving the latter over as she approaches the former. Serguei stands guard at the entryway, hands gathered professionally behind his back, and he may be looking impassively into the middle distance but Mr Cat can’t help but get the feeling Serguei has a problem with him where he doesn’t with the other two.
Kaeloo is explaining things to Stumpy, and Stumpy is all over it. He’s down with the plan and just as easy to think well of his friends as Kaeloo, and it’s great that he’s on board but it feels like the lesson here – that the life of a mobster is not reliably glamorous – isn’t entirely getting through to the kid. Well, it is what it is.
And he has taste at least; Stumpy thinks Mr Cat is great and attempts a complex secret handshake with him, which is all nonsense to Mr Cat aside from the fistbump. Kaeloo is stumbling over her words to justify him joining the crew, trying to get across how Mr Cat is good where his brothers are not, but again, Stumpy understands.
“I get you,” he says with a sagely affect to his voice, patting Mr Cat on the arm twice – which Mr Cat doesn’t particularly like so he steps out of the way. “You don’t have to say anything at all, Kaeloo. I knew you were hiding something; I’m just glad it didn’t turn out being something lame like, y’know, flowers, or that you got a puppy.” Stumpy holds his arms out like he is presenting Mr Cat, showing him off. “But nope! You got a cool boyfriend! I’m proud of you.”
This solidifies it. Mr Cat folds his arms and smirks at Kaeloo. “Oh yeah, this one’s worth keeping on.”
She scowls.
Shortly after this the wounds the three of them have sustained over recent history are more properly attended to. Serguei is trained better than any mafia doctor – or, you know, proper doctor – Mr Cat has ever encountered, certainly the one who put in his stitches. They had been itching before when not stinging, but after the butler has seen to them he doesn’t feel them at all, in a good way, not the numb way that doesn’t actually help anyone.
Serguei removes his cast and tests his wrist, and it aches but it’s not debilitating so there’s no need to bind it back up; as for the leg, he’s given a little squeeze bottle of cream to put on his calf in his own time. Mr Cat doesn’t really believe in whatever form of remedy this does or does not count as, but when he mentions it to Kaeloo she says she’ll do it for him, and his mind is immediately changed about holistics forever, they’re great actually. When Mr Cat asks, she reports she has two cracked ribs rather than one broken, but that she will be fine. Stumpy makes sure to tell them about how he slipped while running in the rain and landed right on his ass.
After sitting around in one of the forty living rooms for a while, the three of them are rejoined by Serguei, back from checking on Olaf. Mr Cat is facing away from the door and doesn’t hear anything from it despite a conversation obviously occurring, so he’s probably another sign language user.
“Olaf was awake for a minute and he’s all caught up,” Kaeloo informs him from across the glass coffee table. She is sitting cross-legged on a big armchair, upon the arm of which Stumpy has perched himself to play with his phone. “So now we’re all going to settle down for a little bit and recover–”
Mr Cat leans his cheek into his fist. “Yeah, because that fall really put you out of it, didn’t it, nutcracker?”
“Hey.”
Kaeloo raises her voice for a few words to regain their attention, “We’re also going to use this time to prepare for the possibility of this location being compromised, but Serguei does assure us that security is tight.”
Serguei chirps. Mr Cat whirls around on the sofa to look at him.
“Yes,” agrees Kaeloo, like it’s a totally normal thing. “We’ll take a day or so to get ready and then go save the city.”
Stumpy looks at her hopefully. “Are we allowed access to the armoury? Is there one? I assume there is one. No way there wouldn’t be, and I wanna use it!”
“Stumpy…”
He claps his hands together to pray, “Please, Kaeloo, it’ll be so cool and we’ll totally wreck the syndicate’s sh*t!” He snaps his fingers and points at Serguei now. “Costumes, we’ll need costumes.”
She sighs. “There’s plenty of gear and spare clothes in th–”
“Yes!” Stumpy jumps up so now he’s standing on the arm of the chair. Kaeloo swats at his legs chidingly, but he hardly notices, he’s already getting down and hopping from foot to foot on the hardwood floor, pumping his arms. “I have so got this! No one’s gonna stand in our way, we’re gonna paint the town red, the reign of those catboys is over and it’s our time to shine!”
