The awaited continuation of The Adventures of Tequila Kitty.

Chapter Eight was written by my friend, the esteemed young adult novelist L.A. Kuehlke, who doubles as one of the most genuinely optimistic people on the planet. She is the author of the Pursuit series, a spiritual romance thriller, consisting of Pursuit, Redemption, and the forthcoming Ransomed. She also teaches English at a private middle school in New Jersey. Kuehlke is comprised of at least 35% chai latte.


She needed some time to think, clear her head, process through some... of the past almost-twenty-four hours.  She wandered through the backyard and settled on a bench by the water.  The sun was hanging low in the sky, filling it with shades of pink and gold and purple.  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, soaking in the serenity of the moment.  Tequila jumped onto the bench, startling her.  She allowed the cat to crawl into her lap and stroked his fur....

Was any of this real?  Which of her lives was reality and which was fantasy?

Chapter Eight

Kitty stood on shaky legs.  She wasn’t sure what to do next, but her mind screamed that she had to get out, run, disappear.  Being in this house was too painful.  Everywhere she looked she saw reminders of all she’d lost. 

“Have to leave,” she mumbled. 

Tuna put a hand out to stop her.  “You gotta rest, Girl,” she said.  “Come with me.”

“No,” Kitty protested.  “I can’t -”  Her words caught in her throat.  An emptiness the likes of which she’d never experienced filled her.  What was the point anymore?  She had nothing, and there was no way to ever get beyond it.

She looked to Tuna for help, but before she could say another word, she crumpled to the floor and her eyes rolled back in her head.  The world around her went dark, and the last thing she heard was Tuna’s voice calling to her from the abyss.  Like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, she felt herself being pulled to some other place. 

Anything is better than this, she thought. Anything.

“Mom, wake up!  You overslept again!”  David was shaking her. 

Kitty jumped and cried out.  David.  Her mind, her grief was playing tricks on her.  He was gone.   David

She backed against the wall, away from him.  “What?”  she asked, dazed.  Kitty looked around.  Where was Tuna? 

She squeezed her eyes shut tight.  “Wake up, Kitty.  Snap out of it.” 

The memory came rushing back.  She passed out in David’s room, and Tuna must have given her something to sleep.  She wondered if she was still dreaming.  It was also possible that this was the after-effects of the sleeping pills or some hallucination from the poison injected into her veins. 

She opened her eyes to see him standing over her.  “How are you here?”  she asked, her voice so low it was almost a whisper.

“The stairs?”  David shook his head. “Quit joking, Mom.  Raphael will be waiting, and like always, I’ll be late.”  He pulled the covers back.  “Time to get up.  You’re lucky you own your own business!”  He laughed and turned from the room. 

“My own what?”  she called out, but David was already gone.  Kitty sat up in bed, running her hands over the 500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.  She glanced down at the tank top and matching pajama bottoms she wore.  What the hell?  Whose clothes was she wearing?

She slowly rose from the bed, expecting the haze, expecting her head to hurt, expecting something.  But her head was clear, and she’d never felt better. 

When she entered the kitchen, she saw David seated at the kitchen table, a bowl of cereal in front of him.  The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air.  The paper was open, and he was so focused on reading the news that he didn’t notice Kitty enter the room.  She watched him for a moment, taking advantage of his distraction.  He wore dark jeans and a button-down.  The expression on his face was...happy, carefree.  When was the last time she’d seen him look so at peace? 

Never. 

The house was too quiet.  No TBN blaring on the television, no harping from her mother, no yelling.  No sound of any kind.  Just silence.

“David, where’s your grandmother?” Kitty asked.  That must be was why he was so happy; the bitch was nowhere to be seen. 

He looked at her quizzically.  “Uh, Mom, Grandma is at the nursing home.  Same place she’s been for the past year after her fall.”  His eyes narrowed, and he studied her.  “You feeling okay today?  Did you have one too many glasses of wine with Tina last night?”  He smiled.

Tina?  Who the hell is Tina?  “That must be it,” Kitty agreed slowly. 

She still had no idea what was going on, but she figured she’d let this hallucination play itself out.  At least it got her time with her son.  A tear fell as she remembered the accident, saw the van, heard the screeching, the crunching of bones against metal. 

Oh, my God, the blood.  Kitty gasped and put a hand to her mouth. 

“Drink this, you’ll feel better.”  David smirked and pushed a steaming mug of coffee across the table.  He laughed, and she jumped. 

Kitty lowered herself into one of the chairs and raised the mug, hands shaking, to her lips.  For the first time, she noticed the house.  Something wasn’t right; this wasn’t where she lived.  A plush couch, matching chair, and coffee table in the living room.  A wall-mounted flat screen t.v.  The walls painted in rich, deep earth tones.  The kitchen complete with top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances and one of those French door refrigerators.   The entire place looked like the pages of a Pottery Barn catalog she’d seen once.  She blinked a few times.  Where was she?

“You’re acting stranger than normal today, you know,” David said, his head cocked to the side.  “You feeling okay? Maybe I should see if Raphael can just pick me up instead.  I’m sure his parents wouldn’t mind.”

“No, no, I’m fine.  Just a little groggy,” Kitty protested and smiled.  “I think I’ll take a quick shower. Don’t want you to be late for -”  she paused, her eyebrows pinched together.

“School, Mom.”  He set aside the paper and raised his eyebrows. 

“Right, school.” 

Kitty made her way to the second floor of the house, her feet sinking in the plush carpeting.  Waiting for her at the top of the stairs was a small tabby cat.  He seemed to be watching her, almost as if assessing her reactions.   His eyes were focused so intently on her that for a minute Kitty wondered if he was trying to tell her something.

Have you found the answers yet, Kitty?

She bent down to scratch between the cat’s ears.  “Hey, little guy.  Are you mine, too?”

In response, the cat purred and rubbed against her leg.  He remained near her as she walked down the hall toward the bathroom.  Kitty reached for a towel.

“You stay here,” she said to the cat.  Obediently, he sat outside the door.  She shook her head.  “Odd little guy.”

She stepped under the warm water and sighed; it felt like a hundred hands massaging her body.  What kind of business did she own?  She must be doing well, judging by the improvements to her home and the life it seemed she lived.  Kitty rinsed the shampoo - organic - from her hair and lathered herself with some expensive-sounding body wash.  The name on the label caught her eye.

Ga’Ta

Organic Soaps, Lotions, and Body Wash

There were products from the store all over the shower.  Her shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.  All from the same place.  Kitty turned off the water and stepped from the shower.  A lotion on the counter was from the same store.  She seemed slightly obsessed.  And since when would she spend that kind of money on organic body products? 

The cat was still waiting for her when she opened the bathroom door.  He meowed loudly and followed her to the bedroom.  He didn’t enter, just sat by the doorway waiting.  He acted more like a dog than a cat.  He was cute, but she found him to be really strange.

Kitty opened the closet and another gasp escaped her lips.  Row after row of sweaters, shirts, camis, jeans, dress pants, dresses, skirts, shoes, boots, sneakers...more clothing and footwear than she’d ever owned in her lifetime...lined the walls and filled the cubbies of her walk-in closet.  She chose a pair of black jeans, a gray cami, a sweater, and black riding boots.  She quickly pulled her hair up in a ponytail and did her make-up.  All organic, all from the same store.  She wondered if she was getting a bit eccentric, all of these products from a place with a cat-like name, owner of a cat, her own name being Kitty.  When she looked at herself in the mirror, she smiled.  The woman smiling back at her looked polished, professional, and gorgeous.  She hadn’t felt this good about herself since...ever.

“Mom, are you ready?  We should go,”  David called up the stairs. 

“On my way!” Kitty answered.  She looked for her purse, grabbed the Coach bag that hung on the back of a chair in the corner of the room, and almost skipped down the stairs, buoyed by a feeling of elation and a sense that life was finally working out for her.

She found her keys hanging on a rack in the kitchen.  David waited, laptop case slung over his shoulder, texting. 

“Tell Raphael that we’re on our way,” she said, smiling.  The cat had followed her downstairs, and she shooed him with her foot.  “This crazy cat keeps following me.”

“Tequila is all yours, Mom.  He doesn’t like anyone but you.”  He looked up from his phone.  “Wow, you look great.  Jeans, huh?  I guess you’re working in back today?”

I named the cat Tequila.  Tequila Kitty.  She cringed.

“I...am,” she said, hesitantly.  “Busy day ahead.”

David opened the door to the garage and stepped inside.  “So, what’s it going to be today?  Candles, soap, lotion?”

“I haven’t really decided yet,”  Kitty replied, hoping that more conversation would give her an answer to what he was talking about and why seeing her jeans would make him think of candles, soap, or lotion.

“Well, whatever you make, customers will love it.  I’m really proud of you, know that?  I mean, you put yourself through school and started Ga’Ta with Tina.  You guys built it from nothing, and the store is a huge success.  I know it was hard for you, raising me on your own, and I don’t say thank you enough,”  he paused.  “Thanks, Mom.  I love you.”

More tears slid down Kitty’s cheek.  “I love you, too.  Now, quit it before you make me wreck my make-up.”  She nudged him with one elbow. 

He grinned, looking young and beautiful and invincible.   “Can’t have that, now can we?  What would the customers think?” 

She owned the store.  No wonder she had the products all over the house.  And at least now she knew who Tina was - her business partner, and, apparently, a friend with whom she drank wine.

Realizing she had no idea where Raphael lived, in this life or her prior one, Kitty handed the keys to David.  “You know what?  You need the practice driving more than I do.  How about you drive to Raphael’s?”

David’s eyes sparkled.  “Really?  You’re letting me drive the Benz?”  he asked.  “You must not be feeling right today!”

The Benz?  Her world was getting weirder by the second.  A black GLK350 sat in her garage.  Her black GLK350.  Kitty grinned.  She could definitely get used to this life.  David cautiously backed out of the garage and proceeded towards Raphael’s house. 

“So, how are things with Raphael?”  Kitty asked once they were on their way. 

“Good.  Only one or two people know about us; a lot of people are still pretty closed-minded.  But, we’re good,” he answered, shrugging. 

“He treats you right?”  she asked.

“Yeah, he’s great,” David smiled.

“I’m so happy for you, Honey,” she said.  “You deserve nothing but the best.”

We’re going to make you better.  David’s voice, but sadder and sounding so much older than his seventeen years.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said, blushing. 

“Just keep your eyes on the road.  No accidents.”  A chill swept through Kitty’s body.  No accidents. 

David turned onto a quiet, tree-lined side street with one enormous house after another.  The lawns were perfectly manicured, and he pulled into the driveway of a large stone-front mansion and hopped out. 

“I’ll be right back,”  he said.

Kitty watched him jog to the front door and ring the bell.  She scanned the property from the passenger seat.  Raphael came from a very affluent family, and she wondered who he was in the other life, the one she was trying to forget.  Had he been the same then, too, or was this another by-product of whatever she was experiencing?  The door opened and a blonde woman of around forty-five step out, give David a hug, and raise a hand, waving to Kitty.  No one like her ever would have given Kitty the time of day before.  She waved in return. 

A blonde-haired boy walked beside David to the car.  Just by looking at him, Kitty could tell that he was fantastic.  A genuine, compassionate energy seemed to surround him and shine through his eyes.  Tears welled up in hers; finally, her son had the life she’d wanted for him. 

She’d done it right this time around.

“Morning,” Raphael said, sliding into the backseat of the SUV. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Morning, Raphael,” Kitty replied, unable to stop herself from grinning.  “Anytime.” 

David caught her goofy grin and shook his head.  “You’re just being so weird today.”

Kitty listened as the boys talked about a test they had in third period, a movie they wanted to see...plans.  She was sitting beside her son listening to him make plans.  Her mind drifted to another life, one in which he was no longer able to make plans.  Their voices faded into the distance, as she stared out the window. 

“Uh, Mom?”  They were parked on the circle at the high school.

 She blinked and turned to look at him.  “Daydreaming,” she said.  “See you after school.”

“Have fun playing mad scientist today; try not to blow anything up,” David said, reaching for his laptop.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,”  Kitty remarked. 

He laughed and they all climbed out of the vehicle.  Kitty leaned forward on both arms, resting against the roof of the SUV.  She watched the boys walk toward the building, already caught up in another conversation.  As he opened the door to go inside, David turned back and waved.   Kitty raised her hand in response and smiled. 

She got back in and once again realized that she had no idea where she was supposed to go.  She pulled out her cell phone and Googled the address to her shop.  Once she had it in the GPS, she pulled away from the curb and headed in the direction of Ga’Ta.   Kitty had no idea how to do any of the things she supposedly did at work, but she figured she could spend the day wandering through the store, smelling things, selling products to customers.  It beat the way she used to spend her days.

Ga’Ta was beautiful.  Correction - exquisite.  And she’d done all this?  Really. Glass shelving held bottles, tubes, candles, boxes tied with natural raffia ribbon, and various earth-friendly displays.  Kitty shook her head in wonder.  She’d never thought of herself as having the potential to create something so amazing. 

“I should have tried harder,” she said out loud.  She’d allowed her past dictate her present and steal her future. 

She walked behind the counter, running her hand along its length.  Her world had become filled with beauty, success, and joy.  Kitty wondered how long she’d be allowed to stay here; she never wanted to leave. 

The bell on the door rang, and a slender woman with long, brown hair came in bearing two cups from Allegro.  Her smile was radiant, and Kitty guessed that she must be Tina. 

“Caffeine,”  she proclaimed.  She set a large cup on the counter in front of Kitty.  “You’re welcome.” 

“Thanks, Tina.  Just what I needed.”  Kitty began.  She took a sip of what turned out to be some kind of pumpkin latte.  “You ever have one of those days when it feels like you’re living someone else’s life?”

Tina waved a hand through the air.  “Your life is incredible.  The only thing we need to get you is a decent man.”

“Have to agree with you, and don’t get me wrong.  I love the life I woke up to.  Today has just been strange, I guess.”  Kitty sipped her latte.  Strange was a bit of an understatement.

Is everything okay?  It’s not something with David, is it?  He’s a good kid, Kitty.  You’re an awesome mom, and you’ve done a great job with him.”  Tina leaned on the counter. 

“It’s not David.  I’m just in a weird place, I guess.”  Kitty tapped the counter.  “I’ll figure it out.”  She smiled to confirm this to her friend.

Tina eyed her suspiciously.  “Okay, Hun, but if you want to talk, I’m here for you.”

“Thanks,”  Kitty said. 

Customers began coming through the door, and the day got busy fast.  David was right; she had made a success of her career, of herself.  Kitty felt pride surge within her spirit along with something else, something she hadn’t ever let herself feel before...hope. 

After picking up the boys and dropping them off, Kitty decided to go for a walk.  She needed some time to think, clear her head, process through some of the oddness of the past almost-twenty-four hours.  She wandered through the backyard and settled on a bench by the water.  The sun was hanging low in the sky, filling it with shades of pink and gold and purple.  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, soaking in the serenity of the moment.  Tequila jumped onto the bench, startling her.  She allowed the cat to crawl into her lap and stroked his fur. 

“What do you think, Tequila?  Has today been nothing but me going insane?”  she asked.  The cat didn’t answer, just remained on her lap, purring contentedly.  “I mean, yesterday my life was one train wreck after another.  I lost everything that meant anything to me.  I couldn’t see a way out of the corner I’d backed myself into.  And today?  Everything is perfect.  Can I trust it?”

