Guardian Cats and the Lost Books of Alexandria

Chapter 21: Black masks and attitude

They had black masks and attitude—raccoons, they must have been, although none of the cats had ever encountered a live one. There were only three, but their presence was intimidating and the cats had their hackles up.

“Did I say you could eat outta my dumpsta’?” said the biggest varmint, a disreputable looking raccoon with a deep scar on one ear.

The Dead Cats growled and hissed, but no one responded to the senseless question.

Except Tweezer. “Who do you think you are?”

“Oh, excu-use me. I didn’t know we needed intra-ductions. This is my territory, so ya better get used to me, ya mangy felines. Name’s Sting. Don’t forget it!”

All three raccoons had banded eyes, but Sting’s were particularly narrow and his wide mouth flaunted no-nonsense fangs.

Before Tweezer could reply, Lily piped up. “I don’t think so! We eat here all the time, so it’s our dumpster, mister, not yours. Besides, you’re interrupting our meeting.”

Sting was dumbfounded, probably for the first time in his life

“Yeah, pip-squeak? A meetin’? What kinda meetin’ do a bunch ‘a cats have?”

“We are the Dead Cats Society, I’ll have you know,” Lily blurted out.

Jaws dropped and the crowd fell silent.

“Dead cats?” Sting suddenly looked worried. “You’s are dead?”

“No, but you might be if you don’t scram!” yelled Tweezer.

“Right, I’m scared now. How ‘bout you boys? You scared? Tank? Crimmany?” Sting asked his two cohorts.

“We’re shaking in our boots, boss.”

“Sooo’s what do a bunch ‘a dead cats do? Tell ghost stories?” laughed Sting.

“That’s a good one, boss!” said Tank.

Lily explained, “We read.”

“Huh?”

“Read. You know, books.”

“You read what?”

“You don’t know what a book is, mister?”

“I know what a book is!” said Crimmany, obviously the runt of the gang.

“Shut up! Course I know what a book is. You think I’m stupid or somethin’?”

“I think you’re brain dead, that’s what I think!” Caffeina chimed in.

Not wanting to be left out of the argument, Skitzo pushed forward through the cats and declared, “This is a top secret meeting. If you don’t leave now, I’m callin’ the cops.”

“A secret meetin’?” asked Sting. “Ri-ight. You must be undercover cats and this is your secret hiding place… by the trash cans. I’m so impressed.”

“You have no idea who we are,” said Cicero. “So take your buddies and go find another dumpster.”

“And who might you be, ol’ man?” Sting asked. “You somebody I should be takin’ orders from?”

“You leave him alone!” said Pudge.

Bait tried a diplomatic approach. “I’m sure you don’t want a fight. Please let us continue with our meeting. There are other trash bins down the road.”

Sting, undoubtedly the lead gangster raccoon, was never diplomatic. “Boys,” he said, without looking at his co-conspirators. “We gots ourselves a sit-u-a-shun.”

With more grace than one would expect, the jumbo-sized raccoon swooped up Lily, the petite kitten who had so boldly challenged him. He held her out at arm’s length, as if she were a smelly sock. “Hey, kitty. How ‘bout readin’ to Uncle Sting?”

Lily hung limply in his grasp.

“Not talkin’, huh?” Sting yelled, shaking her like a rag doll. “Then I’ll take you home with me. You can read to me there. Come on, Tank, Crimmany. Let’s go.”

The Dead Cats had not been idle—they had positioned themselves for an attack. Four of them leaped directly at Sting. Gypsy, Lily’s mother, bit him on the leg, and Bait tried to block him. Pudge, the only one who came close in size to Sting, succeeded in knocking him briefly on his back.

Marco had climbed up the dumpster to gain some height and used the vantage point to take a nosedive, striking Sting directly in his midsection. It would have been an effective move, if Marco had been bigger. As it was, he simply bounced off the fat-bellied raccoon and landed on the pavement. Marco, who’d never said anything mean, couldn’t help but mutter ‘Fatso’ under his breath. Sting took a swipe at him but missed.

“You morons. You think you can take me on?” growled Sting, still clutching Lily. “You're nuthin' more than pets. You should all be curled up on somebody’s lap.” He called out to his crew, “Boys, get a move on!”

“Whatcha gonna do with the kitten, Boss?”

“I’m takin’ it with me. Maybe it’s time ol’ Sting had his own pet," said Sting.

The raccoons scurried off towards the alley, and in a bold move, Tweezer plunged down from the back of a parked truck and sunk his teeth into Sting’s arm before he could get away.

Lily dropped, coming to consciousness, and landed on her feet. Before Sting could make a countermove, Marco grabbed Lily by the scruff of her neck—not a move that comes natural to a male cat—and awkwardly dashed off, putting enough distance between her and her kidnappers to keep her safe.

Sting left in a huff, hurling a warning. “You’ll be sorry, you scabby cats. Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me!”