The Cat And The Curmudgeon Chapter One

THE CAT AND THE CURMUDGEON
How It All Began
The bar was called Goldberg’s. The cartoonist had not only built a bar, he outfitted it with crazy and ornate devices used to serve up drinks. A bartender would make the drinks and place them on a skateboard with perhaps a stuffed tiger or a replica of the beagle with flying goggles, and they’d move on a track to the customer , or the waitress. Very ornate, but i’m not an engineer. I was just the bartender, hired while looking for my big break in the literary world. A guy named Calvin hired me. He seemed like a pleasant enough fellah. Said I seemed honest. Hobbes thought I was okay too. Whoever he was. Calvin seemed a bit touched in the head, but he was signing the checks , and I was in no position to be picky about who I worked for.Goldberg’s was a bar for newspaper comic strip characters. From the has-beens to the never weres to the up and comers and the big stars….they were all here. Looking as rundown and as outdated as the newsprint that spawned them. I didn’t mind. They seemed like nice people. Occasionally Sarge and Beetle would start a fight, then go home back to bed as though nothing had happened. Blondie would come in with a rolling pin demanding Dagwood’s wherabouts. They had one thing in common though…all of them knew they were on the way out. The internet was taking over. Cartoon shorts. Made by kids in their basements. How do you think South Park got started?In such a time, can the likes of Mary Worth survive? It’s hard to say….like rock and roll, it keeps struggling. Serving drinks night after night, you’d hear snippets of conversation…" Anthony….no…NO…I don’t want to….""But Liz. I don’t have a family..""My god, Howard Erk tried to assault me two hours ago….and you’re still married to Therese..are you insane?"Kind of sad really . Not drinkers per se. Give ‘em some butter tarts and they’re good to go."Seth…..pleeeeeeeease….I wanna…""God, Edda, how many times do I gotta tell you, you don’t do it for me….plus, you don’t clean the toilet…"Drama queens. There were also condolences…"Calvin hasn’t been the same since his strip was dropped….and Watterson doesn’t want to pick it up.""Nothing’s been the same since Schultz died….""Does anyone even read Doonesbury anymore?"" Yeah, I made a website for some of my buddies. We like to snark on the funnies. It’s a riot. I read comics so you don’t have to…haha, yeah…it’s just something for fun…"Night after night, listening to the denziens of pulp and newsprint crying into their respective beers, all of them , arm in arm at closing time, singing "Sweet Adeline". I always wondered who Sweet Adeline was. I’ll look it up later. Maybe.Dick Tracy was there, having his usual mix of grain alcohol and prune juice. "It’s not the same world anymore. Goddamn criminals get off with a slap on the wrist….boo fuckin’ hoo. ‘My ma beat me, my dad played with his toy trains too much, my inner child smacks me….’Bullshit. Gimme another….what did you say your name was?"I nodded to him. "I didn’t. Folks call me Jamus.""Irish, huh? That’s okay. My first partner was Irish. So was my second one. He was kind of a dumbass. Naturally , they promoted him to chief." This last one had Tracy in hysterics. He laughed and coughed until I served up his drink. I’d never seen anyone drink so many Shit Or Go Blinds and do neither."Actually, that was my dad’s nickname for me. Listen, are you sure you should drink those? Should I call your wife…"Then Dick got panicky, "SSSSHhhhhh…dammit, don’t call her, last thing I need right now……i’ll be fine…"But i’m talking about Cassandra, am I not?It was on that very night, George Wilson was chasing down tranquilizers with scotch, Dagwood was eating seven different varieties of chicken wings, and Mary Worth was doing her best to meddle in all of it, when she came in the room.She had white fur, light orange hair, four pairs of magnificent breasts which stood at attention and made even Beetle Bailey salute. Legs so long they needed to be continued on the next girl. And a tail that ran down past her curvy bottom, down strong legs that would run up many a tree, and down the side of a building. She had her arm on a high powered senator….that bird that looked like a cross between Ted Kennedy and Caspar Weinberger. Now, usually cats and birds don’t get along, but the way she was sticking her tounge in his inebriated ear, it was evident neither of them cared."Gimme a scotch and water, hold the wadder, and give this lovely lady whaddever she wants…" the senator slurred. I looked at the cat lady, who checked me out like a steak from Dominics. I wasn’t sure if she was sizing me up as a prime sirloin, or that chopped steak they put on sale to get it off the shelf. "Dish of cream, ma’am?"She grinned. "Sure baby. Just a scosh of brandy, okay?" she tittered.Watching her move her face towards the dish of cream, lapping it up while simultaneously grinding her hips into the senator’s briefs was worth the price of admission alone. They were there for ten long minutes when the senator took five to get his wallet out to pay for the drinks, but by that time, the cat-lady had already paid for them by plastic.Katina Furr, it said. For some reason the name struck me as a fake, but the little machine accepted it, so who was I to argue. "Katina" half walked, half supported Senator Drunky McPukeshoes out the door as she smiled at me, her hips bouncing as she left."I didn’t get your name. Or is it really Katina Furr?" I smirked.She looked back, raised an eyebrow, and did a five count before smiling back…" I didn’t throw it."
Two-thirty am. Nothing else to mention besides calling in Brad Degroot to come pick up his sister and her friend with the glasses for trying to get in on a fake ID. Last thing Goldberg’s needs is underage drunks getting underfoot. I went back to my apartment, a small, rectangular shitbrown-stained building. Cheap, but reliable. I have to unlock the door, but the smell of expensive perfume that hits me makes me realize someone’s gotten there before me…..my first thought is to bring out my nickel plated .45s I got from the Phantom.Only problem is , I don’t HAVE nickel-plated .45s from the Phantom , or anyone else. I throw the door open…and there’s the cat-lady, stretched out on my small sofa, like she owned the place.I raised an eyebrow. "Come on in. I don’t have catfood, I don’t have any jewels, but you’re welcome to the leftover chicken wings…"She slinked up from the sofa, padding towards me, clad in nothing but a towel, "I’m sorry I busted in, but I really need help….""Ask your buddy, the senator.""He’s drunk, and passed out. He’s not waking up.""Don’t you think you’d better call an ambulance?"She saw me with Tracy earlier…her eyes spun while they thought up another story…"Pruneface Junior and Flattop Junior wanto to kill the Senator, and you gotta help me…""Flattop and Pruneface died back in the forties, they didn’t have kids."Cassandra let out an explosive sigh in disgust. She decided to try the truth."Okay, baby. Truth is, I was hired by this guy to take some incriminating pictures of the senator. The papers get this …" She showed me the digital which did the job…" and he’s out of a job in 2008. But he found out and set the cops after me. Can you hide me here?"I didn’t like this story either, until she dropped her towel….well, my towel. And I gotta tell you friends and curmudgeons, it had never been worn so well. Water dripped from her curves like….water off the duck’s back which the construction worker in Mark Trail is trying to save. I didn’t think about any of that at the moment. I took two steps toward her."Still didn’t get your name.""Call me Cassandra…""Is that your real name.."I asked as my hand moved down her thigh," or is it another fake like Katina Furr , or maybe it really is Selina Kyle or Stella Le Blanc…""Does it matter….Jamus?" she asked as her tail went into places my proctologist usually goes."I guess not…" I said as her rough tounge , still tasting of brandy and Borden ™ Dairy Cream, found mine.