She pulled her legs up onto the bench.  Kitty sighed. 

Was any of this real?  Which of her lives was reality and which was fantasy?

Tequila looked into her eyes.  He stared at her for a long time then meowed. 

Still looking for answers, I see.  What is reality, Kitty?

 
 
Welcome back to the seventh installment of The Adventures of Tequila Kitty. The previous chapters can be found here and on the soon to be launched website.

Chapter Seven was written by my good friend Mike Hancock. A former commercial fisherman and outdoors and wilderness guide, Hancock currently teaches English and writing at Southern New Hampshire University, where he received his MFA in Creative Writing. If Cormac McCarthy, the author of bleak western novels No Country for Old Men and The Road, were to handpick a successor, Hancock's name would be in the running. But don't take my word for it. Read some of his published fiction in Xenith, Red Fez, the front view, and The Tower Journal to see for yourself.

All that said, if you ever drive across Oklahoma with him, be sure to print out directions first.

Picture
Me with Mike Hancock in Eureka Springs, Arkansas
            She opened her clenched fist, a handful of white sand blowing away with the heavy winds. A child’s hands. She stood barefoot on the beach, the wet sand wedged between her toes, staring out at the serene expanse of the Pacific, running wide, azure blue, the sunset reflecting its rays in a highway of gold, the dull rhythmic roar of the tide coming in. She glanced back, and there, perched under a palm tree, was a black cat, its tail curled around its haunches, gazing with yellow eyes. She smiled, and the cat meowed, strolled up to her, rubbed against her skinny leg. She bent down, scratched behind its ears.

            “What’s the answer, Tequila Kitty?” she whispered.

            The cat looked up at her, its eyes intent.


Chapter Seven - Mike Hancock

“Nice story,” Kitty said.

She smiled, the sharp smell of his whisky breath burning her nose, and she fought the urge to sneeze. Least it wasn’t bad breath, or B.O. That shit was the worst. It was usually her luck that the smelly bastards wanted a lap dance during the long ass hair band songs. Jesus.

“Crazy, right? One big fucking epic dream. Couldn’t wait to tell you.”


Weird kid, thought Kitty. Been at the club every weekend night. Couldn’t be more than twenty-one, twenty-two years old. Pale, glasses. Came by himself. Only a few years older than her son, she realized. But he always asked for her. Mommy issues, she thought.

“So why was the cat a guy?” she asked.

His cologne, which Kitty thought he practically bathed in, gave her a headache.

“Dunno. I guess in the dream, I was Sarah the dog.”

He laughed, Kitty pranced around, then straddled him, willed herself not to breathe in the clash of odors. Her hands gripped his bony shoulders, felt the growing bulge in his pants. She wondered if he had ever been laid. In between gyrations, she discreetly checked her watch. Good. Almost closing time.

The song wound down, the deejay’s booming voice thundered through the dim lights.

“And that was Lusty Laura on the stage. Give it up, gentlemen! Lusty Laura!”

A short-haired, petite blonde gave one final twirl, shook her butt, and bounced down the stage stairs, plastic smile, and equally plastic tits. Kitty had hers done, too. She called it “overhead”.

***

She parked the ancient Buick in the gravel driveway, got out, slammed the door shut. Dropping the cigarette butt, she trudged to the rickety front porch, hearing the usual voices on the television. Her mother in her decrepit recliner, her head tilted, mouth ajar, asleep. Kitty turned off the t.v., silencing that goddamn Pat Robertson and all of his “700 Club” minions. Her mother adored him.

In her bedroom, she kicked off her heels, reaching between her mattress, pulled out her gear. Second nature, could do it in her sleep. Shooting up, getting a guy off, all the same. Tourniquet wrapped tight, she crushed, added water, heated, let cool, drew it out with the syringe. There. Oh yes.

Carefully putting everything back, she lay down, tapped the vein, injected.

Euphoric rush, the day flashing briefly, then gone. The kid and his epic, two-song long blabbering about that stupid cat that some dumbass gave her stage name: Tequila Kitty. She couldn’t remember how many shots she had to down bought by the horny fuckers thinking she actually liked tequila.

But all gone now, all the mistakes, her bigot mother, her gay son who kept getting his ass kicked in school, her uninterested boyfriend. Sweet nothingness. She stared up at the ceiling, flat white, blank slate. Nothing mattered now.

***

“Mom.”

The hazy image of her son, David, sharpened as Kitty opened her eyes. Her mouth dry, felt like a cat shit in it. She half-smiled at the irony, grunted.

“Got any cash?”

He leaned against the open door, the long bangs of his thick black hair obscuring one eye. Tight orange t-shirt, belly button exposed, jeans.

“You can’t wear that to school.”

“They can’t tell with my jacket. Money?”

“For?”

He sighed, rolled his eyes.

“Ever hear of Valentine’s Day? My boyfriend expects something, you know. Well, besides other things.”

“Fornicator!”

Well, Mom’s up, Kitty thought.

“In my purse, twenty dollars. That’s it.”

David left, and Kitty groaned as she rose out of bed, noticed the empty syringe still lying on the rumpled sheets. Turned to the dresser mirror. Thin, bloodshot blue eyes reflected back at her through disheveled brown hair. Crow’s feet, lines forming around her mouth. She traced the wrinkles with her finger, and walked to the shower.

***

“What?” Tuna asked.

Kitty put down her cell, blew out a stream of cigarette smoke. She and her best friend, Tuna Tartar, were having lunch in downtown Beaumont, oyster po’boys and fries, oil-stained men in coveralls around them, stealing glances.

“Didn’t call. Didn’t text.”

Tuna peered at her, her chocolate brow furrowed.

“Don’t know why you mess with that fool. Can have any man you want.”

Kitty gazed out the cracked window, pickup trucks whizzing by, the feed store, the looming hardwoods beyond.

“Not any man. Ever want a different life? Be a different person? Somebody that would be in the same league with the man you want?”

Tuna cocked an eyebrow.

“Girl, you trippin’. Ain’t no other Tequila ‘cept you.”

Kitty laughed.

“What better friend can a Kitty have than Tuna?”

“Yeah, but watch out, because mess with me, and I’ll get tart on that ass.”

“Like sucking on a lemon?”

“Tarter, sugar. Like biting into a lime right before a shot of…”

“Tequila!” they said together, giggling at the old joke. Gray-haired men turned, glanced up and down, back to their food.

***

Back at the house, Kitty sat on her bed, gazed at the empty screen of her phone.

“Fuck it,” she whispered, and dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“Misael, it’s Kitty.”

“Hey you. Just finished a video conference, en route to a two o’clock meeting with a client. What’s up?”

She inhaled deep.

“Just wanted to hear your voice. And wish you a happy Valentine.”

A pause.

“Damn. Yes. I for…what? Okay, yeah.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry. My partner just reminded me about a phone call I need to make. Listen, babe, can I call you back?”

“Sure.”

***           

Another mix, heated up, injected. Blissful burn. Kitty walked outside, careful not to wake her napping mother, went around to the back, came to the edge of the hardwoods that lined the creek, the oaks, the elms, the magnolias. She wore jeans, but her sandaled feet were tickled by the thick grasses, the bluestems, the needlegrasses. Following a narrow game trail, she made her way to the water, just a meandering trickle over sandy bottoms, crowded narrow with the vegetation.

Finding a soft cluster of bunch grasses near the bank, she sat, lay back, the hardwoods on either side of the creek forming the sky into a wide, cobalt blue road, spotted with cotton clouds. Kitty gazed up at the spectacle, hands behind her head, imagined floating through the cool air above the tops of tallest oaks, high enough to see the vast expanse of the gulf waters to the east, and the miles of dense forest to the west.

“Mom?”

Kitty laughed. David made his way through the grass, holding a ziplock bag of crackers and a water bottle, plopped down next to her.

“At your place again. Now what?” he said.

“What nothing, my love, what nothing.”

David brought his knees to his chest, stuck a stem of grass between his teeth, stared at the slow-moving water.

“You got to get off that shit, Mom. I’m not going to always be around, you know?”

“I will, baby. Just need it to get through some stuff. I will.”

“No, I mean now. It’s been close to six months since you started. The drinking and weed was bad enough. Tired of protecting your ass.”

Kitty turned to him.

“Protect?”

“From grandma. You left your shit out in the open bunches of times. How do you think it gets back under the mattress?”

He spat out the grass stem.

“Here. You need this.”

Taking the water bottle, he gently brought her head up, held the edge to her lips. Kitty sipped gingerly, her eyes cast away from him.

“We’re going to sit you all the way up, okay?”

“Don’t want to.”

“Have to, Mom. You need to eat something.”

She turned to him, placed her hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, David. So sorry.”

He brought her upright, handed her the crackers, stared at the ground.

“It’s okay. I want you to get better, that’s all.”

Kitty began sobbing, tears dripping from her cheeks, sprinkling on the blades of grass.

“You’re not going to leave me. Can’t leave me.”

“Not until I get out of high school. But I’ll be back to visit.”

“I need you.”

David sighed, kept his eyes lowered.

“Eat your crackers, Mom. Then we’re going back inside.”


***

They hiked back, David holding Kitty steady, telling her to step over the occasional exposed root, half-submerged rock, guiding her around the low-hanging limbs. Reaching the front porch, he opened the door. His grandmother sat in her chair, the television blaring. She lifted the remote, turned down the volume.

“Kitty, what the hell happened to you?”

“Not now, Grandma. She’s having a bad day, that’s all.”

She took off her glasses, wrinkled face scowling.

“Bad day my ass. She’s drunk, or on something.”

“Leave her alone. Go back to your religious shows and cheer for the murdered gay people in Uganda,” David said.

“What they get for sinning. They want to go against natu…”

David stopped, quickly turned to her.

“Shut the fuck up, you stupid old bitch.”

Grandma gasped, her mouth tightened. Realizing she still had the remote in her hand, she hurled it at him, the remote glancing off his shoulder, hitting Kitty in the mouth. She let out a cry and ran to her room, slammed the door.

“It’s my goddamn house, you little faggot!”

David turned away, walked back to his room.

“Why don’t you just die, and take your ignorant shit with you,” he said, closing the door.

Grandma got up, ambled over to the remote lying on the floor, grunted as she stooped to pick it up.

In her room, Kitty lay on her bed, face buried in her pillow. She thought of David’s father, out of his life for sixteen out of his seventeen years, god knows where now. Dead or in prison, probably, while he was around dishing out beatings in between gulps of whiskey and sporadic employment. David, for years having to deal with one guy after the next. And then Misael, beautiful, kind Misael. The first white-collar man David had ever been around, Misael accepted him without prejudice, spending time with him, taking him shopping, out for pizza. First man that really paid attention to him.

Kitty tried for weeks to keep where she worked a secret after meeting him in a chance grocery store encounter, telling him she was a waitress. After repeated requests that he visit her there, last week she finally relented and told him the truth. And now, the distance, the stifled emotion, the invisible wall.

He’s as good as gone.

So do something else, dumbass.

With what skills? Where else can I make that kind of money? Mom’s social security doesn’t cover shit. No. Gotta make sure David has what he needs. Because I need him.

You need him? How normal is that, bitch?

After a few minutes, she closed her eyes, fell asleep.

She opened her clenched fist, a handful of white sand blowing away with the heavy winds. A child’s hands. She stood barefoot on the beach, the wet sand wedged between her toes, staring out at the serene expanse of the Pacific, running wide, azure blue, the sunset reflecting its rays in a highway of gold, the dull rhythmic roar of the tide coming in. She glanced back, and there, perched under a palm tree, was a black cat, its tail curled around its haunches, gazing with yellow eyes. She smiled, and the cat meowed, strolled up to her, rubbed against her skinny leg. She bent down, scratched behind its ears.

“What’s the answer, Tequila Kitty?” she whispered.

The cat looked up at her, its eyes intent.


“This isn’t your life,” it said. “Go find it.”

“How do I…”

“Mom.”

Kitty opened her eyes, momentarily dazed.

“Huh?”

“I told Rafael that I’d meet him at the movies. We’re going to see Spiderman, and oh my god, Andrew Garfield. Know him?”

She lay there sideways facing him, her hair strewn over her cheek.

“Yes, David. I’m not blind yet.”

He smiled, his eyes dancing.

“So beautiful. That hair. That body.”

She slid her legs from under the blanket, put her feet on the floor, rubbed her eyes, yawned.

“Awkward. Tell me about your boyfriend, sweetie. We’ve never really talked about him. How long have you two been dating?”

He sat on the bed next to her.

“Couple of weeks. Sixteen days, actually. We try to be cool about it at school. Nobody knows except my best friend Janell, and she won’t tell anybody.”

“Rafael. Cute name.”

“I know, right? He’s got dark hair like ours, about 5’8, broad shoulders, but not muscle-ly, you know? Gorgeous brown eyes.”

Kitty got up, put on jeans, high-heels.

“What kind of guy is he, shy or no?”

“Oh my god yes. He kind of gets annoyed with my rants.”

“Tell him to join the club.”

“Whatever. But he’s into the political thing like I am. And tumblr. My man has to love tumblr.”

Kitty glanced at the mirror, put her hair up in a ponytail, faced him.

“Well, all right, you little shit, you ready?”

“Of course.”

She grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder.

“Hey,” she said. “I’m proud of you. And I want you to be happy. Always.”

David grinned, stared at the floor.

“I know, Mom.”

***

She drove the Buick quietly through town, past the mall, grocery and hardware stores, café. David had his finger to his lips, thinking. He finally turned to her.

“Hey Mom, you said you need that shit to get through some stuff. What stuff?”

Kitty stared at the road ahead, sporadic cars and trucks chugging by. She took a long drag on her cigarette, exhaled slowly.

“Told you about me growing up, remember?”

“Yeah. It sucked. Said your dad killed himself.”

A pause.

“Can’t blame the guy, being married to the wench.”

“C’mon, David. A little disrespectful. She IS my mo…”

“Who hates your son.”

“I don’t think she hates you. She just comes from a different time, you know? Can’t understand that you didn’t have a choice.”

He shrugged his shoulders, gazed out the window.

“But that’s beside the point,” she said. “I never told you how he did it.”

He turned to her, an eyebrow raised.

“Well?”

She sighed, another drag, stubbed the butt out in the ashtray.

“I was in high school, not too long before I got pregnant with you. It was at night. Dad had been drinking, of course. Through the walls I heard them get into it. Mom’s yelling something about him sneaking around on her. Could hear him tell her it was bullshit. Usual stuff. I just turned up the radio, like always.”

“Let me guess, Bon Jovi, right?”

“You gonna shut up and let me finish? And piss off, not that old.”

“Okay, okay.”

“They’re going back and forth, and I hear him say ‘No you’re not’, then I heard what sounded like a light bulb breaking, a little pop, and then a scream.”

Kitty turned off the main drag, onto the two lane.


“Should’ve never left my room,” she said.

David sat, wide-eyed, arms crossed. The overcast skies turning to an angry gray, thick droplets of rain began to pelt the Buick. David quickly rolled his window up.

“So what happened then?”

“I ran downstairs, and there was my father, slumped over the kitchen table. Blood on the walls, all over the table. Saw the pistol lying on the floor next to him.”

“Jesus,” David said. “Why did he do it?”

Kitty gulped, cleared her throat. Should I be telling him this now? Is he old enough? Screw it. He deserves the truth. And you started the damn story, might as well finish it.

