Postcard From Ellie – 27 September 2016
Oh my god. It’s happening already. Smoothy has altered the plot, and he’s been grabbing all the best adjectives! I’m either stuck with, ’me too,’ or that’s something ‘I am not, or can’t do.’ Superkat—indeed. I need to make The Bitch stronger than that, more than a superhound. Does he hold some kind of masculine advantage? Muscle strength? This won’t be easy work, a cunning adversary, and clever. Hmm, perhaps too clever. Curiosity can work out poorly for a kat—it’s common knowledge. Kats sometimes climb trees they can’t get down from. I am still well in the game. Where is he now?
I’m guessing Stockholm or Upsalla. Denmark maybe. Norway? Why would anyone go there? I’m guessing Stockholm, maybe Malmo, some big city waste land anonymity.
The Bitch From Borlänge
By Ellie of Cameron
Erickson met me at the station—a bone in his mouth as usual. He always has a bone in his mouth. It’s almost Freudian or something, but whatever.
“Tip came in,” he tells me. “One of those cell phone things. Kid took a movie of a burning car and caught this kat— Rosengaard district, Malmö. He shoved a photo in my hand and drooled with modest excitement. “Look familiar?”
It’s a slightly overweight, male, with white socks and a coat that’s 50 shades of gray. “It looks like we got lucky.”
“Good police work,” Erickson wuffed.
I told him, “All you did was sniff at your computer. Never even had to move your ass.”
Well someone’s got to do it,” he says. “Not as easy as it looks.”
“I know. You’re right. You are the gears of the machine. You’re indispensible.” That seems to satisfy him and he wonders off, back to his desk— sits on the floor and does his best to look alert. Some males are easy to get on with, others not so much.
Rosengaard – 28 September.
I’m in Rosengaard, a Swedish tide pool reeking life. 24-7 mid east western: outlaws, priests and bullies, and good people—mostly poor people hanging on to see what happens next. Survivors.
I’m uneasy, and a bit excited. Totally alert. This might be dangerous, these streets . . . good looking gal like me. I asked Inspector Johansson for some back up.
“Oh.” He scratched his ear. “No way. Short handed as it is. They keep on cutting back, replacing us with bureaucrats. Gas for trip to Stockholm. . . . 13,12 krowns a liter. There’s no way.” He sat on the floor to scratch an ear. “I’m paying you from the emergency fund. Keep that to yourself,” he sniffs.
I will. I feel a little guilty. I’ve been lucky, have two servants and a good life when I want it. Sleuthing isn’t work for me, it’s what I am, and danger is my pleasure—keeps a dawg alive.