He bolts for the door. Kaeloo launches herself from the armchair to try and grab him, but Stumpy is too fast on his feet and he’s already gone, racing down the spiral stairway as Serguei just watches him go, off in the direction of wherever he thinks the aforementioned armoury would be, because he certainly hasn’t been told.
Kaeloo’s hands hang a little bit in front of her as if she could retroactively catch Stumpy with them, then she blinks and relaxes her shoulders, and her hands drop to her sides. She turns her head fractionally to look at Mr Cat in bewilderment. Mr Cat has moved so he is using his fist to hide the grin that wants to spread.
“I’ll...have to explain better next time…” she says, mostly to herself. “Maybe I should go after him.”
Mr Cat waves his hand dismissively, taking his feet off the coffee table and getting up. “Let him have his fun, frog. How about you and me get outta here, I left a playlist running in the library.”
This gets her to perk up a little, and she falls in step beside him as they leave the living room. “What do you think of it? Isn’t it lovely?”
He plays it cool. “It’s alright.”
It’s easier navigating the stairs than it was before, and they go up two floors and hang out for an hour in the great music library, not so much talking as discussing what to play next; but they don’t have to be having a proper conversation for Mr Cat to be happy. What makes him happier still is how Kaeloo initiates the next interaction, the next step. She eyes the bottle on the floor, constantly readjusting her legs and how she’s sitting, fidgeting with her hands for twenty minutes.
Until she says, in a haughty manner, like he’s the one who brought it up first, “Well, I should take care of your leg before it gets too late. We have to rest, you know.”
And it is nighttime by now, but Mr Cat doesn’t intend on sleeping at all.
There are seven floors total, and it’s the sixth that mostly resembles a penthouse, a fairly open-concept space designed to be shared by many, kept at a temperature more comfortable to live in. After some zigzagging down hallways they come to a line of doors, the bedrooms. Much like a hotel, each one has its own space of facilities and a small balcony, though not a particularly good one, as each is a box of bulletproof glass; too much of a risk to let any inhabitants out in the open air.
The second room has floral wallpaper and a mildly lived-in quality to it; obviously it is not used now and probably hasn’t been for some time, but someone was here once. Before proceeding beyond the door, Kaeloo points out the first room.
“When you want fresh clothes, I think you’ll find something your size in Quack-Quack’s wardrobe.”
“Oh,” says Mr Cat, connecting the dots, counting the doors down the line. “A room each for his best soldiers, huh?”
Kaeloo beckons him after her as she goes inside. “It can take Olaf a while to add a new person, but he keeps prepared. Those last rooms are for Stumpy, Pretty, Eugly – and then maybe he was hoping to find someone else. But, as I told you.” She stands in the middle of her room and spreads her hands, shrugging. “Quack-Quack and I were the only ones in the ranks who knew about this place.” She pauses, then adds, “Officially.”
“Ended up working out, ‘cause you just know that traitor bunny girl would have talked.”
Kaeloo doesn’t respond, she just sets her hands down at her sides, a response in itself. She goes over the walk-in wardrobe, opens the door and exclaims to herself, “That’s where I left that.” She grabs a couple of hangers and comes back out, laying her choices out on the bed. Satisfied with this, she sweeps her hands together and sets them down on her waist, and he takes the time to admire how she stands, the casual jut to her hips. The most comfortably he’s seen her stand yet, he realises, but does recognise some of the stance from her picture.
She probably gave some thought to that stance, it occurs to Mr Cat, and that’s adorable.
She directs him to sit over on the small sofa by the balcony doors, which he does. Kaeloo hangs up her jacket and takes off her shoes, comes and sits with one leg folded beneath her on the sofa cushion and the other hanging off the side, and removes his shoes too.
She takes care when rolling his trouser leg up to his knee, and her whole face shifts with concern when she sees the deep, dark bruises covering his ankle and calf, the assorted small bandages that are a new addition by Serguei, finally closing up a collection of half-healed scabs. Kaeloo can’t be disturbed by this in a traditional sense, given that her wounds must be worse and she’s seen a lot of this stuff before; her upset is that this has happened to him at all.
More softly than planned, Mr Cat asks, “How’d you find yourself here, Kaeloo?” and she is silent for long enough that he thinks he might have to clarify the question.
