Cat Scratch Fever

A large cross with the figure of Jesus stared down at me from the wall of the shabby apartment. This
particular Jesus seemed more tormented than most. He was badly emaciated with thin, stick-like arms
and limbs that bulged obscenely at the knees and elbows. His ribs were clearly visible and his face was
drawn and hollow. He wore a vicious crown of thorns. Real nails were hammered into his wrists and
ankles to hold him onto the cross. Dabs of red paint were added to the simple wooden carving to
depict the blood dripping from his head, hands and feet. He looked more like a Holocaust victim than
a god. His eyes were open and he looked down at me as if to accuse me of the unholy crime. “You
did this to me” he seemed to say. “Fuck you” I replied.
Obviously, I was unmoved. I came to an agreement with god a long time ago. I don’t believe in him
and he doesn’t believe in me. So far, the arrangement seems to be working well for the both of us.
But god’s a slippery customer and he’s not beyond pushing the terms of our agreement. Even though
he doesn’t believe in me, he just can’t seem to stop fucking with me. Fortunately, I don’t care whether
anyone believes in me or not. I believe in myself and that’s enough. I’ve made the same arrangement
with humans as I’ve made with god. But like god, people just can’t seem to stop fucking with me.
Take the asshole who was sitting at the table in front of me. He was rambling on about why he
couldn’t pay his debts. Debts that I was being paid to collect. I tuned him out after the first 30
seconds because I already knew that he was fucking with me. I maintained a stoic silence. My plan
was to let him talk until he ran out of steam and then hit him with everything I had.
I sat back and watched him sweat. People-watching is a hobby of mine and I’m pretty good at it. The
secret is to stay emotionally detached, otherwise, your judgement is impaired by what you want or
expect that person to be. That’s what usually happens when people meet me. Most people don’t like
me and that’s their problem. But every once in a while I meet someone who’s looking for a friend or a
lover. So they delude themselves into thinking they see something in me that just isn’t not there. I’m
an obliging guy, so I’ll drink my new friend’s liquor, if he’s a guy, or get laid, if she’s a woman.
Eventually the blinders come off and they see me as I really am. That’s when they split but it’s usually
fun while it lasts. As for me, I don’t expect or want people to be anything but their flawed selves so
I’m able to see people as they really are. Makes me good at my job.
I watched the fear bead up on Raami’s forehead and cling to his shirt. He was slim, 32 years old, dark
skinned, thick Indian accent and he stank. I’m a pretty big guy at 260 pounds and I stink too so I
didn’t hold that against him. But he smelt like a coward, and the statue of Jesus confirmed it. He was
probably afraid that I was going to beat him up. That’s always good in my business. But there was
something else hidden in his fear. I decided that he was sweating because he actually had money and
he was afraid that I was going to take it from him. He was right.
Raami talked, begged, whined and pleaded for 25 uninterrupted minutes. An excellent effort but
nowhere near the record. His performance was fuelled by his fear of silence. Every time he paused to
give me an opportunity to respond or at least acknowledge his tale of financial woe, I filled the room
with more silence. He finally came to the point where he was more afraid of his own voice than he was
of the silence. I gave him a final 90 seconds of quiet contemplation. Very impressive; it’s tough to sit
in quiet company that long. Of course, hostility always helps make silence more tolerable.
Finally, I spoke. “Here’s what you’re going to do.” I told him softly with menacing slowness.
“You’re going to reach into your pocket and give me your wallet.”
“I am not going to give you my wallet.”
I stood up and leaned so close to his face that his smell made my eyes water. I took a deep breath and
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bellowed with all my might. “GIVE ME YOUR WALLET!”
Raami shook with fear but managed to maintain a sliver of backbone. “I will telephone the police.” he
squeaked.
I reached inside my jacket and pulled out my pocket portfolio. I withdrew a legal document, unfolded
it slowly and slammed it down on the table with all my might. Raami and the table shuddered with
equal severity. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS ASSHOLE? WELL DO YOU?” Spittle
flew freely from my mouth as I worked up a head of steam. I forced the veins in my neck to bulge out
in an effort to turn my face an unpleasant shade of purple. “This is a judgement from a court of law.
A Court of Law! It says that I have the right to collect $9,678 from you and I mean to collect it. Do
you know what the cops will see when they walk in that door? They’ll see a black man who is
refusing to co-operate with a white man, a white man acting as an agent of the courts. Cops in this
town aren’t as nice as I am. They’ll bash in the side of your head just for sport. The law’s on my side
so don’t play games with me, asshole. Just give me your wallet.” I returned to a softly menacing tone.
