Nyar had fired his gun.
He did this with no expectations, his mind empty except for a nagging feeling that he'd left the gas on in his kitchen, and the darkness that followed came not as a surprise but as a break in his randomly meandering thoughts.
For when Pop's head went pop it became the center of a dark shadow that made a black hole seem rather bright in comparison. Inside the shadow Nyar felt in his evil being the ferocious hunger of the animal. The relentness distance of the material. An unsatiable appetite to consume...
This was followed by a silence that made space seem like a nightclub gone crazy. A silence that could swallow worlds in less than an instant. A silence that grew louder and louder.
Out of that silence stepped Evil Pop. Dazed but unharmed. Annoyed at being shot.
"I think it would be wise of you to leave Nyartholep, all of the sudden I'm feeling a tad cranky." Pop said calmly. It's always most frightening when someone who you know must be angry talks to you in a measured calculating way.
So Nyar fled. Expecting any moment to be attacked in some way. Mutant chickens? Turned into a cupcake through magic? Hit on the head with a brick? Could be anything. Better to flee. Better also not to make the whimpering sound he was making, but Nyar couldn't help it.
No time for plans and contemplations now. Also no time to grab the shoebox he left on the bathroom sink, it's contents metaphorically ticking like a metaphorical bomb. A big one.
The cat patrolled it's territory as per his usual schedule.
His name was Pretty Thing. He hated that name, especially being a tom cat. All his friends had cool names like Killer, Lightning, Tiger and Bob. The teasing he got from them was intolerable at the best of times.
He saw Bob off in the distance.
Stay away Bob, just keep your distance, don't mess with me, I'm busy...
Poor Bob had had the operation. He'd never been the same after that. Further off in the distance Pretty Thing could see some of those bald smelly cats that walked on their hind legs. It would seem that the bald smelly cats were the ones responsible for Bob's misfortune. What exactly was their problem?
Pretty Thing's paws led him back to his house. It was to his displeasure that a couple of bald smelly cats had taken up residence here also and would not be persuaded to leave no matter how many dead animals he lay at the door as ominous warnings.
They did come in handy though. Pretty Thing had trained his bald smelly cats to give him food when he meowed. This he did now as he found the one with the huge lips hanging around in the "Lay Around and Nap" area.
The one with the huge lips was better known to other bald smelly cats as Mick Jagger. Mick took notice of the meowing cat and worked at finding out what was wrong.
"Are you trying to tell me something Pretty Thing?"
"Someone's in trouble?"
"David Bowie? Little Alex?"
"They need my help?"
"My God! Thank you Pretty Thing, you sure are an amazing cat." No sooner had the words cat left his mammoth lips Mick was out the door in a fit of heroic duty. Pretty Thing just sat there, hungry and angry, planning some kind of suitable revenge for when Mick returned.
David had remembered his date for that evening and was on his way. His latest meeting with the earlobe people forgotten for the moment since he was contemplating what was ahead of him.
Usually he would not be paying so much mental attention to a date resulting from a contest. But now Iman was out of the picture and Mr Bowie was a free man once again, and who knew what opportunities lay at the secluded table set aside in the Romantic Roomy Restaurant.
He made a point of blowing into his hands and trying to smell his own breath as men have done through the ages. The sad thing about this was that it was a method that has never worked and led to many a smelly breathed man thinking he is in the clear. The rock star should have really known better too since for the past 40 minutes he had been sucking on his garlic lollies that he loved.
It was not going to be easy even getting into the restaurant. The media and police had surrounded the place expecting him to show at the allotted time.
What they didn't know of was David's cunning plan, which was to put a bag over his head thereby making himself virtually unrecognizable. He almost made a fatal mistake though when nearly opting for a plastic bag instead of a paper one. Twas the danger of being the man he was.
On went the paper bag (it was a brown one) as the jittery Englishman slowly made his way to the entrance and hopefully into the arms of the woman of his dreams.
TO BE CONTINUED...
"We shape clay into a pot,
but it is the emptiness inside
that holds whatever we want."
Tao Te Ching