She uncaps the bottle and squeezes a little bit of the cream into her palm. Mr Cat is considering positing his question again or making a dirty joke, but now she speaks. “When I left home and came to the inner-city, I was untethered. I made a lot of trouble for a lot of people. I’m not proud of any of it.”
What he’d give to have been there.
“I got on the bad side of everyone I crossed, or – they all got on the bad side of me. Every gang wanted my head, but only Olaf specified my being brought in alive, so he could see the face of the person causing such destruction.” Kaeloo lifts her head and looks into Mr Cat’s eyes. “He offered me a job.”
Her hands are strong, fingers calloused; they may well have been this way even before her present life, being a mechanic and working in the kitchen back on the strip. Mr Cat takes a look at his own hands and becomes aware that they’re much softer. His hands have been plenty dirty but always holding a weapon, facilitating violence and hard work rather than doing it directly. He has not recently fixed a car engine or burned himself on a stove, nor has he strangled anyone to death.
His leg feels kind of tingly, but he always feels kind of tingly around Kaeloo so he can’t reliably say if that’s the cream doing what it’s supposed to do. He reaches to unroll his trouser leg and she stops him, tells him to leave it to dry for a few minutes first. She gets up and stands in the middle of the room, looking him over. Mr Cat tries to spread out to the best of his ability.
“Looks like you have me right where you want me,” he says lowly, drumming a beat on the arm of the sofa with one hand, the other resting at his thigh.
Kaeloo rolls her eyes and pulls off her top. Mr Cat watches with wide eyes before adjusting with intent on getting up, and she halts him by holding her palm out at him, a stern look on her face. Thwarted by the universal stop sign. He thinks he might not mind so much, though, and settles back into the sofa to enjoy the view.
Her torso is still mostly wrapped up, but Serguei has done a thorough job, her cracked ribs should set overnight and the spot in her abdomen where she was shot is returning to how it should be. Mr Cat can spy further bits and pieces of her tattoos – what he’s now beginning to understand as one big tattoo, all connected to itself as it goes around her chest and stomach and back, over her shoulders and down her arms – and they’re looking clearer to him. The ink is a deep shade of purple rather than black, he sees now, and it stands out nicely against her dark skin. All this he notices over the matter of a few seconds, as she doesn’t waste time in pulling on her chosen fresh t-shirt, a pleasant pale green, nor does she dawdle while changing into her shorts.
Mr Cat is getting all sorts of choked up. She has the nicest butt he’s ever seen and most likely ever will see, not that he cares for other butts – not anymore, not now that he has beheld the perfect one. A work of art, the kind of thing to bring tears to a man’s eyes. He tries not to be obvious in his attempt to glimpse the between her legs in the mirror, still attempting to guess at what’s in there – just out of curiosity, he doesn’t have a preference.
The short look he gets yields no concrete results, just further data on her curves. The only new information is that she wears red underwear.
Kaeloo is preening into a mirror, checking herself out just as much as he is; it’s probably been a while since she’s worn these clothes, she wants to see that they look good and fit well. They do, but he’ll let her have this moment uninterrupted. Then she looks beyond her reflection and at his at the back, catching how he is staring. Mr Cat turns his head skywards at the very interesting hairline crack in the ceiling corner.
“You can roll that down now,” she says of his trouser leg. Kaeloo jerks her head back at the door, turning now to face him across the room. “I was trying to be subtle before, I really do think you ought to put on fresh clothes.”
Mr Cat is a small, sitting figure in the mirror, but he doesn’t need to do much sleuthing to agree. His nice suit is no more, this outfit is no better than a dusty button-up and scratched-up pants. He doesn’t mourn it, however; there will always be another.
“You’re right, this is ridiculous,” says Mr Cat, stiffly standing and sort of crab-walking to the door. “Won't be long.”
“You’re not tired?” she squeaks. “You don’t want to go to bed?”
“Not next door,” he replies.
Kaeloo throws one of his shoes at him. He laughs and half-catches it, fumbling and letting it fall. He bends to pick it up, and the other that she tosses over much less violently.
“What, you’re sick of me already?” asks Mr Cat with a pointed pout, which partially gets the intended reaction.
Kaeloo snaps, “No!” planting her feet in a confrontational stance, setting her fists down on her hips. “Hurry up, then.”