Raami knew when he was licked. He reached into pocket and gave me his wallet. I opened it and
pulled out $56 in cash and three credit cards. I removed a receipt book and a small pair of scissors
from my portfolio. I wrote out a receipt for the $56 and cut each credit card neatly in half. “Here’s a
receipt for the money in your wallet. You’ve lost the right to own a credit card. I’m going to do you a
favour. I’m mailing these cards back to the issuing companies informing them that you are no longer
responsible for any debts incurred on these cards. Now go get your chequebook.”
Raami remained obedient. He walked to the kitchen counter and pulled a chequebook out of the
drawer.
“Now write me out 18 postdated cheques for $540 each. Make the first one dated October first.”
“But I will not be able to live on what you have left me. After I pay my rent I will have no money to
buy groceries.”
“Learn to eat cat food. You can go back to eating cats in a year and a half.” I paused as he wrote out
my cheques. “If any of these cheques bounce, for any reason, I’ll have you arrested.” I warned him.
When he was done, I looked over the cheques and put them in my portfolio. “I’ll let myself out,” I
said as I walked out the door.
Even though I was alone, I made sure the expression on my face didn’t change as I stood in the
hallway waiting for the elevator. I was following the 200-yard rule and would not display any emotion
until I was at least 200 yards from the client. I finally allowed myself a smile when I got into my car.
There is nothing sweeter than squeezing a client until he coughs up some cash. I do it for the pure joy
of it. The credit card companies give me a $25 reward for each card I chopped up. The real money
though, was in those post dated cheques. In theory, I would pocket $270 every month for the next 18
months. In practice, the cheques always start to bounce after a couple of months and I would have to
pay Raami another visit.
Driving to my office, I popped some Country music into the tape deck. Because I was in a good
mood, I sang along with a hurtin’ song about a fool that loved a fool. I pulled into the industrial plaza
that housed my office before the tape had time to end.
The office wasn’t glamorous but was cheap; it had free parking and was close to all the places I need to
be. I unlocked the door, flipped on the lights and sat down at my desk. The office was small with just
enough room for a desk, a couch and a filing cabinet. It wasn’t really what you would call messy.
Let’s just say it had a nice lived-in look. The message light on the phone maintained its modesty and
refused to flash at me. Nobody calls a collection agent. Credit card companies mail me their files,

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lawyers fax me the details of outstanding lawsuits and debtors feign autism. The phone was for
outgoing calls only.
I put Raami’s postdated cheques into my strong box. It was 7:30 so I had a couple of hours to kill
before my next appointment. I was meeting D’Arcy Quinn at his favourite bar at 10:00 that night.
D’Arcy owed $27,000 in credit card debts. By all appearances, he’s the nicest guy you’d ever want to
meet. But he has a real problem with the concept of debt. He believes that anyone who lends him
money ought to know better. And he’s right, but if they did know better, I’d be out of a job. D’Arcy
has become master in the art of skipping debts. He moves several times a year and changes jobs every
time somebody garnishees his wages. Every time he makes a move, he leaves a trail of unpaid bills,
past due rent, and no forwarding address. He has one flaw, though. He has a favourite bar. It was
Thursday night, so that’s where I’ll find him.
I stretched out on the couch and proceeded to do nothing. I do nothing better than anyone else alive. I
don’t sleep. I don’t look out the window. I don’t listen to the crickets. I don’t think about the day just
passed or the night ahead. I just lay there, peaceful in my emptiness.
I love doing nothing. I was always disappointed at being ordinary. So when I found that nobody else
does nothing, I was thrilled. The thrill turned to delight when I found out that doing nothing really
pisses women off. No woman can tolerate the sight of me lying down, deaf, dumb and blind to the
world around me. I credit my unique talent with keeping me single. A woman’s reaction to me doing
nothing is a litmus test of her character and our relationship. The most common and most irritating
reaction is the Ballbuster reaction. Ballbusting women take one look at me doing nothing and demand
that I talk to them, or help them with the dishes, or pick up my socks. Anything as long I do
Something. Ballbusters eventually have a core melt down and storm out of my life about 15 seconds
after I tell them to “Shut the fuck up!”
The opposite of the Ballbuster is the Doormat. Doormat women generally cope a whole lot better. In
the first place, they actually shut the fuck up when you tell them to shut the fuck up. Doormats also
tend to think that they’ve done something wrong so they’ll leave me alone for a while. But eventually
they just crack under the strain and ask me if I want something to eat, or bring me a drink, or try to rub
my neck or shoulders. Doormats never leave voluntarily. I usually have to throw them out after a
couple of weeks.
Space Cadets are the most unpredictable and can be the most annoying type of woman. Cadets have
called me everything from a zen master to a vegetable but they’re usually thrilled with my state of
nothingness. Still, the second I start doing nothing they’re apt to run around the apartment lighting
candles and burning incense while chanting some new-age piece of crap. Either that or they think I’ve
died and they run out of the apartment, screaming.
