Fuzzy Navel

12:08 A.M.
MUNCHEL

“YOU LITTLE YELLOW-EYED BASTARD. The first bullet is going in your skull.”

Munchel slowly extends his hand, reaching for the revolver for the ninth time.

The damned cat hisses and lashes out its claw, tunneling three more deep scratches along Munchel’s wrist.

He jerks his hand back again and swears. Munchel’s arm is bleeding in so many places it looks like he stuck it in a blender. The pain almost rivals the pain in his gut. Over twenty scratch marks and three bites; one he’s sure went all the way down to the bone.

The revolver is only a few feet away, just within reach. But it’s right next to the litter box, which the cat is standing in. Every time Munchel reaches for it, the cat draws more blood.

Worst of all, the horrible feline seems to actually be enjoying itself. As if this is some sick game. Munchel tried waiting for it to use the litter box and leave, but it just sits there, yellow eyes sparkling, daring him to make another move.

Gunshots, outside. Munchel isn’t concerned with that. His entire world has become his arm, the gun, and the cat.

Munchel tried yelling. Tried slapping his hand on the floor. Tried talking sweet. Tried begging. He even tried nudging the litter box, but that’s the move that provoked the biting, and he isn’t going to attempt it again.

Munchel’s lower lip trembles, and the tears come. His stomach is getting even worse. It’s not even about escaping anymore. Even if he shot off the handcuffs, he wouldn’t have the strength to get to the truck.

Munchel wants the gun for another reason. His final request. He wants to shoot that split-tail and that one-armed guy who did this to him. And the cat. He really wants to shoot the cat.

Then he’ll use the gun on himself and end this terrible pain.

Just do it, he thinks. It’s just a cat. If it scratches you, no big deal. You’re going to die anyway. Be a soldier and do it!

Munchel extends his hand toward the revolver for the tenth time. He shows no fear, and doesn’t hesitate. The cat watches him, unblinking, as he gets within ten inches of the gun.

Eight inches.

Six inches.

Four inches.

Two inches.

Munchel grabs it! He lifts the gun up, his index finger seeking the trigger, and then there’s a blur of yellow fur and the cat has all four claws and its teeth locked onto Munchel’s hand. Munchel can’t help it – the cat hits a tendon or something that makes his hand pop open, causing him to release the gun. He screams, reining his arm in, lifting it up to beat the cat against the underside of the workbench. But before he can, the cat releases him, hopping back into the litter box.

The pain doesn’t abate. It feels like the cat is still clawing, still biting. Munchel looks for the gun, and sees it’s even farther away now.

And the cat, the damned cat, is licking Munchel’s blood from its paw.

There’s some noise, from the opposite side of the garage. Munchel swivels his neck around, and through a gap in the boxes he spies someone climbing in through the window.

It’s the woman. The badass woman who was trying to kill the split-tail cop. She navigates the boxes and walks over to Munchel, staring down at him.

The woman has a killer body, but her face is Phantom of the Opera. Still, she’s trying to kill Jackie. She could be a possible ally.

“We both want the cop dead,” Munchel says.

The woman lifts her foot up, lightly touches her toe to Munchel’s stomach. He howls, all thoughts of a possible alliance being wiped from his mind. Everything gets bright, then dark.

“It’s your stomach acid,” she says. “It’s leaking through the bullet hole, and dissolving all of your other organs. Bad way to die. Takes hours.”

She moves her foot up higher, nudges his shoulder. Munchel wonders if maybe he blacked out for a few seconds.

“What happened to your hand?” she asks.

Her eyes track from Munchel’s arm to the litter box, then to the revolver. The woman’s face twitches.

“Kitty won’t let you have the gun? That’s pretty damn funny.”

The woman bends down, looks at the cat, and says, “Scram.”

The cat hisses, then bounds out of the garage, back into the house. The woman picks up the revolver.

“Is this what you wanted? So close, but so far. That must have been awful for you.”

Munchel knows what he has to say, but can’t bring himself to say it.

“Let me take a wild guess.” The woman crouches next to him, wipes away one of Munchel’s tears with her thumb. “You want me to shoot you. Right?”

Munchel nods, and manages to add, “Please.”

“Normally, I’m a merciful chick. But you and your boys – well, you really fucked up my plans for the evening. So I think the best thing for both of us is for you to die in horrible agony.”

She’s not going to help him. But maybe he can force her to.

“I’ll… I’ll scream,” he says. “I’ll scream that you’re here.”

The woman straightens up and places her foot on Munchel’s stomach again, taking his breath away.

“No you won’t. Because I can make it worse.”

She reaches over his head, onto the workbench, and grabs two items: a funnel, and a bottle of liquid drain cleaner. She drops them next to Munchel.

“You make a sound,” she tells him, “even the tiniest sound, and I’ll fill you up with something that hurts a lot worse than stomach acid. Got it?”

Munchel nods, pissing his pants once more.

“Who has the keys to that truck outside?”

“Pess… Pessolano.”

“He the guy in the living room?”

Munchel nods again, wishing he would die.

“Inside. Are they armed?”

“… the guy, Harry… he’s got a Desert Eagle… only one bullet.”

“Anything else?”

“…no… please…”

She finally takes her foot off his stomach. Then she swings out the cylinder on the revolver, slaps it back in, and cocks it, heading for the doorway to the house. Before she goes through she looks at Munchel.

“Remember,” she says, putting a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

Munchel closes his eyes and focuses all of his energy on being very, very quiet.