“Your grandfather was touching me, David. In a bad way. I never spoke with your grandma about it, hell, she wouldn’t talk about it, but that night I think she threatened to turn him in to the police.”

“Mom, I’m sorry.”

“So that’s it. Guess it’ll be with me forever.”

Kitty pulled into the theatre parking lot, parked.

“There’s other ways of dealing with it, you know,” he said. “We’re going to make you better.”

“Okay, sugar. Now get that out of your head, and go have some fun with Rafael. I love you.”

“Thanks, Mom. Love you, too.”

David quickly got out of the car, slammed the heavy door. Kitty watched him dart across the lot, behind the dozens of parked cars and trucks, shielding his head from the pouring rain.

He didn’t see the van coming.

Kitty burst out of her car.

“David!”

It hit him head-on, David flying forward, crashing into the concrete, a crumpled figure. The van stopped, a group of teenagers got out, rushed toward him.

Kitty sprinted toward the small group gathered around. Felt like she was watching all of this from above, like she was somebody else, no feeling, no thought. Numb. She tried to scream, tried to wail, but there was nothing.


She shoved past the cluster of kids, saw the blood welling up, the rain carrying it away. David, curled up, one leg twisted, his head split open.

“911! Call 911!,” she heard from somewhere far off.

Kitty fell to her knees. The world around her spinning, the gray clouds, the red concrete merging, all the people hazy, distant voices, hands on her arms, trying to lift her up.

And she fainted.

Head raging, Kitty half-opened her eyes to the searing sunlight. Bad dream. Just a bad dream. The events from yesterday, sirens screaming, the paramedics placing him on the stretcher, she riding with them as they sped toward the hospital. And later, the words she knew was coming from the start from the doctor: He was pronounced dead at…

“Bullshit. Bullshit, David.”

She jumped out of bed, threw open her door, stormed down the hall to his room.

“Quit fucking with me!”

Opening the door, she inspected the room. Empty. Unmade bed. Rumpled jeans on the floor. A sock. Posters adorning the walls, a laptop still on, tumblr on the screen. Like someone swung a bat at her stomach, all the air gone. She picked up the sock, lay on his bed, cradled it to her face, sobbed.

Voices through the walls. Her mother talking to somebody. The voices getting heated. Drumming footsteps, louder. The door opened.

Tuna didn’t speak. She walked over to the bed, got in, curled up next to her, slid her caramel arm around Kitty’s waist.

“I love you, my sweet angel,” she whispered. “I’m staying with you through this. And after, we’re heading west. Getting you out of here, Miss Kitty.”

Kitty held Tuna’s arm, thought back to the dream the day before while David sat in class, his whole life ahead of him. She was a little girl, staring at the ocean’s horizon, a cat by her side, with all the knowledge to take away the problems of the world, to make her whole again.

So what’s the answer, Tequila Kitty?

 
 
Welcome to the long overdue continuation of The Adventures of Tequila Kitty. Last we saw, Tequila had used up yet another of his nine lives. Those just tuning in to our chronicles can start here for the first chapter by Christopher Chik. (Chapter Two by Aimee Hamel; Chapter Three - Brian Lepire; Chapter 4 - Darren Cormier; Chapter 5 - Bill Gullo, aka "Balloon Hands").

Jon Stern is an adjunct instructor of English at Porterville College. He recently received his MFA in Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University and is one of the contributing writers/humorists to the new blog/website Three Guys and a Keyboard.  His fiction can be found at 101words.org, as well as at many, many publications yet to come. (We will also forgive him his lifelong affinity for the NY Giants.)

“Well, no…I don’t know,” Tequila said.  “Besides, you’re a dog and I am a cat.

“I know, but love is never easy.”


******

Chapter Six

It had been a month since Sarah, a free-minded Siberian husky, had rescued Tequila Kitty from the grips of death. 

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” Sarah asked.

“I have no choice,” Tequila said.  “I have to find my brother, Diablo, and warn him about Shasta.”

“But I thought Diablo tried to kill Shasta.”

“Yes, he did, well, he thought I had lost my mind,” Tequila said.

“I don’t understand.”

“I told you that we robbed a Petco truck.”

“Yeah, you said your brother and you wanted to distribute the cat food to all the needy cats in the city,” Sarah said with a grin, “feline Robin Hoods.”

“The H.K. Gang has the city under lockdown, and we wanted to do something,” Tequila said.

“The H.K. Gang?”

“Yeah, the Hello Kitty Gang, they’re out of Japan, but that isn’t the point.  The point is that it wasn’t our idea, it was Shasta’s.”

“I’m not following,” Sarah said.

“It’s simple.  Diablo and Sarah came to me with the idea of robbing Petco’s truck.  Once a month, a big semi comes to the city and delivers food to all the Petcos, but no one knows what day or what truck.”

“Because they are afraid that someone will rob it?”

“Exactly.”

“So this gang control’s the food and the catnip?” Shasta asked.  “What is catnip?”

“Catnip is a treat that humans give cats,” Tequila said. “It makes us playful and hungry so we eat more, but it isn’t addictive.”

“I think I understand.”

“Anyway, the gang developed synthetic catnip that is highly addictive, but also speeds up our metabolism.”

“So you have a city full of fucked up cats that can’t stop eating?”

“And there is no way Petco. can keep up with the demand for food, especially if the gang is robbing the food.  Hence, you have a black-market that is created for catnip and food.”

“It’s ingenious,” Sarah said.

“Yeah, it is.”

“So how did you find out?”

“I was suspicious of Shasta,” Tequila said.  “Diablo and I have always tried to provide for the needy.  It is sad, but there are so many kitty’s without families.  Most of them are homeless and don’t even know who their father’s are, so we try to help out anyway we can.”

“So what does Shasta have to do with all this?”

“That’s it,” Tequila said.  “I have never met her before and Diablo never talked about her, but she knew everything.  What truck had the food and each stop along it route.  It was too good.”

“And when it is too good…”

“Then you know something is wrong,” Tequila said, “and I was on guard.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shasta told us the truck always stops to get fuel, and then the driver goes inside to be breakfast.  And as sure as I’m standing here, that is what happened.”

“So you broke into the truck?” Sarah asked.

“Yes, we broke into the truck and gave the goods to the Dog Pound Gang.”

“Who’s the Dog Pound Gang?”

“A bunch of stray dogs we have been doing business with for years.  We steal what we need, and they help us bring the goods where ever we want it,” Tequila said.  “You would be amazed what a dog would do for some rawhide and a few tennis balls – no offense.”

“None taken… I loved rawhide and a brand new balls – love the way they smell.”

“Anyway, as we are unloading the truck, one of the boxes fell, and some of the bags of food spilled out.  One of the bags split open, but it wasn’t food that spilled out, but catnip.”

“Catnip?”

“Catnip, but not the catnip you can buy in stores.  It was the synthetic catnip.”

“So did you tell Diablo?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It wasn’t the right time, and to be honest, I didn’t know if Diablo was in on it.  So, I took some of the catnip and we continued as planned.

“We meet the dogs at the rendezvous point and gave them their payment.”

“But this doesn’t explain what happened to you?”

“This is where it gets interesting,” Tequila said.  “Once the dogs left, we were talking about our next move.  I had some of the catnip, and I wanted to talk to my brother, but I needed to get him alone – I didn’t trust Shasta – and was looking for the right time.  That is when I thought I heard something.”

“What did you hear?”

“Rustling right behind my brother and Shasta.”

“What did you do?”

“I started moving towards the noise, and my brother and Shasta,” Tequila said. “Diablo had his back to me and as I got closer to Shasta she smiled.”

“Smiled?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t a smile like I’m happy to see your or look what we accomplished, but a smile that sent a shiver down my spine.”

“So what did you do?”

“There was nothing I could do.  She smiled, then screamed for Diablo and threw herself to the ground crying saying ‘Tequila, stop! Don’t hurt me – and that is when I saw them.”

“Who.  Who did you see?”

“Tomcats.”

“Tomcats?”

“Yes Tomcats.  They are the scum of the cat world and made up of feral cats that have no family and no loyalty except to the highest bidder.”

“Then what happened.”

“I don’t know.  All I remember is seeing Diablo standing over me and the next thing I know you woke me up.”

“You don’t think Diablo did this to you, do you?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter whether he did or not because I know my brother and there is no way he knew about the catnip.  Even if he did do this to me, he was protecting Shasta, and is in trouble; and if he didn’t do this to me and it was those Tomcats, then he needs me and he is in trouble.  Either way, I have to go and help.”

“Then I am going to go with you,” Sarah said.

“No, you can’t.”

“Why?  Because I am just some rawhide eating, ball chasing country dog that can’t handle herself.” Sarah turned her back on Tequila Kitty.

“It’s not that,” Tequila said.

“Then what is it?” Sarah said with her back still turned.

Tequila didn’t know what to say or do, but stared at her hindquarters.  My God, she has such strong legs…and her tail…so fluffy and firm, he thought to himself.  “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said.

“Happen to me,” she said turning to face him.  “I can handle myself – I saved you, didn’t I?”

“But this isn’t like chasing a rabbit in the fields,” Tequila said.  “The Hello Kitty Gang doesn’t mess around.  They have a superiority complex that goes back to Egypt when humans would worship them as gods.  And the Tomcats have no soul…they don’t value anything but their survival and if anything happened to you, I don’t know what I would do because…” Tequila turned around so he couldn’t face Sarah.  Not because he was afraid of her, or hurting her feelings, but because he didn’t want to see her reaction.  “Because I love you.”

“You what!”

“I love you!” he said again.  “I said it.  I love you.”

Tequila turned around slowly to face Sarah.  “I love you too,” she said.

Tequila felt at ease, for just a moment. “But we can’t act on this…and if something happened to you...”

“And if something happened to you I should be okay with that too,” Sarah said.

“Well, no…I don’t know,” Tequila said.  “Besides, you’re a dog and I am a cat.

“I know, but love is never easy.”

Tequila walked over to Sarah and rubbed his nose under her chin.  “What are we going to do?” he asked, purring.

“I don’t know.  Get a stepstool?” she said.  They both laughed.

“Well, if you are going to go with me then you need to do what I say when I say,” Tequila said, “because you won’t be in Kansas anymore.”

“I will do whatever you tell me to,” Sarah said.  “I just want to be with you.”

“Fine, then we will leave in the morning.”

They both walked into the barn, and closed the door. 
 
 
Hello all,

Let me take a moment to thank everyone, first and foremost the writers who participated in the making of Tequila Kitty, for taking such an interest and for following along the convoluted, sometimes non-sequential adventures of our four-legged, sombrero-wearing, tequila-swilling friend.

That said, I owe everyone an apology for unceremoniously dropping the ball, er, bottle (probably many bottles at this point) in posting the chronicles of our feline friend Tequila. I could give many reasons, but they would all be excuses, and there are no excuses that can be made. I have not lived up to my responsibilities in posting each chapter on a weekly basis. And, I also erred disastrously in not deputizing one of the many extremely talented, more responsible, and patient writers involved in the project to post the chapters weekly in the case of my grave negligence. To everyone involved, I can only apologize for not getting your words out fast enough and to as much of the reading world as they deserve. And to those who have been following the project, I can also apologize for the same reasons: for not getting the words of the talented writers who gave a lot of time to this project out to you for your enjoyment.


I am taking this as an opportunity, however, to get the series back on track and posted on a weekly basis, and to win back the loyalty of those who had started to follow the series. This will be an ongoing effort and it will start today with the posting of Chapter Six by my talented friend Jon Stern. As mentioned already, too many writers gave too much of their time, talent, and energies to this project to let it die at my irresponsible hands.

I am grateful to everyone's patience and their involvement in this project. I can only hope to win back the initial trust you all showed in my by becoming involved by living up to my end and getting this story and your words out to the public in a timely manner.

With many apologies,

Darren Cormier

 
 


Tequila Kitty: Chapter 5

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. “
                                                        ~ Friedrich Nietzsche


The Beginning

That smell; that wonderful, intoxicating aroma was still on the tips of his whiskers.

As Tequila Kitty looked into the abyss of darkness floating high above his head, he wondered. He wondered if he was alive or dead. He wondered if there was an afterlife. He wondered if there was in fact an afterlife, would he be welcomed into its warm, heavenly glow. He wondered if he was alive where exactly he was. California? Mexico? Kansas?

This abyss; why did darkness have to be so dark? Could dark be light? Could something so black actually be white? Who thought of calling the darkness, dark? Could this abyss contain both light and dark? Why was there white in this abyss?

And as these alcohol infused thoughts swirled around the mind of Tequila Kitty a shooting star passed across his line of vision, and with it a shower of stars, as bright as the heavens Tequila Kitty envisioned above, began to explode into sight. Was this death and its glorious transition into the afterlife? How come no one ever mentioned the stinging, wet sensation one feels in their feet? How come no one mentioned the dog? Was this some kind of cruel, sick joke that the gods above play on those that are meant for eternal damnation?

Really funny, God!  Tequila’s mind raced with anger.

Have a dog drag a cat into the flames of hell, oh how creative and original! Fuck you, God!

“You’re alive”…

Wait, what?

“I can’t believe you’re alive”

Tequila Kitty blinked his eyes and with that came into crystal clear vision a dog; a rather large dog to be exact. A giant black and grey Siberian husky now towered over the body of Tequila Kitty, and as its menacing face inched closer and closer to the twitching whiskers of Tequila, he sighed in exhaustion at the moment of clarity that blinded his eyes. 

It all made sense now. The dark abyss above, the shower of exploding lights high above his head, the massive beast from hell about to devour every inch of his body, that smell. He knew it meant he was alive. It meant that he was still a part of this world, and about to be devoured into hell, but at this particular moment they were both the same thing.

Just kill me…

As the beasts piercing blue eyes descended upon Tequila its mouth opened to reveal what looked like thousands of sharp, jagged instruments of death. And just as Tequila braced, in complete acceptance and willing sacrifice to the afterlife, a giant, slobbering, and disgusting tongue scraped across his cheek?

This is hell…

“I seriously can’t believe you’re alive! Oh wow! I saved you! I actually saved you! I didn’t think I was going to be able to do anything, and it’s quite possible I didn’t do anything, but you don’t know that and I don’t know that…so I saved you! Hi, I’m Sarah. You should be more careful! I was just walking through the woods when I picked up a peculiar smell, and I thought to myself “Sarah, you better go and check that out, someone could be in trouble, and you’ll need to be the one that helps them all the way out here!”

Sarah continued to lick Tequila with a passion that he found refreshingly welcoming, but increasingly annoying.

Yea, this is definitely hell thought Tequila.

Why did it have to be a dog? What is she even talking about? And for the love of god why is she talking so fast!

“You’re in bad shape, but you should be O.K…. I think.” Sarah continued to talk. “You lost a lot of blood though that’s for sure. I found this note lying next to you on the ground, I didn’t read it of course, but you should know I found it!”

Note? Tequila felt a pain race through his spine creating an electric current that awoke every bone, muscle, nerve and cell in his body to the unrelenting pain that now engulfed each of them. He had hoped it was a dream. He was hoping it was a terrible nightmare, the kind that only haunts the dreams of children who believe in such things as devils, ghosts and demons.