So hot and cold; not that he’s complaining, it’s fun. He’ll have to see if there’s any Katy Perry in Olaf’s collection.
The bedroom next door, the one belonging to the consigliere, is all washed out blues and whites, and there’s a vaguely rotten smell to the place, like something perishable was being stored here for longer than it should have been. That’s just the main part of the room, however, and the wardrobe opens to unscented air and boring clothes. Boring as in it’s all the same, there’s no patterns or outfits that indicate there’s ever a deviation to the guy’s schedule. The wildest item of clothing he owns are blue pants.
Mr Cat rifles through to the very back to make sure he’s picking something relatively untouched. He locates the one dark grey sweater in the entire collection and puts it on over a white tank – but not before taking this opportunity to check himself out now, and he’s all good but he really needs to redo his nails, he needed to do them for days before he was kidnapped and they’ve been bare since Thursday and it sucks. It’s a small thing but it’s important to him.
There are no black pants in this f*cking wardrobe and Mr Cat hates that because they make it just that bit easier for one to keep their erection to themselves. It’s tempting to stick to the trousers he has already, all the more tempting to make the issue irrelevant, but that might not be wise. Aside from a brief rub in the motel room while she was going on about her moral panic in the bathroom, Mr Cat has not dedicated any real, proper time to touching himself over Kaeloo since meeting her properly, and it’s not that he doesn’t want to – he is desperate – he is just aware that there hasn’t been a right time or place for it. That, and all the hope he is holding out that right time and place will reveal itself while he’s with her.
Mr Cat puts on dark denim jeans and sits for a few minutes thinking about, f*ckin’, clouds until he thinks he’s good to go back next door.
Kaeloo has procured a Connect Four board and is sitting cross-legged on the bed making a pattern with the pieces. She looks at him in a manner that could be mistaken for casual, but there’s a mischievous glint to her eyes, like she’s caught him in a trap.
Which she has, but not the one she thinks.
Mr Cat laughs nervously. “What’s this?”
“I know you were cheating that night, and I’m going to prove it,” Kaeloo announces boastfully, looking all chuffed. She beckons to the other side of the bed, separated by the board. “Come, sit. Unless you’re afraid.”
The tease to her voice really does things to him. He makes his way over as she empties the board and separates the pieces by colour.
“Red for you, I remember,” she says assuringly, as if it would be something he gave a single sh*t about.
Mr Cat pulls his legs in close once he’s sat, guarded physically but more than happy to be flirtatious. “You’re insane.”
Kaeloo addresses him sternly, in a way he can tell is good-natured but does betray her serious fixation on the matter. “You made me so mad, Mr Cat. It wasn’t fair I didn’t get to play this with you.” She shuffles to sit up straight, squaring her shoulders and keeping her hands posted professionally at her ankles. “Please begin.”
This is a brand of crazy he has never encountered before, and he keeps pulling back layers thinking he’s reached the end only to find more and more. Mr Cat still half expects for her to drop the act and say, “Ta-da!” or something equally twee, but time stretches on and the moment doesn’t come, it never will. Kaeloo enjoys games in a way that is calculated, structured, serious – and that is what makes it fun for her.
Mr Cat had been thinking he might love her in the other room, as well as that morning, last night and when they escaped the Emperor Enterprises tower together. Perhaps he’d already started as soon as she was a handwritten letter sincerely asking him his favourite colour.
And he knows he’s not blinded by lust because there is literally nothing in this earth as unsexy as Connect Four.
“Mr Cat,” says Kaeloo. “It’s your turn.”
It’s their third game, the first two she won easily. Mr Cat had to stop a minute, just so he could look at her, even if it melted his brain and overworked his heart. But he kicks back into consciousness now and puts down his third piece in a row, then realises he didn't see her own line of three. She’s going to take her third win. Or she should.
Kaeloo looks at him and smiles, and puts down a piece notably in a position that does not complete her line of four, nor does it block him from doing the same. She raises her hand in a now you gesture, and Mr Cat puts down his fourth piece.
“Congratulations,” says Kaeloo earnestly.
“You just gave me that,” Mr Cat says, sounding like he’s berating her when he’s actually just baffled.
“Winning isn’t everything,” she replies with a small shrug. “But I hope my peace offering means you’ll be honest with me.”
