Fitz was in trouble. He had dashed and dodged and ducked as he had many days before, but this time it wasn’t enough. He was cornered. The cat was moving in for the kill. It didn’t seem fair to Fitz. The cat was so much bigger, why did it also get to be so FAST? Its claws moved so quickly you could hardly see them. You try to go one way and you get smacked so suddenly you can’t even react before you get a slap from the other direction. What kind of God would allow such a thing?
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Fitz gathered up as much dignity as he could with his heart pounding in his furry chest “I say old chap, what’s with all the hostility?”
The cat smarted like it had been sprayed with a water bottle “Old chap? Why are you talking like that?”
Fitz tried to keep the desperation out of his voice “Sorry, I was just . . . I don’t know. You have food though right?”
The cat’s eyes flashed murderously “Yeah, food that YOU try to eat.”
Fitz cleared his throat “Well . . . I mean . . . just a few crumbs here and there, nothing you would even miss innit?”
The cat scowled “Innit? What is wrong with you? Are you some kind of anglophile?”
Fitz chuckled nervously “I’m one kind, I like that Sharon Hogan, I . . .” Fitz leapt out of the out way of lazy claw-swipe “whoa, whoa, whoa, we’re talking here, no need for that!”
The cat tilted its head in thought as it batted absently again at Fitz “Isn’t Sharon Hogan Irish?”
Fitz’s eyes were glued to the cats glistening claws “Yeah maybe, my point is . . .” Fitz worked to calm himself “my point is that you have plenty of food. Dry food, wet food, treats both fancy and tender, I saw you licking a stick of butter on the counter once, you don’t need to eat me. If we were outside, sure I get it, everyone needs to eat, that makes sense, but in here I . . .”
“I wasn’t going to eat you, I was just kill you.”
Fitz was too stunned to speak for a moment, withing thinking he whispered “Why?”
The cat slouched down, legs disappearing underneath itself in a self-satisfied way “It’s fun. I don’t need another reason.”
Fitz felt like he was going to pass out “But that . . . that . . . that doesn’t make any sense. Why would you . . .”
The cat flicked its tail, causing Fitz to jump “You’re vermin. No one cares what happens to you. I can do whatever I want to you. I’ve got the bloodlust you see. I like killing. It’s just as simple as that. My worshippers buy me toys, that that’s fine, tearing them up is fun, but there’s no substitute for killing I’ve learned. The crack of bone, the flow of blood, it’s a pretty good time.”
Fitz’s vision was spinning “Worshippers?”
The cat smiled, in the way cats do “Didn’t you know? I’m a god.”
Fitz nodded slowly “I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“You don’t need to say anything, this has been a fun diversion but I’m about done with this conversation.”
Fitz thought furiously “I can help you, yes, that’s what I can do, help. I can help you get food.”
The cat smirked “As you pointed out I get plenty of food.”
“Yes, yes, of course, but not always WHEN you want it right? I’ve seen sometimes when your, ah, worshippers are in bed and they’re sleeping and you want the food but they won’t get up and give it to you. I could help with that. I could chew through the bag so you could have food whenever you want.”
The cat hissed, seemingly involuntarily “Are you saying that I can’t handle a BAG?”
Fitz waved his paws frantically “No, no, not at all, I’m just saying that your teeth, your mighty and very handsome teeth, are much better at, ahem, you know the bones and blood thing you mentioned before. They’re not bag-teeth, they’re murder teeth. My teeth are designed more for that kind of thing. You could chew through a bag of course, of course you could, but that sort of thing is really beneath you isn’t it?”
The cat stretched out one long paw, claws flexing “Go on, I’m listening.”
Rocket Cat 