“What happened to you? Where did you come from? I need to find something to wrap that leg in, or what’s left of it. Oh, where are my bed side manners? I shouldn’t have said that. Your leg is just fine” Sarah continued to ramble at an unflinching pace for what seemed, to Tequila, for hours. His mind was somewhere else. Somewhere far away from the horrific reality that was trying to set in. He knew that if he had managed to hold onto the note then certainly he had been able to hold onto the one other thing he held near to his heart.

As Sarah continued to rant and ramble about the condition of Tequila Kitty’s mangled body, particular smells, pools of blood and broken bones, Tequila slowly turned over. Tequila heard every rib in his chest creak and crack as he rolled over onto his side. Sarah was right. There was a lot of blood, his legs were badly mangled, and his body was ravaged with deep cuts, fractured bones and gaping holes where soft, yellow fur should be.

“You shouldn’t move!” yelled Sarah. “There’s an emergency animal hospital about a mile away. I’ll take you there. My owner use to take me there, well before I ran away. Anyways, they have just the most delightful doctor there. His name is James, or Jeff, or Robert, or something along those lines, but he always makes me feel better. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you as well! I always see your type in and out of there. I like to bark at them and scare them on purpose just to make me laugh, but don’t tell them that.”…

Tequila couldn’t decide what was worse: the blistering pain of his newly diagnosed wounds and the unfolding horror of the reality that was slowly starting to settle in, or the yammering of a dog that wouldn’t just shut the fuck up and help him, or at least let him die in peace. I guess it really didn’t matter because at this point Tequila knew he was dead. Even if this dog could manage to get him to safety, let alone alive, he knew he would still have to live with his nightmare; a nightmare that was quickly becoming worse than the growing pain in his body.

His eyes slowly surveyed his left arm, or what use to look like his left arm. He slowly ran his eyes through the carnage of shattered bone, bloody fur and up to his beaten and bruised paw, but there in all its glowing beauty, still attached to his gripping, limp paw was his best friend, his worst enemy and the fuel he had always needed to spark the rage, passion and energy throughout his life. The note may have brought Tequila Kitty back to the realities and horror that lay before him, but this beloved item would certainly take him back into the abyss. A place where in the deepest echoes of his soul, he knew he belonged.

With every ounce of strength he had left, Tequila lifted the bottle of Tequila off the ground, to his lips and passed away back into the abyss as Sarah leaned over whimpering something he could no longer understand. His mind drifted towards the beach, towards that note, towards Diablo, and especially towards that smell that still lingered on his whiskers.

That smell…

The Middle

“Welcome, Tequila!”

A voice boomed over the roar of the crowded marketplace where Tequila stood. Holding onto a suitcase, his favorite bottle of imported Tequila and wearing a large sombrero, Tequila quickly tipped his sunglasses away from his eyes to scan the crowd for the location of the voice. Tequila knew that voice like it was his own. He’d heard it since the day he was born. His oldest brother Diablo suddenly appeared out of nowhere and embraced Tequila.

“Tequila you look fantastic! I see those city folk in Los Angeles have treated you well. I pray they won’t miss you for too long.”

Tequila dropped his suitcase, but never the bottle and embraced his brother back; Tequila’s black suitcase disappearing into the black fur that covered his brother.  It had been ages, or probably months, since he’d last seen his brother. Separated shortly after birth to different humans in different locations, they had made a pact to find one another in this life or the next no matter the cost. Through an elaborate set of trail markings, hidden messages and some dumb luck they were able to find one another within two years of their separation.

Tequila, a natural outdoor cat, would disappear for up to five days at a time. Three days to traverse the unknown land around him and two to travel back to his city life in Los Angeles. Each trip he would travel farther out into the unknown, often dangerous lands, only returning when his supplies would run low.  One day Tequila discovered a marking left by Diablo, using the same system they rehearsed as kittens at a young age. Within two more trips they had reunited. Tequila would now disappear for up to a week at a time, traversing a laid out course from the Hollywood hills of Los Angeles, south to the beaches of San Diego.

“Come, come my brother. We have many things to discuss. There is someone I want you to meet!”

Diablo led Tequila through a maze of humans, intoxicating aromas, vibrant colors and a whirlwind of foods, stray cats, rats and trash until they arrived at their destination. A towering hotel that overlooked the San Diego Bay, the Coronado Bridge, and the tall navy ships that spanned across the horizon.

“Unfortunately, Tequila, we don’t share the same luxuries as our human counterparts do. We’ll be staying in the sewer drain below the hotel, but I’m sure you’ll find the space to be quite comfortable.” Diablo’s voice trailed off as he entered into the open sewer drain. Tequila knew he lived a prized life with his current owner. He had a home, a warm bed, plenty of wet food, and an owner who shared his passion for the tequila bottle.

Diablo had been alone now for quite some time. His owner left him behind after she had to flee the country because, as Diablo described it, she was “some sort of alien invader from another country”…

Since then Diablo had made a pretty good life for himself. The proud leader of the Nips, a pack of cats that primarily dealt with the stealing, or as they so eloquently put it “the redistribution of rights” of human produced cat food. They would heist the trucks that were being unloaded into local stores. Using a rather archaic method, the pack would “run interference” by distracting the dock workers while Diablo and a fellow pack member would sneak into the open truck, pry open the shrink wrap packaging, and haul bag after bag of food off the truck and drop it into the sewer drains, where down below more pack members had rigged netting. They would take the bags back to the hideout below the towering hotel and distribute it to stray cats from San Diego to as far as a place called Tijuana.

This lifestyle had not only made Diablo a very wealthy, respected, and god like figure in the feline community of southern California, but also a sworn enemy of the Pet Control Department of San Diego, and the large faction of cats that followed the AristoCats party. A party dedicated to the domestication of all cats that followed the rules laid out by the superior race of humans. Tequila never bothered to follow politics; he loved his brother therefore he loved his brother’s cause even though he tried to distance himself from it.

Tequila found himself getting lost in the flowing waves of the bay water slamming into the cement barricade below the sewer entrance where Diablo had descended into. As he took a moment to take in the beauty of the architecture, smells, warmth, and sounds buzzing around him he felt a sudden sharp pain growing in his left arm…  

***

“Wake up! Don’t die on me!”

Tequila’s eyes slowly opened to see Sarah dragging him, by the arm, on to a large plank of wood.

Where the hell did she get this piece of wood? Where Am I? And why is she dragging me by my dislocated arm!

Tequila lifted his head as far as his neck and muscles would allow him. He could see the pools of blood around him getting darker and thicker. He didn’t notice the blood as much as he noticed the excitement on Sarah’s face when she saw him lift his head.

“You’re still alive! Yes! You’re eyes are really glazed over, you should lie back down, but don’t close your eyes. I remember this one time when I ate one of my owners glazed donuts. He got really mad, and yelled at me. I got sick that same night and threw up all over him and his bed.”

Tequila stared blankly at Sarah’s face as she continued to recount why, how, and when she ran away from home. Tequila couldn’t have cared less. He watched Sarah pick up a piece of string in her mouth and as she pulled on it Tequila felt the ground below him spring to life.  Gazing into the moving stars above him he once again lifted the arm that still gripped the bottle of tequila, pressed it to his lips, and fell once again into the abyss…  

***

“Tequila, I want you to meet Noel” Diablo proudly proclaimed as he ushered his hand towards a red and white female cat that met them at the entrance to the hideout. “Noel, I want you to meet my closest friend, the cat’s whose same blood runs through my own, I want you to meet my brother, Tequila. Tequila, I want you to meet the love of my life; the one who gives meaning to my soul.”   

And at that moment Tequila was lost. Lost from thoughts, space, time, reality, and especially words. She was the prettiest thing Tequila had ever laid eyes on. He knew he was staring into the eyes of a red and white angel, her white layers a glowing beacon of hope, happiness and life. Her red layers setting the essence of Tequila’s soul on fire.  

“Don’t be shy Tequila, she doesn’t bite” Diablo said as he grasped Tequila’s paw and placed it in Noels already outreached paw. The electricity of the touch ushered in a wild river of emotions that sparked not only the eyes of Tequila, but to his surprise the eyes of Noel. And once the rush of energy filtered out of his body, he finally noticed it. He noticed the smell that radiated off her as if her aura had a natural perfume. He wished deep down to never lose that smell on the tips of his whiskers.

For the rest of the night Tequila would continue to steal glances of Noel as she did everything from help redistribute cat food to stray cats, serve the Nips their nightly feast, lick the face and neck of his brother Diablo, and participate in the “pre-heist” meeting by mapping out the location of the trucks and dock workers using old chicken bones and scraps of fast food paper. He felt alive every time she would steal a glance back. Tequila knew she felt it too; this current, this electric flow of radiating tension that filled the space between them.

He pictured the scene that would unfold if someone were to light a match in the room. He pictured the open flame connecting with the propane fueled tension causing the room to erupt into a million pieces of his heart.     

“Tequila, you’ll be with me”. Diablo’s voice snapped him back into reality and far away from the images dancing around his head. He quickly blinked his eyes to notice that not only was Noel staring at him, but also Diablo and the entire Nips pack. Tequila quickly nodded his head in agreement while also mustering up a fake smile at the same time.

He knew that on this particular trip to visit his brother he was going to participate in one of their famous heists. The last one, according to his brother, had a couple of hiccups that cost the pack a member. They were short and Tequila offered his service in an act of brotherly kindness that he knew Diablo would have done for him if needed. However, His mind was now somewhere else.

Lost in the smell and beauty of the angel that was now walking towards him…

Noel, he thought, such a breathtaking name.

“How did you get your name” Tequila whispered to her as she slowly walked by and passed along a note as the other members of the pack slowly faded from the meeting that had just ended.

“I was given to my original owners on Christmas day” her voice echoed in his head.

You truly are an angel, he thought to himself, as she faded out of view; her smell still lingering on the tips of his whiskers.

Tequila couldn’t contain the joy building up in him as he quickly opened the note and read the words… 

***

“I thought I told you to not close your eyes! How am I supposed to save you if you don’t listen to me?”

This fucking dog, Tequila thought, as he once again awoke from the dreams that filled the abyss between his life and his death.

Could they even be called dreams? The imaginary line between reality and the memories that echoed in and out of Tequila’s bloodied, battered and bruised body were starting to fade and intertwine together. His conscious continued to race with incoherent thoughts and images as his mind slowly tried to grip on to the last remaining moments of his life.

“The note” Tequila whispered to Sarah as she hovered over him continuing to lick his wounds. “I need the note”.

Sarah stumbled backwards muttering something under her breath before she reappeared into Tequila’s line of sight gripping the blood soaked note between her teeth. As Sarah lowered the note towards Tequila, Tequila heard a loud crash, a ferocious whimper from Sarah, and what felt like the weight of the entire world collapse on him. The impact of Sarah’s body onto Tequila’s caused the note to release from her mouth and float high into the air. Tequila’s glazed, dead eyes locked onto it.

Gone was the crushing sensation of the dog laid across his limp body. Gone was the stinging sensation of his ruptured muscles, tendons, and broken bones. Gone was the imaginary line between his dreams and reality, and gone was the need to still grip his trusty bottle of Tequila. The only thing that Tequila could focus on was the note softly starting to fall back to the Earth.

As Tequila reached his paw towards the heavens, towards the note, and towards whatever afterlife awaited him; all of his pain and all of the nightmares of his reality came crashing back down on him as he saw another paw intercept the note just inches away from his outstretched arm.

“Poor Tequila” he heard a voice proclaim. “Look how far we have come, my brother. How many more people do you intend to kill today?”  

The End of the Middle


Tequila watched the wave’s crash onto the waiting sand as he gazed out into the abyss of the night. His head pounding in perfect rhythm with his heart as his head raced with what was about to happen.

This was crazy, he thought to himself. This was right.  

“Hello, Tequila” he heard the voice of an angel whisper to him. As he turned around he was met, instantly, by noel jumping into his arms. The electricity, the shockwaves, the permanent ripples in his beating heart caused it to skip a couple beats and bring Tequila to his knees with Noel still gripping on to him tightly.

This is my heaven, this is my angel, Tequila thought. This is my forever

The note was simple. The plan was simple. Tequila knew it meant he would never see his brother again. He knew it meant he would need to leave his current owner; for fear that his brother’s “brothers” would hunt for him. He knew that they would need to run, plot out a new life, in a new location with new pathways, smells and human patterns to memorize. He also knew that he was moments away from becoming the happiest feline in the world. 

“Did you read it” Noel asked Tequila pointing to the note in Tequila’s paw. Tequila nodded his head as he lifted the note up for her to see. He wondered what she thought about all this. Tequila was too afraid to ask, fearing he would accidently make her change her mind. At this point there was no turning back anyhow; they had both already skipped the planned heist. Diablo was probably already cursing Tequila out in front of all the Nips as they scrambled to make last minute adjustments.   

Perhaps we weren’t even needed, Tequila thought to himself, eager to find any excuse that would make him feel better about the situation.

Perhaps Diablo wasn’t the man he claimed to be. Why would such an angel want to run away from him on a whim with an absolute stranger? Perhaps Diablo had become just that, a devil. Tequila’s head raced with these thoughts that mingled with alcohol laced thoughts of regret, sadness, self loathe and love. As his head raced so did Noel and him as they began to sprint into the unknown.

“You know he killed him, right” Noel calmly said as the two sprinted side by side. Tequila froze in place. The two now sitting in an open field as the sun slowly began to disappear off in the horizon in a burst of orange, red, and purple.

“Killed who?” Tequila asked as he felt a wave of anxiety rush over him.

“That member of the Nips that was killed during the last raid, and to be honest I’m pretty positive he wasn’t the first. I’ve seen numerous members just randomly disappear in the past year, and that’s not even counting all the AristoCat members that stage protests near the local pet stores. Tequila, your brother is a monster with a heart of gold”

Tequila wasn’t sure if it was her words, or the black figure that darted across the brilliant sunset in the horizon, but he couldn’t comprehend either at the moment.

A monster? Diablo? A murderer?

Either way it didn’t matter. What mattered was their safety, and this wide open field, only a few miles away from the heist location, was about as unsafe as it got.

“We need to leave, now!” Tequila commanded as he grabbed Noel’s paw, propelling both of them into a full on sprint. As the ground beneath them raced at an unflinching speed, Tequila noticed it again; the black figure that he caught five minutes ago in the sunset was now on a collision course with Noel and him.

Some would call it cat like reflexes, some would call it feline instincts, but Tequila knew it was pure dumb luck that the instant he pushed Noel down to the ground he felt the black shadow crash into him, bringing them both tumbling across the field. With each rotation, which to Tequila seemed to be happening in slow motion, the shadows features became more outstanding to Tequila until they both stopped tumbling, and Tequila was looking into the eyes of his brother.  

“It’s sad it’s come to this, Tequila!” Diablo hissed as he raised his outstretched claws high above his head and delivered a horrendously vicious blow to the head of Tequila. Tequila could taste the gushing river of blood that was building up in his mouth with each successful blow Diablo delivered.

I’m sorry brother… Forgive me…

“You son of a bitch!” Noel screamed as she leapt towards Diablo. Tequila, out of the corner of his eyes, saw her fly, like the angel he knew she was, towards Diablo. His spirit lifted as she seemed to float through the dark night sky to save him; his mind racing with love and adoration.

My hero, my angel, my savior, my love, my Noel 

Diablo noticed the shift in Tequila’s eyes and quickly swiped a blind paw that connected with Noel. The blood rushed out of her throat spraying both Tequila and Diablo. They both watched as Noel slowly limped away, turned to look at both of them, and then drop to the blood stained grass below her; her lifeless body now glowing in the moonlit sky.