He leans back, furrowing his brow. “About what?”
“Every move you said someone made by email,” says Kaeloo, packing up the board, “was a real email someone sent in. But you said the first one you got would be the move you made, and I think what you really did is you waited until you had a selection to choose from, and then you always chose a move that would benefit you.”
Mr Cat blinks, does a big exhale that turns into a laugh, and he can’t stop himself, he’s at it for at least thirty seconds while Kaeloo waits for him to stop. “How the f*ck–” wheezes Mr Cat, then tried again, “How did– I can’t believe you!”
She beams. “I’m right?”
He has to suck in gulps of air; there are tears in his eyes. “Oh my god,” and that must serve as a clear enough answer, because as soon as he’s settled a bit Kaeloo leans in somewhat conspiratorially, tapping her temple with a finger.
“You see?” She’s so proud of herself. “I know you, Mr Cat.”
He leans in too so he can murmur, “You do.”
They hang there for a series of very significant seconds, then Kaeloo ducks her head to sweep the Connect Four box and all it contains off the bed and onto the floor, and she closes the gap between them and kisses him on the mouth. It’s a small kiss, not tentative or nervous, just the kind one gives when they don’t wish to overstep, a kiss that’s as easy to reject as it is accept.
Mr Cat would never reject her. He lays one hand at the back of her neck and the other on her knee and kisses her back, close-mouthed but with heavy indications towards changing that. He traces circles on her knee with his thumb, because he likes doing it and thinks she likes it too.
“Tell me what you want,” Mr Cat says gently, not urgingly.
“Thank you for asking,” replies Kaeloo, taking his hands in hers and readjusting to lie herself down, pulling so he’ll do the same beside her. “I just want to be with you,” she says so casually that it feels like it should be a shock to hear it, but it is not.
So he lies down too and holds her close and kisses her, all over her face, her jaw, her neck, as reverently and respectfully as he can physically manage. Kaeloo tangles her legs through his. She is making this very difficult. But it’s good practise for the domesticity that lies ahead of them; not every moment has to be scorchingly passionate.
Based on how she’s beginning to make a habit of running her fingers through his hair, Mr Cat thinks Kaeloo might be especially fond of it. But she does find the stitches on this run through.
“Oh god,” Kaeloo gasps. “Are you okay?” Barely a beat passes before she laughs awkwardly. “I mean, you must be, but still – I didn’t know you were hit on the head!”
“It was over the week,” mutters Mr Cat, stroking up her arm and into her sleeve, on her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry. How awful.” There’s a quaver to her voice, and at first he thinks it’s melancholic in nature, but with her next statement he realises it’s fury she is trying to contain. “I will not let it happen again.”
“Fight’s not over yet,” he points out.
“It won’t happen again, Mr Cat, I promise you.”
He believes her. But he’d rather change the subject, so he tugs at her sleeve. “Let me see these again?”
Pause. She says nothing.
Mr Cat adds, “Please?”
“Of course,” Kaeloo says in a much brighter tone.
She shifts so she is sitting up on one elbow and pushes the sleeve as far up as it will go, exposing the full extent of this arm pattern as well as the shoulder. The first thing he does is put a kiss on the edge of her sternum and it makes her giggle, gathering up her legs bashfully. Mr Cat lays one hand on her hip, the other holding her arm, his eyes following the swirling patterns. What looks like an ocean wave is wrapped all the way around her lower tricep, with little horizontal lines filling the space where it’s not at its peak.
“This is the least interesting bit,” admits Kaeloo, rolling her other shoulder. “This arm has more going on.”
“Doesn’t matter how much there is,” Mr Cat says, but does follow her hint towards the other side. “It’s all gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.”
Shuffles her lower half again and blushes deeply. “Stop,” she says in a way that may not fully translate to go on, but it certainly doesn’t truly mean stop.
Testingly, Mr Cat starts to push her shirt up her stomach, half expecting to be halted where he is, but then Kaeloo eagerly takes off the whole thing and throws it away. He is stunned for a second.
“You like being admired,” he concludes, tracing the spiral on her left shoulder. “You like me looking at you.”
“Yes,” Kaeloo readily answers. Then, “Is it too much? Am I being too forward?”
