The Bitch From Boränge
Chapter 10 – by Smoothy
15 February 2017
It was easy to get away from the Bitch. A double shunt and long leap were enough to lose her. Most of that was just for show. She was distracted by Willie the Яat. The Bitch has a thing for rats—genetics I guess—something she can’t resist, a good thing to know. A lot of kats are into rats. I don’t mind chasing them myself, when they cross my path, but I don’t murder them. Lots of kats do – a killing instinct I suppose. I’ve really never understood it.
I’ve known Willie for a while now. He’s quite clever in a sneaky sort of way. Street smart he is, and a grand master of disguise. The king of coats they call him. He was once an actor and stared in one of those bleak Scandinavian films, The Rat and Winter, I think it was called. Willie lost his union membership after eating an important manuscript. After that he was in and out of cages: food theft, malingering, and petty crime, some shady stock market deals, commodities I think.
A diamond heist he pulled off made the papers—must have paid off very well. He took a ship to New York to avoid the heat and hung out with a gang of notorious tunnel workers called the Fur Heads. A few months later the gang got busted for smuggling carrion, but Willie escaped and stowed away on a freighter to Malmo. He arrived flat broke and hungry—ended up here, in Яosengaard where he’s been a useful companion, reasonably trustworthy, and with a detailed a cognitive map of town. He knows how to get into places. All this plus a hunger for action. What can go wrong?
I’m pretty sure Willie got away . . . I think. He’s fast, but so’s the Bitch. It could go either way I guess. I don’t see either one of them, but spot the Malmö Konsthall a block away. An electric marquee writes, International Kat Show. Spot on, but Willie..? Well, he knows our destination. I don’t know how he’ll get in. Not through the front door, that’s for sure. The lobby’s draped with posters, ‘No Dogs’ signs, and promotional flyers with photos of Lulu Яashid, and the Siamese kat, Magnolia. Perfect.
A five sardine pack gets me past a ticket taker with a worn out smile. It’s like a zoo inside, a labyrinth of pussys. “Take your time,” I tell myself and go into a stealthy saunter. Lot’s to look at, that’s for sure. I pass a young Maine Coon who’s won a ribbon—not surprising. His servant is sleeping on the job with a silly grin. She might be high on katnip, but whatever. I move on.