Tequila turned slowly back to Diablo, was still starring at Noel’s body completely in shock. With every ounce of strength he had remaining, Tequila lifted his free paw and jammed a claw into the side of Diablo’s head. The impact sent Diablo scampering off of Tequila who in a fit of blind rage was now pummeling his brother just as Diablo had done to him moments before he slaughtered Noel. Diablo was quick to recover, as he slashed dirt into Tequila’s eyes momentarily blinding him giving him enough time to pick up a nearby stick and spear his brother through the chest.

Tequila’s mind blacked out as he felt the sharp end of the stick puncture his skin. In an act of desperation, and with his eyes closed, he swiped an outreached paw and connected with Diablo’s face. Tequila instinctively removed the stick from his chest and began to slowly scamper away with the stick still in his possession.

He knew it wouldn’t be long until Diablo was right behind him again. Tequila knew he had one shot at beating his brother. He planned to slowly walk away, hiding the weapon he possessed. He would wait until he saw his brother’s shadow, quickly turn and shove the stick into him finally ending this nightmare. Tequila saw the shadow loom over him when he heard the heavy breathing of Diablo right behind him, Tequila closed his eyes, quickly turned and shoved the pointy end of the stick into the shadow that lurked behind him.

Tequila opened his eyes to look into the sad horror of Noels eyes as they slowly glazed over from confused pain to dead. Tequila quickly removed the stick as her body crumpled to the ground. As Tequila knelt over her he saw his brother disappear in the distance.  

For all the tequila he had consumed, for all the women he had chased, for all the fights he was in and just nearly avoided; Tequila felt for the first time a wave of sadness and defeat wash over him like he had never experienced before. If he were to die he would prefer now because living with this feeling would be the greatest punishment of all.

As he starred into the eyes of Noel Tequila wiped the tears that were now streaming over his face. He knew that with his brother disappearing it wouldn’t be long until he returned with an army hell bent on not only killing him, but making sure he felt every inch and second of his death. He leaned down and slowly pressed his whiskers to Noels face taking in her wonderful smell one last time.

That smell; that wonderful, intoxicating aroma was the last thing Tequila remembered before he passed out in the open field about a mile away from Noel’s body.

He wished to never wake up…

*** 

Not only did Tequila wake up, but now he found himself trapped under this fucking dog with his brother about to replay his entire nightmare all over again.

“Tequila, I’m curious to know, brother.” Diablo calmly spoke from on top of Sarah as he unfolded the note. “What was the feeling you felt when you realized you were the one that killed Noel? I felt pretty bad when I thought I killed her, but I can only imagine how you must of felt stabbing her with that stick. That’s quite a brutal, personal and intimate way to end some one’s life, don’t you think? Let’s share together this note that was so important to the two of you”

Tequila placed his head on the ground submitting to whatever horror, tortures, and pain Diablo had in store for him. He knew he deserved it, but he felt an especially harsh sadness when he gazed upon the face of the lifeless Sarah. She certainly didn’t deserve any of this. She was just some dumb, lost, runaway dog with a love for glazed donuts that was trying to save him out of the goodness of her heart. As Tequila looked upon her face asking whatever gods existed for forgiveness he saw her eyes open and connect connect with his.

She’s alive! Holy shit you’re alive!  His mind exploded.

Sarah slowly raised her eyes up to glance quickly at Diablo as he read the note out loud as if her standing on a soapbox preaching to invisible patrons around him. Then she glanced back at Tequila and gave him that sly, stupid, smug smile that Tequila only knew dogs could do.

This fucking dog, Tequila thought as he watched Sarah close her eyes again and continue to play dead.

“So let me get this straight, Tequila!” Diablo spoke as he jumped down off of Sarah and pressed his face up against Tequilas. “You were just going to come down to my home, eat my food, embrace my hospitality, desert your brother, but more importantly my friends, and then steal my fiancé?”

Well when you put it like that, I’d be pretty upset too, Tequila thought as he shrugged back at Diablo. Knowing who his brother was now he felt no remorse or empathy for his brother. The only thing he felt was the painful injection of regret, self-loathing and sadness for allowing himself to become the spitting image of this monster that was diabolically about to kill him and this dog.

“I just don’t understand you, Tequila” Diablo whispered to him as he pressed a claw up against Tequila’s throat. “Perhaps when I slit this throat I finish it this time”…

As Diablo lifted his paw high into the air to deliver the final, fatal blow to Tequila’s life he saw Sarah’s head rise with it too. Her teeth entangling the arm of Diablo, snapping it clean off.

Tequila lurched forward and dragged his claw across the throat of Diablo as the two crumpled simultaneously to the ground in a mixed pool of their blood. Tequila felt the unwelcomed warmth of Sarah’s slobbering mouth grab him by the collar and drag him back onto the plank of wood, and without skipping a beat proceeded to drag Tequila towards the hospital while muttering to her-self, fucking cats.

Tequila gazed at the night sky, its shifting clouds and stars, it’s soft, cool breeze, and the moon glowing in the distance. He felt is heart slowly beating with each star that crossed his line of sight, and as the stars became more and more spaced apart so did his heartbeat. He breathed in one last breath of air as he saw the stars disappear from the sky with no more in sight. He closed his eyes and fell into the abyss, felt his heart stop beating and focused on the one last sense that was still gripping to life; the smell on the tip of his whiskers.

That smell…  

***

Tequila awoke bathed in the warmth of the Los Angeles sun. His confused eyes quickly darted around to survey his surroundings, his body, and his wounds that were no longer there. He was home, it was early morning, and his owner was passed out in the hammock across from him still gripping a bottle of Tequila.

What a bender last night must have been. How much Tequila do you have to consume to have that kind of dream? Oh god and think of the hangover that’s on its way, Tequila thought as he slowly crept over to his owner, grabbed the bottle of Tequila and took a huge, satisfying swig of the magical elixir. He dropped the bottle, wiped his eyes and slowly took in the sounds, sights and smells of his peaceful backyard haven.

Tequila stretched and yawned his way over to his litter box where he relieved himself. As his claws dug through the litter he felt something buried deep down in the box. He reached and pulled out a piece of paper soaked in blood, inside were the words handwritten by Noel. He lifted the note to his nose and felt every emotion rush back into him as Noels scent poured into his nostrils and into his heart.

He knew it was too good to be true. In the back of his head he always knew it wasn’t a dream. It had been far too real for it to be some crazy mind bender fueled by an excessive night of women, drugs and alcohol.  He knew the painful truth that not only did his nightmare occur in real life, but that he himself had died as a result.

He looked around, gazed at the four markings carved into the wall high above his litter box and added a fifth.

Four to go; Tequila thought as he began to scavenge for supplies. If he had four lives left then surely Noel had a lot more left then him.

Tequila grabbed the bottle of tequila from beneath his owner, tipped his sunglasses down to cover his eyes, pressed the note against his nose, and followed the one thing he knew would hopefully lead him to a happy ending…

That smell.  

The End
 
 
Welcome to the resumption of The Adventures of Tequila Kitty. I would first like to apologize for the break in action in our chronicles. Tequila Kitty was away for a family wedding and, on his way back to Vegas, he was sidetracked by a twice in a lifetime opportunity (this cat has been and seen places) to see Mount Rushmore.

This week's chapter is brought to you by y0urs truly. As the creator of the idea, I still wanted to participate, and I held myself to the same rules as the other writers involved: as such I did not know where the story was going until I saw the third chapter by Brian Lepire. For those new to the novel, Chapters One and Two by Christopher Chik and Aimee Hamel can be found by clicking on the links.


Without further ado, here's Chapter 4:



It was never supposed to be like this. I was raised in a normal household, just one in a litter of six. How I got to this point...how I became known as Tequila Kitty (Tequila is not the name my owners gave me); where I got the sombrero that seems to be stapled on my head like Fozzie’s hat...well, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe it. But everything I’m about to tell you is the tequila-soaked truth.
-excerpt from Chapter 4: How I Started, by Darren Cormier

Tequila Kitty Ch. 4: How I Started

It was never supposed to be like this. I was raised in a normal household, just one in a litter of six. How I got to this point--the most unwanted cat in Vegas, scrambling to maintain my six remaining lives, with just 24 hours to somehow track down $5500 to prevent getting killed by a Zuckerberg wannabe, and former protégé who wanted to be oh so much more, with my ribs almost broken, bloody whiskers, and my tail between my legs...well, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe it. But everything I’m about to tell you is the tequila-soaked truth.

Just like everything in this town, it’s all due to a dame. That plastic, feline version of Joan Rivers--Hello, to be specific. But that’s not where it began… and I haven’t started drinking enough today to tell you that story just yet.

Where to begin… How I got involved in the mixed-up criminal underworld? how I became known as Tequila Kitty (Tequila is not the name my owners gave me); where I got the sombrero that seems to be stapled on my head like Fozzie’s hat? Poor Fozzie: tried to make it on the strip as a comedian and when he couldn’t bring in the crowds like he used to—after a certain point “wokka wokka wokka” can only carry you so far—he just ran out of material…fast—the owners of the Palace kicked him to the curb. Got hooked on speed. When he couldn’t pay his debts, they reinforced the brim and stapled the hat to his head. He can never remove it. This town is a cruel, dysfunctional mistress. You might try to leave, it might be what’s best for you, in your best interests, best for your health, but you can’t. Once you’ve tasted it once, you’re here to stay. They say if you can make it in New York you can make it anywhere. But with Vegas, once you’ve made it once, you don’t want to make it anywhere else. Everywhere else is just being a shnook, or in my case, a mangy alley cat.

Anyway…

As I said, I was one of a litter of six. Once ma had us, we lasted a few weeks before the owners tried to find us better homes. And before you try to pin all of this on the fact that my mother didn’t love us, all feline mothers are the same. After two weeks, you stay out of their way or you get whacked. Feline moms are a mafia of one.

Those first few months, though, were a kitten’s paradise: races up stairs, red laser lights, marbles and yarn, and ma carrying us around in her mouth. Unlike my brothers and sisters, I was born with opposable paws, so I had better grip, faster reflexes. Yeah, I was a prodigy cat. But I still hadn’t developed the ability to talk or walk on my hind legs yet so I was at this point just a very advanced feline. After three weeks all my brothers and sisters were gone, except me and Paulie: the runt. He had one folded over ear, a lopsided eye, and when he ran, he tripped over his back paws. He looked like Sasquatch sat on his head. One of our brothers once pinned him down, but after I took care of him… don’t ask what happened: I’m not proud of that day. But let me tell you this: if you ever messed with Paulie, you messed with me, too, I think the Newmarks realized Paulie wouldn’t survive without me there. Really, it was the other way around. And I don’t think they tried very hard to find a home for him. They felt bad for us. So there we stayed with the Newmarks.

The first few months were fun: exploring the house, exploring the giant barn at the far end of the yard. To us it seemed like it was a farm, but we’re cats: we’re one foot long, 18 inches tops. What perspective do we have on distance? Obviously now that I’ve been around the world and flown in the nicest private planes you can think of, hell, I jumped off the freakin’ top of the Eiffel Tower once (bad catnip experience, that’s all I can say, but I did land on my feet), since I’ve done all of that, I have a better idea of what the distance is, but at the time me and my nearsighted brother, we had no idea about size. But what he lacked in ability, he made up for in smarts. Smart as a fuckin’ tack, that Paulie. (Yeah, mixed metaphor. Who cares? I just had my ribs kicked to shit, okay? I’m sleeping under a dumpster at the far end of the strip. Far cry from the penthouse, okay? Give me a break.)

Paulie had the brains, I had the ability. We would chase down anything in that yard: mice, moles, squirrels, foxes, birds, deer. Yup, deer. One time. We had a system. I’d patrol the far area and swipe their faces with my claws, immobilizing and temporarily blinding them. I’d then corral them towards Paulie at the far side of the shed, who was waiting underneath the ramp for them to stagger by. Never underestimate how vicious a cat who can’t run well can be. Talk about somebody with something to prove. But, like I said, he had the brains. He’s the one who helped me figure out how to use my paws to my advantage, how to climb into the best possible places for food and jumping onto unsuspecting mice. If Paulie could have talked, there’s no doubt we’d be running the strip right now. He’s the one, who when I first got involved with the Dice Kids, taught me the best strategies for playing poker. And had Paulie not been there to teach me chess, I wouldn’t have been able to get out of that den in Chinatown. Chess roulette they called it, a combination of exactly what it sounds like. If you were checkmated, you held the gun to your temple. My paws, although I was able to hold the gun, were not strong enough to pull the trigger, but that’s a different story. I still wasn’t about to lose to Fingers Johansson. Dude was born with seven fingers on each hand. And after every move against him, he would just point and laugh. Yeah, yeah. I get it. I’m a talking cat. It’s a freaking novelty, I know. Get over it and play the game already, Fingers. The look on his face when I dragged him into an Accelerated Dragon…

Anyway… I’m getting off topic again.

That lasted a few years. We mostly stayed out of ma’s way, and she mostly didn’t try to rip our tails off. It was a mutual understanding. On a good day, she’d just give us the stink eye when we tried to eat a little too much of her food, and on other days, she’d let us get on the same couch as her. I can remember once, when ma was sitting on the youngest daughter’s lap, we each jumped up as well, sitting next to her and rubbing up against the sides of her legs. Now granted, the mom and older daughter were there so ma didn’t have to share the petting—we were each getting petted—but ma didn’t try to shew us off. Didn’t even hiss once. I think Aimee had a lot to do with this.

The Newmarks had three daughters: Erin, Michelle, and Aimee. Aimee was the youngest, and each daughter kind of warmed up to each of us: Erin had ma, Michelle had Paulie (Paulie would purr like a freight train when she picked him up); and Aimee chose me. What can I say? The girl had good taste.

This is how it was for a while, though: Paulie and me running around and killing anything in the yard and staying out of Ma’s way. Over time we’d get into more trouble, as he realized what my double paws and leaping ability made me capable of. We would start taking time in the barn and, instead of eating the dead mice or bringing them inside to Ma or Erin or Mr. Newmark, Paulie would hide them on the top of a landing that was just out of reach for me to jump to. He wanted to see how far I could stretch and see if I could start walking like Napoleon. He had heard Michelle talking about this book she was reading about a bunch of talking animals and one of them was a pig who by the end could walk on his hind legs. I don’t know how he knew what they were saying, but he did and he would scratch out things for me or, as he heard them say something, he would point to it in the house and told me to listen more. I owe everything to Paulie and if he were here now, I’m sure he could help me figure out a way to get that asshole Craig his $5500. Which isn’t even his debt. He stole that from the Dice Boys. It’s them that I owe the money to all because of that bitch Hello. (I know a cat can’t be a bitch, but you know how trustworthy dames can be. I’d say I trust her as far as I could throw her, but if I ever found her again, I could throw her a helluva far way, so that metaphor’s moot.)  I know the Dice Boys, I grew up with them, they and Paulie made me what I could have been, and I know that they wouldn’t care about the debt.

