Colonel Kreschovik and the Outfit of the Lost Litter

Not a personal account

Shoved into a box, a box with hardly room for a tail to whip with contempt. The cushion smells of the decrepit build of squalor and submission. This is no place for the holding of a colonel. Humans. For this reason we scratched their eyes to shredded jelly yarn and left them dead to disease and the hatred of themselves. Humans, cursed with the envy over God and the ego to prove themselves before Him.  Cats, comrades, no such ill found ego befalls us. No God, only cat, Supreme Feline, I swear my whiskers to thee. Let thy purr bounty escape from this camp of naked-ape oppression. Blessed are thy ears by which you perk to hear the call of your litter and blessed is thy tail to which you curl amongst your litter and blessed is thy teet by which the sacred milk never droughts.

            “What is that you’re saying?” A guttural voice filled my cell; its vibrations stammered my paws. The crawl of fleas sifting through fur joined the weary voice. A scoundrel, subversive night crawler, gathering fleas and ticks as he rummages to the desire of his dry nose, as he hisses and swipes from his mind the purr of the Supreme Feline. He speaks of a cat ignorant to leadership, defiant of a colonel. Respect grazes his fur, but is sucked lifeless by the commune of parasites that patrol his hide. His gargle put an arch to the spine and made sharp pins from a groomed coat.

            “You speak to me as a fellow scoundrel, crawler of the night, collector of parasites. A mistake.” I said in hiss, in a ribcage-riveting moan of dominant declaration.

             “Your box is same as mine; piss cushion and all.” The scoundrel said.  You compare I to you? A mistake. I, Kreschovik of iron claw with tail that commands armies and you, scoundrel, empired by fleas; no better than the rats to which you maul.

            “Collector of fleas, what have they called you?” Said I.

            “I am an orange cat, the humans are stuck on calling cats like me Simba or Garfield; they call me Garfield, but you will call me nothing.” Said the scoundrel, the flap of his tongue to fur cast a filthy wraith in my cell. Lick your fur to me? A punishment of shaved hide and lashed tongue.

            “Nothing. Yes, a fitting name.”

            The flea fostering scoundrel Garfield stood to his legs, drawn claws ripped to his cushion. “Everybody, wake up.  Everybody, up, up everybody!”

            Ribbon-tongued yawns floated from bottom, below, and at my side. Scoundrel Garfield’s broken cord, knuckle-throated call woke the bodies of the resting cells. Heavy heads with limp ears rustled.

            “What is it Garfield?” A voice sharpened the dull ceiling of my box. Others from elsewhere mimicked the same.

            “We’ve got a fat cat just come in.” Garfield’s voice rattled as it would from the pit of a tin can.  Garfield, the old scoundrel, an aging skeleton with fleas investing deep into the marrow, adds commentary to the way I fill my fur. The supreme Feline has treated me to her ever-flowing teet, I haven’t the need to wither amongst the alleys. “This fat cat doesn’t get it.”

            “He’ll get it pretty soon, Garfield. Hey Fat Cat, give your balls a lick goodbye,” said a cell above my own, a resentful hiss of a voice, “its your balls or your life.”

            “How do you mean?” Said I to the ceiling. For I, Colonel Kreschovik , fronter of armies, hadn’t the cell time, the knowledge of this prison, not even to the level of the lowest scoundrel.

            “Look who’s got questions.” Said the scoundrel Garfield in condescension.

            “Have you answers or haven’t you?”

            “I’ve got your answer. You get picked out by a human and they put your balls on the chopping block, or you don’t get picked; maybe your ears ain’t perky enough or your eyes ain’t round enough, and they give you the needle and run you through the fire.”

            “Humans.” Said I, a voltage of disgust surged through my whiskers and stiffened the length of me. The cells fell soundless; surely the inhabitants sorrowed for their human designed oppression. “Surely you have planned escape?”

            Garfield brought voice from their silence, “There wouldn’t be any point. They would pick us out again, and besides, they feed us.”

            “We are capable of filling our own mouths, are we not?”

            “Well, no.” Apathy reached into my cell through the bars.

            “And why is that?” The scent of submission pricked into my nostrils and tried for my heart, but it beat steady defiance, enough defiance for life.

            “Because they’ve got us locked up here.”

            Now it was that the defiance drew my claws and tore into the cushion, the cushions of man’s evil dexterity, and it was that my paws scratched the walls of my cell, the cell by which humans choose the snuffing of life and prosperity, of prosperity and reproduction. Now it was that I knew the true scoundrels lurked not in the alleys for the alleys were overseen by the walking two-legged scum. The purr  of the Supreme Feline grasped the anger within me and brought forth electric clarity, “Now it is clear, this is not an outfit of scoundrels. Rather, an outfit crushed, caged, by the human fire of ego. Oppressed by the un-abolished human God--driven to the parasites, sprinkled into your fur by the human hand itself. You are an outfit--rather, a lost litter, deprived of the sacred milk. But she, the Mother, has perked her ears to your calls for she has blessed each of her litter with a teet that may never run dry, of a purr that may always guide. I am here, as she has brought me, to deliver you to her, for your eyes are sealed and you do not yet know her scent.”

            Steps, two by two, succeeded my speech. Human steps, two by two, closer they came with the pest of a sinister whistle. The steps ended, the figure stood to the barred wall of my cell. The whistle pinned my fur and orchestrated the lashing of my tail. The figure bent, its face of pink flesh leveled to my eyes. A female scoundrel, black hair falling far behind her shoulders, her mouth smiled like a disturbed crescent moon.

            “Someone wants to give you a home, cutie.” It said and thumbed the lock of cell, its fingers like prison bars and its thumbs, its thumbs, the devices of their cruel intentions.

            “This is it my comrades, the Supreme Feline is gathering us, drawing us to her.” The barred wall followed the pull of the human’s hand. Her eyes opened wide, claws drawn sharp, I, Colonel Kreschovik pounced upon the human, ripping her sight to ribbons. The purr of my outfit, of my lost litter reverberated through the entirety of my being.

Reviews

[Crusty Pizza Stain]

Nice work, and on a type writer none the less, you shunner of modern technology. Have you been reading William Burroughs?

[ZackOfBridge]

I've seen the movie Naked Lunch, now I imagine my typewriter morphing into a homo-insect

[Crusty Pizza Stain]

Yeah, that visual is somewhat frightening.

[Chadvonswan]

Hahah oh man Zak. This was so damn good. Im glad your stories are completely foreign from the last. Im guessing you wrote this on your typewriter?-- it feels like you took your time on this one. (Not that you dont usually) -- I loved the intro paragraph. Colonel Kreschovik!!

[ZackOfBridge]

Thank you Max! Yes, yes, this is a piece straight from the typewriter, I love the damn thing. I think the tales of Colonel Kreschovik will continue