“Not enough,” says Mr Cat, eyes falling to the matching, mirrored spirals covering each pectoral. There’s probably more below, but from her mid-breast to her waist she’s wrapped up. Fair, but so unfair at the same time. “I mean, if it were up to me…”
She shoves him lightly. “You’d get intimate in a sewer, I swear!” Before he can say anything to that, she lays her hands on her stomach, head returning to the pillow. “I enjoy privacy.”
“There’s privacy in the sewers,” Mr Cat jokes, and she screws up her face.
“Yuck, Mr Cat.”
He puts at hand to her chest, the softness of her breast surrounded by cultivated muscle. Mr Cat is sure to look her in the eye for reactions, and she’s being receptive, giving him a little smile, so he finds her nipple with his thumb and presses; and Kaeloo whimpers.
Determined to be a tease, Mr Cat looms over her, openly staring and appreciative, but trying now to project a kind of indifference. All conversational, he asks, “Do your tattoos mean anything?” His fingers draw over her skin.
Turning her head slightly away, Kaeloo stretches one arm above and behind her head. With her free hand she lightly pushes him and he rolls back down next to her. Thwarted. “Not really,” she answers.
“There’s a heart.” Mr Cat needlessly points it out, just another excuse to put his hands on her. “And a skull.”
Kaeloo shrugs. “I like hearts.”
“And skulls?”
She looks sideways at him, smiling a little smile. “Guess so.” And then she sits back up again, leaning on both elbows now, hiking up one leg as if to show it off. “Do you have any tattoos?” she asks like she’s not doing this, not daring him to make a serious move at her.
Mr Cat is willing to rise to the challenge, but not before answering her question. Sitting up with his back against the wall, he offers Kaeloo his right hand, turning it over to expose his inner wrist. She leans in to look and ends up staring quite intently, brows furrowed and clearly deep in thought over what she’s seeing. Suddenly this is very embarrassing. Mr Cat smiles sheepishly and tries to draw his hand back.
Kaeloo catches him, gently, carefully, by the wrist and pulls it closer to her face. She wets her lips. With a hint of panic it occurs to Mr Cat that she’s probably pretty well-versed in the language of tattoos and what particular ones can mean, which would turn this interaction from a simple showing off to a serious revelation. Not that it should come as a big surprise. She’s heard him joking about killing himself on-air.
She kisses his wrist, a healing touch to the semicolon tattooed there. Then she kisses around it, up to his palm. Turns over his hand and kisses his knuckles. Each move she makes is tender and caring.
“I’m sorry,” says Kaeloo quietly, not meeting his eyes at first. Now she’s the one to trace swirls into his skin, to reach out and wrap her arm around his shoulders and pull him in close. He melts.
“It’s cool,” he says hoarsely.
“It’s not,” she replies, “but it will be.”
Mr Cat blinks and feels hot tears running down his face. “Okay.”
“I’m here with you, Mr Cat, and I’m not letting go.” A brief pause. “Is that alright?” asks Kaeloo.
He sighs into her neck and doesn’t trust himself to answer with words, but he folds completely into her and very loudly thinks, I love you, I love you, and hopes she can hear.
*
When Stumpy enters the bedroom, all is cold and quiet. The air is still, and it feels like an age since there’s been any movement. Olga sits at the side of the bed, dutiful and resplendent in her wheelchair, with her head slightly bowed. She must be asleep. To support the theory, Serguei steps out from his place in the doorway and positions himself at the helm of the wheelchair; he reaches down to Olga’s head and lifts her chin so her head may lie back, and then he gracefully, silently, wheels her out of the room.
Stumpy’s eyes are affixed to the bed, to the man sitting there with almost the entire left side of his face bandaged, his jaw fit with some contraption seemingly designed to keep it shut. Olaf turns his head so he is fully facing Stumpy, who now realises what this moment is reminding him of: the scene in The Dark Knight where Gordon, and the audience, sees the mangled half of Harvey’s face for the first time. Except, of course, here and now the injured portion of Olaf’s face is tended to and hidden away.
“Sit down,” is what Olaf says, but not entirely what can be heard. It’s probably not wise for him to talk, and it’s clearly difficult for him, but he does so anyway through clenched teeth and a jaw that won’t budge.
Still, Stumpy has a lifetime of interpreting garbled nonsense behind him, so he understands.