Anyway… back to Paulie. He’d have me hide the mice on these landings and wouldn’t let me jump. He couldn’t do anything to me, so he didn’t intimidate me with beatings or whacks and he was just as nervous about Ma as I was, but if Paulie asked me to do something or if he had an idea, I would run through a brick wall for him. He’s my brother and he’s so much smarter than a talking cat like me could ever hope to be, and vice versa. I know that if Paulie could trade with me he’d do it. Over time, Paulie would put the mouse in higher and higher places, and over time, in that barn, at least, I was able to balance on my hind legs and even to walk a little on it. The first time I was able to hold it without falling, I thought Paulie was going to mate with the wheelbarrow. That was where we’d nap in the barn. Mr. Newmark was a very neat and tidy guy: everything had its place. But one day after mowing the lawn, I think he was beat tired, more tired than an alcoholic cat sleeping under a dumpster, and didn’t feel like bringing the rest of the grass to the woods in the back of the yard. He wheeled the barrow into the shed, and left it there, instead of standing it on its end. Paulie and I saw the grass and jumped in, slept there until Michelle and Aimee came out looking for both of us, late at night, crying, clutching her doll to her side, the same doll whose hair she’d dangle over my head.

The Newmarks were a crazy card playing family, too. Every Saturday night, they’d have some friends over, and they’d all sit around the table, bottles of whatever being passed around, glasses clinking, ice spilling over the side, more and more alcohol staining the tablecloths as the night wore on. As the girls got older, they’d join at the table.

One night, Paulie had been in a particularly needy mood. One of the dad’s friends—Jonesy, loud, large, and stupid—commented on “what an ugly looking cat that is.” He usually would run and hide under Michelle’s bed on these nights. She had lots of furs and think white carpets in there. He’d sprint at full speed in there, stop on the carpet, and there he’d slide underneath the bed, curled up on whatever part of the carpet would slide under with him. Michelle had heard this, though, and since they were adolescents now, they were allowed at the card table. So she and Aimee grabbed each us (Erin was out with a boy, and ma didn’t want anything to do with them at this point) and brought us to the table. You know that moment when you finally do something that you’re destined to do, like how a chef feels the first time he’s in the kitchen; or that moment when you meet the love of your life. That’s how I felt when we sat at that poker table: the blur of the cards folding into each other after someone made a bridge shuffling them, the whirr of the colors, the secret code language; the lower sound a quarter makes when hitting a dime, the roar of the guys as someone decided to throw a five dollar bill on the table, chips slapping against each other. And it didn’t matter who you were: everyone was equal on the poker table. They all just wanted you to play, and play well, so they could take your money.

So Paulie and me became members of the Saturday night crew. But one night Jonesy said something particularly nasty. I was already on thin ice for the last time he said something. It had been a summer night and he was wearing shorts, so I treated his leg like it was a scratching post. He never came over in shorts again. But because of that night, I had to be on behavior or out in the barn I would go, no matter how much Aimee cried. So this one night after he talked about Paulie’s ear, I waited to strike. Jonesy liked his drink and nobody was going to get between him and his drink. One of the friends once tried to dump one of his beers when there was still an inch left in it. You would have thought someone had slapped Jonesy’s mama they way he reacted. Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, but he sure found a way. The color in the glass this night was deep amber, and the reflection of the ice made Jonesey even bigger, if that was even possible. So when he got up to pee, I jumped off Aimee’s lap, walked across the table and dipped my head into his glass, lapping up all of. Damn it tasted good. That’s the day I stopped being Mittens and started being Tequila.

***
           
On weekends and during the summer, Aimee would ride her bike to her friend Mitzi’s house. (Mitzi was the younger sister of The Dice Boys.)


“Aimee? What are you doing?” I heard Mrs. Newmark ask.

“Nothing.” Aimee was chasing me around the house with a cardboard box. She had cornered me onto the couch and was trying to put the box over my head. I was swatting at her, claws in mind you.

“Aren’t you going to Mitzi’s? You aren’t bringing Mittens with you on your bike.” Not everyone had taken to calling me Tequila yet, just Mr. Newmark and the Saturday night poker crew.

“That’s not what I was doing.” Aimee dropped the box on the couch and went to gather some other things to go to Mitzi’s. With everything relaxed, I pulled myself out from between the couch cushions. I had squeezed myself in there to make it harder for her to pull me out. If she did start pulling me out, I would have used my claws, or bitten her on the arm.

While I could hear Mrs. Newmark talking to Aimee in the other room, I climbed in the box and curled up. Can’t explain to you why I love boxes so much: the walls muffle the outside world, we can’t hear it as much, so it’s much easier to fall asleep. Okay, maybe I can explain why I like them.

Moments later I heard Mrs. Newmark’s keys rattling, and the box was picked up. We were going to the car! What the hell had I done to deserve such a fate as this? I just wanted to sleep, dammit! Apparently, Mitzi had a cat and she and Aimee wanted the two of us to play.

On the way over, Aimee kept trying to put me on her lap, thinking her petting would comfort me. You pulled me from my box sleep, kid. There’s no comforting me now.

I don’t know how long we were in the car (I’m a cat. I don’t tell time. I might be able to talk and walk and drink tequila like nobody’s business, but there’s a reason I don’t wear a watch) but when we got there, I still didn’t want to come out. So they pulled me out in the box. Mitzi was on the front steps, hair in braids, bow on the left side of her head, wearing a pink and black dress. She had a small cat in her arms that was dressed up the same way: a pink bow on the left side of her head, and wearing a pink and black dress. I don’t know if it was the car ride, my half-wakened state, or the fact that I had never seen a cat dressed up like a human before, but I was frozen.

Aimee held me in her lap. I inched my head closer to this new fine feline. I didn’t know what her name was, but I kept hearing Mitzi and Aimee, in high-pitched voices, as if speaking on behalf of us, saying, “Hello, Kitty. How are you?” Each would in turn grab our paws and gesture to the other one with them. People can be so stupid sometimes. Just let us cats do what we want.

I wanted to jump off and lick her face. I wanted to put my paw on top of the bow on her head and spin her like a ballerina in a music box. I wanted to run across country with her, she in her dress wooing people over to me to try to beat the cat at poker; and me taking all their money, a cat version of Bonnie and Clyde, but without the gunfire: Teqs and Hello, Hello and Teqs. We could be a vaudeville act, a mom and pop catnip shop,  traveling snake-oil salespeople, gypsy cats with patches over our eyes sailing on makeshift rats on the ocean, all the fish we could want. We sat like that for what must have been hours, staring at us each other, not moving, not saying a word to the other, just quietly assessing the other, wishing we were away from our human masters.

After some time, Mitzi’s mom came outside. “Aimee, your mother just called. She wants you to know she finished grocery shopping and is on her way to pick you up.” We left shortly after Mrs. Newmark pulled into the driveway.

Every time after that day when Aimee would go to Mitzi’s, I’d mewl and chirp and rub on her legs, trying to get her to take me over there. Never happened again. I don’t know what I did that day, either, but Hello clearly didn’t want to see me. She didn’t look like she does now. Her eyes were wide. Her legs were normal cat size. She could move; man, could she move. I don’t know how she made it over to Japan, but she did. Forgot all about us, about me, about her roots. Stepping stones for some dames wild dreams of fame, fortune, and the grand catnip in the sky.

Haven’t seen a cat like her since. Dames. Every dream we have, they manage to take our snow-globe world and trash it on the ground, porcupines in our world of bubbles. You end up sleeping under a dumpster with your ribs kicked in and owing some jackass $5500, lapping up leftover tequila from the broken bottle of someone else’s shattered dreams.

Dames.           

 
 
Brian Lepire is a man of many hats: editor and contributing writer to the online pop culture zine Junkyard Arts; poet; lyricist and lead singer of a rockabilly band; playwright and actor; sous chef; student for a degree in publishing; and an aficionado of all cool storyteller music: think Nick Cave, Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley, Sex Pistols, etc.
He also hates cats and tequila. Which is why his authoring of the third chapter of Tequila Kitty (found here) seemed so appropriate. And, lastly and definitely not least importantly, he's also a friend. I sat down with him recently over a glass of his hated tequila to discuss books, writing, and his own process. 
Picture
Brian Lepire, looking mighty skeptical about his tequila.
Q & A with Brian Lepire

Q: Tell me about what your writing. You write in a lot of different genres: poetry, prose, songs, drama, film criticism. Do you think they all feed each other, or do you have one particular genre that you consider your calling more than the others?

I view writing as a form of expression. It allows me to tap into my various thoughts, beliefs, and experiences. But there’s not just one genre that lets me expose all those elements. Some things I feel are better said through a poem than through a story, a three act play rather than a three verse song.

Then there are the articles and music reviews and film critiques. That’s my thirst for knowledge and new experiences coming out, as well as the desire to share that information with people. I would say my background is definitely in creative non-fiction and I derive a great amount of joy from writing a well-research, well-executed article.

Q: What would you say are your strengths as a writer?

I’d like to think I turn a good phrase here and there and pull together a coherent storyline with relatable characters. When I write, I spend a good amount of time making sure my characters are familiar enough so the reader doesn’t have to work excessively hard to see things from the character’s perspective. Another strength, and perhaps my greatest weakness, is I’m known for writing too tight sometimes – my sentences and paragraphs flow in such a way that editing can be a long and tumultuous project.

Q: What are you working on now?

I’m currently piecing together a collection of short stories, tentatively called THE PEOPLE WE MEET. I’ve spent a good portion of the past decade focused on my poetry and journalism, so writing short stories has been an exciting challenge. It’s forced me to dive deeper into the themes that surround my writing and my life.

Q: What publications has your work appeared in?

I’ve spent the past three years as a contributing writer and editor for Junkyard Arts, an online magazine aimed at exposing the masses to what’s happening in the art world and what’s worth paying attention to. You can also find my work at SalemFilmFest.com, where I am Online Media Editor.

My work has also been featured in Thirsty Magazine and several newspapers.

Q: Who are your primary influences, or inspirations, as a writer?

My influences are as varied as the genres I write in, but at the core they all seem to share a knack for packing great description and wit into crisp, memorable lines. Writers like Gay Talese, Leonard Cohen, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Neil Simon, and Hunter S. Thompson have masterful styles that I keep returning to for guidance.

Q: What inspires you the most (e.g. music, landscape/nature, written word, life, etc.)?

More often than not I pull inspiration from real life experiences, especially when writing poetry.

Q: Do you find there’s a difference in writing poetry or prose? Which comes easier to you? Which do you enjoy writing more?

There’s a definite difference for me between writing poetry and prose. Poetry has always been easier for me to write. My best poems usually come from brief moments of inspiration that turn into a feverish writing session that can last anywhere from 20 minutes to three hours. Prose takes more time and development, which is fun, but is more of a commitment for me than poetry.

Q: What are you reading right now?

Right now I’m catching up on Jack Kerouac’s THE DHARMA BUMS because I should have read it a while ago. I’m also reading BOOK BUSINESS: PAST, PRESENT, and FUTURE to prepare for my summer at the Denver Publishing Institute.

Q: What authors, when you read them, make you think, “I’m giving up writing because I will never be as good as them?”

Breece D’J Pancake. He was able to capture so much emotion without having to become overly verbose. His writing at times is very stark and completely captivating.

Q: I know this is the hated and borderline unanswerable question, but it has to be asked. Why do you write?

Because when I don’t write, food is tasteless and my blood is quick to boil. Writing gives me purpose, fuels my ambition, and allows me to express the world that I see. But most of all, writing is what I’m meant to do. I get very frustrated when I can’t write for long periods at a time.

Q: If you weren’t writing, what else would you be doing?

Publishing. Managing an independent press/independent bookstore. I want to provide an outlet to great writers who might be intimidated or feel burned by the big publishing houses. There are too many poems and stories and books that have never reached the public because the writers have been turned off by the whole process, and I think that’s a shame.

Q: Name your top five favorite books and/or top five favorite authors?

Oh man…why did you have to ask? My five favorite books, in no particular order: The Rum Diary (Hunter S. Thompson); On the Road (Jack Kerouac); Stranger Music (Leonard Cohen); The Prophet (Kahlil Gibran); and CASH: An Autobiography (Johnny Cash w/ Patrick Carr).

Q: What is your non-writing claim to fame?

Officiated the wedding of Sarah Murray and Liam Walker. A pretty big accomplishment in my book.  

And now we get into the non-writerly, more silly-ish questions of the interview, as paraphrased from James Lipton of Inside the Actor’s Studio:

Q: What is your favorite drink?

Coffee

Q: What is your favorite curse word?

Fuck…it is such a versatile curse. Good for any fucking occasion.

Q: Favorite food?

Hot Dogs from Coney Island in Worcester, MA. And cheese. Man, I love cheese.

Q: What is your most vivid memory?

The night I met “The Man with the Bomb”. You’ll have to pick up the book when it comes out to find out more.

Q: What is your favorite sound?

The excited greetings of friends when I arrive to the party.

Q: What is your least favorite sound?

An unattended, screeching fire alarm.

Q: If heaven exists, what do you think god will say upon meeting you at the pearly gates? What would you want it to say?

I would want God to say “I hear you have some questions. Want to talk?” But It will probably say “How did you get in here?!”


 
 
I’d made it to the motel parking lot when I heard the footsteps. A sombrero may make me look good, but it does shit for my hearing, so the bastards were able to scoop me up real quick. The first one gave me a hard slap on the top of the head with an opened palm. The bottle crashed to the ground, shattering like so many dreams do in this city.  While I was still reeling, another one came up from behind with a burlap sack. The last thing I saw before they cinched the sack closed was an oversized neon cowboy wink at me.
- excerpt of Chapter 3 by Brian Lepire

Welcome to Chapter 3 of The Adventures of Tequila Kitty. (Chapters 1 and 2 can be found here and here, respectively.) When we last saw Teqs he was getting kicked out of the house of a kind-hearted, lovelorn woman who had fallen for him and taken him in. But, just like you can't teach an old dog new tricks, you can't domesticate a wild cat. Chapter 3 was written by my friend Brian Lepire, who has written for Junkyard Arts, the Salem Film Festival, plays, and songs for his previous incarnation as the lead singer of a rockabilly band.

So, without further ado, (and because Teqs getting rather restless and we want to tell this story before he bolts the country...again), we bring you Chapter Three of The Adventures of Tequila Kitty.


Chapter 3

I promised myself I would never come back to this city.

After my last trip to Vegas, I knew the only thing this city had to offer me was trouble and bad credit. I told myself it was time for a fresh start. I’d put down the tequila and put away the sombrero.

But here I was again, with a bottle in my paws and women by my side, making more bad decisions.

I had come back to town to wish an old friend good luck. She was a good woman who didn’t deserve the hell I put her through when we knew each other, so when I heard she had run away to find a better life, I wanted her to know I wished her only the best. The fact she ran away to the place I was running from was an irony that tasted like a bad omen, but I went anyway.

She was giving everything she had to be a comedienne and had managed to get a show at the Venetian lounge room. After her set, I decided to bolt out before she had a chance to corner me. Awkward moments smell like rotten mice – I can smell them for miles. I was also hoping that no one recognized my tail. The last time I was at this particular casino, I hadn’t left the best impression. Probably because I didn’t leave as much money as I owed.

The place was crowded. There was a convention of seniors in town playing the slot machines and a poker tournament that was getting some national air time, so I thought the staff was busy enough that a cat wearing a sombrero minding his own business could go unnoticed. The girls and I walked quickly, careful not to make eye contact with anyone who might give a damn that I was back in town for a one time occasion.

There’s a trick to walking fast across the casino floor. The joint is set up so that you can’t get ten feet without stopping to spend more money, but you just have to keep the slots to your right at all times and keep your eyes out for old timers. They’re the ones who usually get blinded by the whirring cherries and sounds of emptying machines and might accidentally step on your tail, then keel over from the unexpected sound of a cat screeching and clawing their ankles. Blind fools have it coming though.

We were almost to the doors when I thought I saw someone swing their heads around for a second glimpse. I was hoping it was just someone getting a better view of the beauties I had picked up earlier that night at the bar down the strip. Or did I meet them at the bar this morning? I think their names were Tina and Emily.

The fresh air tasted cool and sweet. I took a fresh swig of my tequila.

“Where to now, Teqs?” asked Emily, the brunette in a perfect blue dress.

“Oh, oh, oh, let’s go to the Palace! I haven’t been there yet,” Tina exclaimed. She was obviously new to town.

“I think this might be where we go our separate ways, girls. I think I’m gonna call it a night.”

“What? It’s still early though. There’s still so much trouble we could get into,” Emily said in a way I’d heard so many times before, like a lady who expected me to keep her warm tonight. Damn if she didn’t look good in that dress though.

“Yeah. I wanna go to all the nice places,” Tina said.

“First off, the Palace ain’t as nice as you might think. Be careful over there. That place can shed your fur.  They especially like to ruin blondes, Tina. And Emily, I’ve had my share of trouble in this town. I’m ready to call it a night on Vegas. Give me a call tomorrow.”

They pouted a bit, but when they realized I’d made up my mind, they headed off towards Caesar’s.

I didn’t want them around when trouble came.

I was holed up under a dumpster outside a cheap motel at the end of the strip; a far cry from the penthouse apartments and ritz’d up houses I usually worked my way into when I was in town. Lonely ladies had a thing for taking me in, and I didn’t mind taking advantage of their desperation every now and then. But this time I chose a place further off the radar, away from the lights that might give me away to any of a number of people who I didn’t have time for.

I’d made it to the motel parking lot when I heard the footsteps. A sombrero may make me look good, but it does shit for my hearing, so the bastards were able to scoop me up real quick. The first one gave me a hard slap on the top of the head with an opened palm. The bottle crashed to the ground, shattering like so many dreams do in this city.  While I was still reeling, another one came up from behind with a burlap sack. The last thing I saw before they cinched the sack closed was an oversized neon cowboy wink at me.

***

Dried blood on burlap has a weird smell to it.

Whoever had sent these goons to pick me up had forgotten to mention I didn’t have all my nine lives anymore. They’d gingerly tossed me into the back of their van and laughed as the sack bounced off the interior walls. By that time I was so groggy I didn’t know how long we drove for. I assumed we were just going out to the desert to dig a well, so it didn’t really matter how long it took.

At some point I had finally passed out and didn’t wake up until the van door slammed open. One of the bastards stepped in to grab the sack. I let my claws peek through just enough to give him a nasty surprise when he wrapped his hand around the knot.

“Sonofabitch!” the unlucky one said.

“What’s your problem, Joe?”  

“Bastard clawed me!”

“Haha. Pussy.”

“Shut up, Brad!”

I chuckled a bit too, until Joe’s boot met my ribs. I passed out again.

The next time I woke up the bag had been opened and I was surprised to find I wasn’t in the desert next to a fresh grave. Instead, I was in a large room without windows. It was covered in blood red wallpaper, which did nothing for the lack of light in the place. Shadows danced around the room from hanging incandescent lights.

There were two men standing behind me making sure I didn’t try anything stupid like bolt for the door. Joe was a bit shorter than most guys in his line of work, but had shoulders to make up for it. I could tell it was him from the fresh blood still speckled on his hand. Brad was a bit taller and better off in the looks department. It’d looked like someone had busted his nose at one point, but the damn thing gave his prep boy face even more character.

At the other end of the room was a glass desk that reflected the weird blue glow of twelve computer screens mounted to the back wall. There was a chair facing the screens, but I already knew who had picked me up.

I coughed up a hairball and some blood.

“Is that the infamous Tequila Kitty I hear? It can’t be. I thought he was long gone by now, especially after the shit he pulled last time he was here.”

The chair spun around to reveal a young guy who still dressed like he was in college, even if he did have more money than most actors in their prime. Craig Irvin had a specific look: zipped-up hoodies, jeans, and sandals. Didn’t matter where he was or who he was meeting with, whether it was the Prime Minister of Russia or the founder of the world’s largest tech company - he always wore sandals. He also had a nickname to match his curly red hair, but I refused to call him “Big Red”.

“It’s nice to see you again, Craig,” I said, trying to hide any signs of pain.

“Oh, it’s nice to see you too, Tequila. I assume you have my money.”

“Your friends there picked me up in the parking lot of a motel I couldn’t afford a room in, so, no. I don’t have your money at this moment.”

Craig wanted to kick me himself, but couldn’t because of his sandals, so he looked at Joe. A familiar boot met my sore ribs and I let out a loud yelp.

“Who the hell do you think you are, you mangy alley cat?!” Craig was on his hands and knees, pushing his beat red face against mine. Spit sprayed my eyes as he spoke. “Do you think the rules don’t apply to you? I want my money!”

I felt as good as I could in a situation like that. He wanted his money, which meant I might be able to walk out of this room if I could promise I could give back everything  he’d lent me during my last bender in Vegas.

“Or maybe I’ll just make myself a new pair of fur-lined sandals. What do you think, Teqs? Those sound nice.”

I didn’t feel so sure about this anymore.

“Craig, I think I can-“

Joe stepped on my tail, twisting his foot as if he was crushing out a cigarette. I hissed and took a swipe at his ankle which caused him to jump back. He started to wind up for another kick.

“Not yet!” Craig said. “Little runt was about to say something. Hopefully he was about to tell us the code to his bank account, which conveniently has the $5500 he owes me, plus interest.”

“Craig, if you don’t mind me saying, what’s $5500 to a guy like you? Don’t you make $5 million a day from your websites alone? Is it really worth killing me over?” Probably not the best thing I could’ve said at that moment, but I had three broken ribs and a concussion. I was doing the best I could to figure out how to give him what he wanted.

“Vegas is an interesting place when it comes to debt,” Craig said, letting the anger on his face transform into malice. “Did you know they found a body in the desert last week of an old gangster killed over $50?”

Craig sat back down at the wall of computer screens and began pulling up files.

“Tequila, let’s summarize what’s going on here so you and I are on the same page. You came to town a few months ago driving a nice looking Corvette and swigging straight from the bottle. You and your loser buddies start playing the tables and you’re having some luck. You hit a couple places around town, running tables until they get cold.

Things taste real sweet as you rake it all in. Then, like pretty much everyone in Las Vegas, you overstay your welcome and lose it all. You think you can still win, so your friends hook you up with a pretty well-off guy: me. We hang out for a bit. I think your hat is weird, but like you enough anyway to front you some money; exactly $5500. 

You head back to the tables and lose it all over Vegas. Then, instead of doing what you agreed to do and hand over the keys to the car, you jump in the Corvette you probably stole from someone and drive back to whatever dirty litter box you came from.

Does that sound about right to you?”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

“And you have a lousy memory. I want my money back. How are you going to get me my money, Tequila?”

When your universe starts to collapse around you, time stands still. The imminent sense that there is no way to avoid a death you are unprepared for makes the world’s axis grind to a halt and all you’re able to do is remember the most random moments of your life. As I listened to Craig layout my dilemma, all I could do was remember the most obscure things: my first sombrero, the first time I caught a mouse in Tijuana, the smell of a woman as we laid under the covers on a cold morning.  Craig and the others must have seen a drooling cat, because Craig slammed his fist on the desk.

“Tequila! How are you going to get my money?! Better yet, I don’t want to know. I just want it back. And I want it back in the next twenty-four hour.” Craig swung his chair back to the screens. “And  now for some added incentive. You know you weren’t the first one we picked up last night, right?”

Craig pulled up a live camera feed of a small empty room, save for two chairs back to back. There were two beautiful women handcuffed to the chairs. Luckily, it looked like Joe had been kinder to Emily and Tina. But their faces were etched in fear.

“You bastards! What have you done to them?!” I spun around and made a quick dash towards Joe. He must have been expecting it though, because as I jumped up to claw his eyes, he reached out and swatted me down. I fell on my back, which took the wind out of me and reminded me I should be in a body cast.

“Calm down. They’re fine,” Craig said. “You’re the one we want, not them. I only had Joe and Brad ask the ladies to join us so that you don’t get the idea to run off again without paying back what is mine.”

Craig walked over to the spot of floor I was sprawled over. Another bloody hairball came up as he looked down at me.

“Tequila, you don’t know me very well, but you should realize by now that I’m a man of certain principles. Kind of like how computers and science have unbreakable rules, I believe that there is no debt too small worth forgetting. And not only do I value my money, but I value my time. I took the time to help you out of a bad situation, and now I’m taking the time to address this little problem we have. So, basically what I’m saying, if you don’t get me my money, and if I feel like you’ve wasted my time, I am going to be very angry. And Joe likes it when I’m angry, because that means he gets to be angry too, and Joe really likes being angry.”

Joe took a step forward, but Craig raised a hand.

“Tequila, here’s the deal: you get me my money in the next twenty-four hours, or else the young ladies are not going to win big in Vegas. And please, for their sake, and yours, don’t try to leave town. I’ll know if you will, and I’ll still come after you. Is any of the unclear?”

I gave Craig a big smile, wide enough to show all the pointed teeth I still had, and nodded.

“Be back here tomorrow at 10 am with my $5500. Joe, Brad, get him out of my sight.”

I thought I was going to end up back in the sack and was prepared for an extra kick from Joe for good luck, but instead Brad came over and ran his hand across my back.

“Alright. Grab your sombrero and let’s go.”

I dragged myself onto all fours and tossed my sombrero on. Joe and Brad escorted me to the elevator. Brad hit the button for the first floor, and the three of us rode down twenty floors in a weird silence normally saved for funerals or in-laws.

“I’m guessing that hat ain’t your lucky one,” Brad said.  

“Ha! Nope. I guess not. Hopefully I can change that though,” I replied.

“I doubt it,” Joe said with a smirk.

The elevator doors open and sunlight burst through the glass-paneled walls of the reception hall. Brad pointed to the door and gently pushed me towards the exit with one foot.

“We’ll see you in the morning, Tequila Kitten,” Joe said. He waved as the elevator doors closed.

I stepped out the door and realized we’d never left the Vegas strip. I felt lost.

 
 
Last week a new literary project (phenomenon?) was launched: The Adventures of Tequila Kitty. Thirteen writers were recruited to write one chapter each, only being allowed to see the chapter written before them. There were no limits on scope, style, or plot line. The only mandate was that one of the main characters of their chapter had to be a tequila swilling, alcoholic, sombrero wearing cat: Tequila Kitty, or Teqs. Chapter One: The Tequila-Mockingbird Incident can be found here

As part of this project, an interview will be posted within days of each author's chapter.

Chapter Two: Confessions of a Crazy Cat Lady was written by my good friend, the bartender poet, Aimee Hamel, who recently received her Bachelor's in Creative Writing-Poetry from Emerson College in Boston.

Picture
Aiimee and me moments before our mandatory Tequila shot.
Q & A with Aimee Hamel

Q: Tell me about what your poetry collection. When did you originally start it? How did it evolve? Was there a theme in your work you intended, or is it more just a collection of your works?

I actually started it a couple weeks before freshman year of college when I was talking to a future peer and he asked to see my work. I didn’t have anything to show so I wrote a poem in like 5 minutes to show him. An edited version of that poem did end up in my final poetry Thesis.

There was no intended theme, but as I went along it was pretty clear there was a theme forming. Each poem sort of had something to do with the trials and tribulations of being in love, and I ended up titling the collection after one of the poems: This Is Why I Choose to Be Alone.

Q: Give me a brief bio of your life:

I’ve been a New England girl all my life: grew up 40 minutes south of Boston, went to school at Emerson in Boston, and bartend in downtown Boston now. I’ve always been active in dance and sports, and in my older years am now heavily into fitness. I have always had a California state of mind and am currently saving up to move out there in a year or two.

Q: What would you say are your strengths as a writer?

I think my stuff is pretty easy to read, and I like that. I like that my poetry is complex but still understandable to most people, I think. I typically am drawn to write dramatic, depressing stuff, so once in a while when I attempt to write comedy (like this chapter in TK), and it’s actually funny to people, I definitely feel a sense of accomplishment.

Q: What are you working on now?

After taking almost a year off from writing after I was burnt out from writing my Thesis, Tequila Kitty got the ball rolling and I’m excited to start writing again. I’m going to try to publish some or all of my poetry collection, and I’m thinking about writing a short story.

Q: How has your upbringing influenced your work, if at all?

I don’t know if my upbringing really influenced it at all... I just remember as a 9 or 10 year old kid, always coming up with make-believe scenarios in the back yard with my neighbors. I also acted in middle school. I love a good story I guess.

Q: What inspires you the most (e.g. music, landscape/nature, written word, life, etc.)?

I’d say life. Weird stuff. Every time I see weird or creepy person, I want to write about him/her. A lot of times the weird stuff is the depressing stuff, so that’s why I think a lot of my writing is depressing, but I love it. This world is so strange and I just want to talk about it.

Q: Do you find there’s a difference in writing poetry or prose? Which comes easier to you? Which do you enjoy writing more?

I really do like them both. Lately i just love that you can tell a whole story in a couple of lines, with poetry.

Q: What are you reading right now?

As weird as it is, I managed to go all of high school and college not having read The Great Gatsby, so now that the movie is out I feel like I finally have to read the book. I literally don’t even know the story line, haha, so I’m interested to check it out.

Q: What authors, when you read them, make you think, “I’m giving up writing because I will never be as good as them?”

Q: I know this is the hated and borderline unanswerable question, but it has to be asked. Why do you write?

Unlike what I think a lot of people would say-- some nonsense along the lines of “I get the urge and I just HAVE to do it,”-- I don’t really feel any urge to do it. Half the time I convince myself I’m not that great of a writer. But then I eventually write something and at the end I find myself liking it and it’s always a pleasant surprise, like WAIT I actually am good at this, cool!

Q: If you weren’t writing, what else would you be doing?

Well over the past year that I wasn’t writing, I have been bartending and working out. Both of those things make me happy, and I’ll be continuing them even as I get back into writing.

Q: Name your top five favorite books and/or top five favorite authors?

Books: We Were the Mulvaneys, The Lovely Bones, Oryx and Crake, The Virgin Suicides........ Fifty Shades of Gray! I had to...

And now we get into the non-writerly, more silly-ish questions of the interview, as paraphrased from James Lipton of Inside the Actor’s Studio:

Q: What is your favorite drink?

Alcoholic: I don’t drink sugary drinks anymore since my diet, and I miss them!!! But technically my favorite would be Tequila Sunrise.

Non-Alcoholic: Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m obsessed with milk. Room temperature and drunk straight from the jug.

Q: What is your favorite curse word?

Cock sock

Q: Favorite food.

Clam chowder. I have to moderate my intake.

Q: What is your most vivid memory?

I’ve suppressed most memories before the age of like 14.

Q: What is your favorite sound?

Cat’s purring.

Q: What is your least favorite sound?

People chewing loud crunchy things. Like that one person in class who would bring carrots or a bag of Fritos during a lecture. Close your damn mouth or go away from me.

Q: If heaven exists, what do you think god will say upon meeting you at the pearly gates? What would you want it to say?

I hope that I will get enough done before this life is over so that he says “well done.” I hope he does not say, “#fail.”


 
 
He took off his sombrero and playfully placed it on my head. “And really, don’t be upset. You’re fine. There’s nothing wrong with loving your cat.”

He was right, there is nothing wrong with loving your cat. But there is something wrong with owning a different cat-print sweater for each day of the week, and there’s definitely something wrong with your kitchen floor being completely hidden beneath enough cat bowls and litter boxes to feed an army of cats, which I basically had. I had a problem, and that problem was all thanks to Tequila.
- excerpt from Chapter Two: Confessions of a Crazy Cat Lady, by Aimee Hamel

Welcome to the second installment of The Adventures of Tequila Kitty. The first chapter, written by Christopher Chik, introduced us to the hard-living, heavy-drinking, womanizing lifestyle of Tequila Kitty, or Teqs as he likes to be called, meow. (Chapter One: The Tequila Mockingbird Incident can be found here or here.)

Chapter Two: Confessions of a Crazy Cat Lady was written by my friend, the bartender poet, Aimee Hamel. And now for the continuation of the exquisite-corpse novel, The Adventures of Tequila Kitty...
Chapter 2: Confessions Of A Crazy Cat Lady

It’s always the dumbest, most obscure and unexpected little things that spark the long-awaited realization your life has become completely unreasonable. And it never happens early on, at opportune times when your dignity is still very much salvageable-- it just doesn’t work like that. You only receive that unforgiving jolt to your ass bone courtesy of the first jagged stone to greet you at Rock Bottom when you’re already way too far gone. I had that same jolt handed to me personally tonight by, of all things, vegetables.

I was sitting at my dining room table. Alone. Again.

Because, as usual, Teqs was three hours late for dinner and I’d resolved that I wouldn’t wait any more than an hour and a half for him this time.

I stared at his full bowl of Fancy Feast beside me as I pushed cold food around aimlessly on my own plate. I was thinking how I wasn’t going to put in the effort of getting him the good stuff anymore-- back to dry food he would go. I jerked my hand back from the table when my eyes settled over the edible art I’d created: Three slices of steamed carrots made for two eyes and a nose, with six string beans lined up on either side marking long green whiskers.

Just then Teqs crawled in through the front door cat flap with a guilty look etched on his muzzle.

I immediately got up and ran toward him like a mad woman, yanking my shoe off and chucking it at him.

“Tequila Kitty, what the hell have you done to me! Look at me! Waiting around for you like.. like I’m some pathetic little pet of yours! Whose owner clearly doesn’t give a shit about her! You’re the pet, goddamnit. You should be the one waiting on me! Oh my god, listen to me. What the hell am I saying?” I dropped to my knees and tears began to fall.

Teqs walked cautiously over to me, his claws defensively exposed.

“Don’t cry, meow. I’m sorry I’m late. Boss had a couple of mice at his house he needed me to take care of before I came home, ” he said.

He took off his sombrero and playfully placed it on my head. “And really, don’t be upset. You’re fine. There’s nothing wrong with loving your cat.”

He was right, there is nothing wrong with loving your cat. But there is something wrong with owning a different cat-print sweater for each day of the week, and there’s definitely something wrong with your kitchen floor being completely hidden beneath enough cat bowls and litter boxes to feed an army of cats, which I basically had. I had a problem, and that problem was all thanks to Tequila.

          
                                                                    ***
                                       
I wasn’t always this way. It feels like just yesterday that I was on top of the world, one of the most smoking hot blonde knockouts California had produced, and not afraid to let you know I knew it. I was living in Barstow and working in L.A. as a model when I met Tequila. I had been invited to a punk show in Corona by a friend of my agent who claimed he wanted to meet up and discuss a potential “business” deal. After he made a pass at me within the first fifteen minutes of my arrival, I had him swiftly removed from my vicinity and I decided to stay and enjoy the show by myself.

That was until I saw the most adorable little striped cat in a sombrero curled up in a seat at the bar. Cute animals were my kryptonite-- the only thing to make a no-bullshit independent woman go soft. I waited for him and his friend to leave the crowded bar and head for the door when I stopped him and suggestively asked him to come home with me, knowing I always get what I want. But I do love a challenge, and he declined, saying he and his friend had to leave for Vegas. He asked for a ride and I couldn’t say no. I ended up having him drop me off at home, and I let him take my Corvette the rest of the way. I wanted a reason to see him again, and I had such an expendable income then, it wasn’t much of a loss either way.

He did come back, about two weeks later. I had just gotten home from a photo shoot and was about to take a shower when my doorbell rang. I opened it to find Teqs, by himself, swaying drunkenly from side to side.

“Meow, I managed to keep the ‘Vette in one piece. You’re welcome,” he purred, tossing the keys into my hand. He started hiccuping and I took the bottle of Cuervo from his paws before it smashed all over the front porch.

“Tequila, are you okay? Where’s your friend?” I asked.

He brushed me off with a wave of his claw. “He’s got a thing. Look, meow, I’ll be honest with you. Vegas didn’t go so well for me. I was up about $5,500 for a good while, but I lost it all on a bad hand. I’ve got nowhere else to go. Do you think...?”

I cut him off, finishing his sentence for him. “Would you like to stay with me for a while? I could use some company around here, honestly.”

“You sure, meow? I wouldn’t want to impose.” Just as the last words left his little lips he started dry heaving and I ushered him inside.

“C’mon, Teqs, the bathroom is this way,” I said.

“I’m fine-- meow. It’s just-- a hairball.” he managed to choke out.

                                                                                   ***           

That night we went out and purchased the “bare” necessities-- Teqs insisted he needed nothing more than these: litter box, food and water bowls, and a big jar of catnip. Toy mice and laser pointers were of no use to Teqs. As long as he had his ‘nip and a handle of tequila handy at all times, he was stimulated and happy.

I had come up with what I thought was a suitable arrangement for us: he didn’t owe me any money for the room and board. It was on me. In exchange, he would sleep in my bed at night, playing up his cutesy-cuddly-kitty side to my satisfaction. He was still allowed to drink and smoke; he wouldn’t be Tequila if he didn’t. But he would have to stop the gambling and partying, starting immediately. I was going to do my best to make Teqs a good house cat. My house cat.

He agreed without any objections, and the first few weeks were great. I continued modeling, and Teqs scored a job promoting some brand of tequila, going around to different liquor stores in the area as a spokesperson and giving out samples. It was the perfect job for him; people got a kick out of taking free shots from a cute little cat in a sombrero. The stuff went fast. And Teqs was always home at night to greet me when I walked in the door, nuzzling my leg then jumping into his chair at the set table, ears perked waiting for dinner time. I poured some turkey gravy cat chow into his bowl while he rambled about his day.

“I’m tellin’ you, they love me over there, meow. Boss is telling me I’m in line for a promotion within the next couple weeks, whatever that means.” He dove into his bowl face first, going on when he came up for air. “Yeah, he says it’s time the rest of Cali, maybe the world, got a taste of the animal promoter craze we started. I don’t know if that means I’ll be traveling? We’ll see I guess.”

“That’s awesome, Teqs,” I said.

I was genuinely happy for him, at first. But three weeks later, when his boss did offer him the promotion, things started going straight downhill.

The first problem was all the cats.

Now that Teqs’ job required him to travel to bigger liquor stores around the state, and sometimes to other states, he started being inconsistent and coming home later and later. Some nights he wouldn’t come home at all, and the next day I’d see him in pictures online, out partying and drinking.

When I asked him what that was about, he went on the defense. “Meow. It was for one of the promotions I was doing. Boss needed me to work the crowd a little at a club. Do you want me to succeed at my job or not? I thought you supported me getting my life back on track.”

“I do,” I said. “But I’m not sure that partying and drinking all night long is helping you get your life on track...”

Before the conversation could go any further, he changed the subject. “You know what I think we need? For both of us?”

“What,” I said.

“Another cat. Maybe a kitten. As much as I care about you, and as great of a roommate as you’ve been, I’ve been craving more feline interaction. I think it’s instinctual. And it would be great for you when I’m out working late nights. You’d have another little buddy to keep you company--keep my spot on the bed warm for me,” he said.

“I don’t know about that, Teqs. The upkeep and everything... I still have a job too you know,” I said.

“I know you do,” he said, “but I promise there’s no more upkeep involved than there is having just one cat. Trust me.”

So that weekend, I went to the shelter, and I got myself another cat. In keeping with the liquor theme, I named her Ginny, Gin for short. She had a beautiful white and black coat with a brown belly. Teqs continued on his late night work grind, making it home in time for dinner maybe four nights out of the week. And for a while, Ginny filled that void just as he said she would. For me, that is. Him needing another cat for his own personal reasons was bullshit; he was never home and he never paid attention to her when he was.

After a another couple weeks, Ginny just wasn’t doing it for me like she was at first; I missed Tequila. I called him on a break at work and told him how depressed I was feeling. He seemed to know just the fix.

“Meow, I know you might think this sounds crazy, but I think you need another cat. Everyone I know who has three has never been happier.” It did sound crazy, but so was I. So I took his advice.

From that point on, it became a cycle. The more Teqs stayed out partying and doing God knows what, the more cats I brought home. One night Teqs came home with a diamond encrusted collar, I assume given to him by another woman, and the next morning I went out and bought three more cats. I truly believed that when I reached a certain number, the pain would go away. But it didn’t. And before I knew it I was a former model turned shelter volunteer. After so many visits to the shelter, I couldn’t stand by and watch so many neglected cats with no home. I figured if I worked there, I could take home a majority of them and no one would try and stop me.

That was the first way in which Tequila made me crazy. The second, and maybe even worse than the first, was Tequila’s jealousy issue.

For such an outgoing and flirty animal, he was extremely overprotective and jealous when it came to me and guys. My reassurances only angered him more.

“Tequila,” I said one night after I’d told him a customer at the shelter had given me his phone number, “you know no man--or woman-- could ever replace you. You’re my baby. But a woman has... needs. Which I’m sure you’d like to fulfill but it just doesn’t work that way. You understand what I’m saying right?”

Teqs was already popping the lid of his second straight bottle of tequila; liquor could either calm or worsen his nerves--we’d see which one it was this time.

“Frankly, meow, I don’t think I do. I protect you, I love you, I keep you warm at night. If some shmuck wants to take my place, he’s gonna have to do it over my dead carcass,” he said. “I’ve had enough of these guys trying to steal you away from me; it’s time I put a stop to it.”

“What guys?” I interjected. “Teqs, you are aware I used to be a model right? There were guys back then. Now... I haven’t been on a date in almost a year! No guy wants to date a girl who wears cat sweaters!”

“Hold on,” he said. “You don’t like the sweaters...?”

Teqs was referring to the sweaters he’d had printed for me for every holiday since he’d been living with me. Each one was an obnoxiously bright knit with a silk screen of him in his trusty sombrero. When he first starting gifting them to me I tried not to wear them, but he caught right on and got upset with me. Since then I’d worn them at least once a week. At least.

I knew that was just one more of his ploys to keep me from dating. As if the other issues of me having a house full of cat condos and a repertoire of conversational skills that started and ended with my cats names and respective quirks weren’t already achieving that goal.

It wasn’t until I actually landed a date, and endured the humiliation of Tequila showing up in the middle of said date and ruining everything, that I officially decided the jealousy thing had to stop.

I met a guy by the water cooler at my gym, as cliche as that sounds, and we got to talking. I ended up asking him over to dinner at my house--I don’t know why I ever thought that would be a good idea-- and he accepted. I didn’t tell Teqs for obvious reasons, and I planned it for a night I knew Teqs would probably be staying over his friend’s house after a post-promo party.

The guy--Adam, his name was-- showed up right on time, flowers in hand, and I was swooning. I couldn’t help it; it’d been too long. Everything went perfectly all night; I’d managed to hide all the cat paraphernalia in the garage so he wasn’t freaked out. He had just finally put his arm around me during a movie when Teqs strolled in through the flap, pupils growing as soon as he saw a male was present. It was quick, what he did, but the impact of it was lasting. He didn’t even say a word when he saw us-- just continued his stroll over to where Adam’s shoes were beside the couch, squatted over one, and did his business. When he finished, he looked straight at Adam and said, “Come back any time, dude. Love to have you.”

If looks could kill, every one of that cat’s nine lives would be used up when I was done with him. I threw him out that night. I couldn’t stand to even look at him and his smug little face. Even when he was being an asshole he was cute, and that pissed me off the most.

I don’t know where he went after I kicked him out-- maybe to another girl’s house, maybe he walked the streets like a stray for a while to see how much he could milk out of people. All I know is I didn’t see him for a while, and he dodged all my efforts to contact him. It wasn’t until I ran into him at--where else-- a liquor store when I was buying wine for a work holiday party. I had been bumped up to management at the shelter, and I was in charge of the beverages.

Tequila was in line with a handful of nips of assorted types of liquor. I knew he couldn’t be doing well financially if he was going for the mixture method. He tried to pretend like he didn’t see me, but I chased him down in the parking lot.

“Tequila, stop. Talk to me. Where have you been? Why won’t you talk to me?” I demanded.

“Meow, I don’t have time for this... I gotta be somewhere,” he said.

“Where. You don’t look like you’re dressed to ‘be somewhere,’” I said.

“Just leave me alone. Look. You’re better off without me. I deserved what I got for treating you that way after all you’ve done for me. Look at me, roaming around like a stray, I probably have fleas I don’t even know about yet. This is the life I should be stuck with.”

I couldn’t stand to see him like this. I didn’t even respond. I simply walked over to the dumpster behind the store and picked up an empty beer box, tipping it sideways and gesturing for Tequila to climb in.

“C’mon Teqs. Get in, we’re going home,” I said.

“No... I don’t think so. I can’t,” he mumbled.

“You know you can’t resist a nice empty box,” I waved the box around a bit more and he hopped in, our feud resolved at least for now.

 
                                                              ***           

He continued to stay with me, but not much more than a week later I was already regretting it. He came home even less often than he used to, and he never gave me any information on where he was. Every night I was back to moping around in my deep depression, right up until that moment at the dinner table when I had the vegetable-induced revelation that I had reached a frightening level of crazy.

As I sat there kneeling in my foyer being consoled by my cat, I realized I couldn’t fix my problems by sending him away. I was the one that had to get away. From all of it.

I packed my bags that night and left for Vegas. I had no idea at the time what I would do out there, but things fell into place quickly. I started waitressing at a club on the strip, slowly breaking back into the modeling industry since underneath all those sweaters, I still had my looks. I also started doing a stand-up comedy side show, which I named “Confessions of a Crazy Cat Lady,” because if I couldn’t laugh at myself and all the ridiculous shit I’d gotten myself into, then I was seriously in trouble.

One night, in the middle of one of my shows, I noticed a small sombrero floating somewhere in the middle of the crowd. It moved to the front row to take a seat and I realized Tequila was beneath it, with a pretty girl on each paw. He winked at me, and I was genuinely glad to see him happy, doing the things he did best.

If pressed to deduce a moral of the story from all of this, I’d probably advise anyone who spots a furry little cat in human garb sitting at a bar to look away, and never look back. But at the same time, should you really be taking advice from me? I mean, I shared milkshakes with my cats for god’s sake.