Nature doesn’t abhor a vacuum, women do. So, in the end I’ve learned that I’m happiest doing
nothing by myself.
I did nothing until about 9:30 and then got up and drove to meet D’Arcy at Stinky McGee’s. Despite
the lateness of the hour and darkness of the night, I put my sunglasses on before I entered the bar. I
don’t like anyone to know what I’m thinking by looking into my eyes. Besides, I think it looks cool.
Stinky’s was a fairly common type of roadhouse bar. Hardwood covered the floor, walls and bar. The
music ran toward Springsteen and Mellancamp. In an attempt to live up to its zany name, a wide
assortment of foul smelling icons were nailed to the walls and hung from the rafters. A quick glance
revealed a stuffed skunk, an old toilet seat, a petrified wheel of unspecified cheese, a string of garlic,
and some old socks. There was one poster of a garbage dump and another of a wimpy guy, in a frilly
apron, crying as he chops an onion. A cartoon drawing of a dog relieving himself into a woman’s shoe

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adorned the hallway leading to the bathroom. I had intended to eat dinner but found that the decor did
nothing to improve my appetite.
The floor was covered, wall to wall with peanut shells. The crunching of my footsteps drowned out
the music. As I sat down at the bar, the source of the peanut shells was revealed as the bartender set a
bucket of peanuts in front of me.
“Do I look like a squirrel to you?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Then take away the fucking peanuts and bring me a Jack Daniels, neat.”
I looked around the bar and saw D’Arcy and five of his friends partying at a large table in the middle
of the room. D’Arcy’s pals looked like regular blue-collar guys. I’d need to neutralize them before I
did my number on D’Arcy. I was in no rush; let them get a little more into their cups before I stir
things up.
The bartender returned with my drink. I belted it back in one shot. I needed some liquid courage
before I ordered food. “What can I eat here that won’t kill me?”
“Try the burger and swap the fries for onion rings. The rings aren’t any less fatal but they taste a
whole lot better.”
“Deal, but put bacon and cheese on the burger.”
The bartender seems impressed, “I like a man who lives on the edge.” he replied.
“And bring me another Jack.”
As the bartender turned to punch my order into the register, I continued to watch D’Arcy and his
friends. They were putting back the beer like it was free. Evidence of what might have been a plate of
nachos littered both the table and its occupants. The boys were engaged in 90's style machismo. This
type of testosterone driven men would have preferred to establish their status by applying a healthy
beating to their friends and rivals. But barroom brawls are bad for business and fell out of favour forty
years ago. At best, brawlers are banned from their favourite bar. At worst, they spend a little time as
wards of the state.
D’Arcy’s group was engaged in an evolved form of head butting. Instead of physical abuse, they flung
verbal abuse at each other in an effort to solicit a rise from the victim and a laugh from the peanut
gallery. I could hear the schoolyard insults from half way across the room. The fat guy was an idiot.
The greaser was a fag. One guy was pussy whipped, another was an asshole. All pretty lame stuff.
Apparently D’Arcy was ugly. Not that he looked any uglier than his friends. It was more likely that
he was more vain about his looks. It could also be a reaction to D’Arcy being more successful with
women, but I doubt it. Women cost money and D’Arcy didn’t have any.
The point of all these insults is to make the other guy react. Any reaction revealed a weakness and
increased the ferocity of the attack until the victim suffered a reduction of status so severe that he is
forced to fight or flee. The guys at D’Arcy’s table seemed like lightweights. Their insults lacked any
real bite. They were either cowards or not bright enough to come up with anything better. Probably a
little of both.
The arrival of my food did not distract me from observing my prey. But the first bite of my burger
brought me back to the reality of my situation; I had ordered food at a place called Stinky’s. The
bartender was right about the rings but the burger tasted as though the main ingredient was crushed
peanut shells. I decided to keep one eye on D’Arcy and the other on the burger.

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“Is there going to be trouble?”
I turned to see a woman speaking to me from a table next to the bar. She was tall and slim with a full
mane of dark hair flowing down to her shoulders. Her facial features were sharp, making her attractive
in an unconventional way. Too attractive for a place like Stinky’s.
“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to talk to strangers?” I asked.
“I’ve got protection.”
“What kind? Pepper spray? Mafia? Condoms?”
“Attack cat,” she replied mysteriously.
She was a Space Cadet, no doubt about it. Now I only had to establish whether or not she was
dangerous. I had already decided to have sex with her if she wasn’t too crazy. Who was I kidding? I
would use my usual criteria and have sex with her if and only if she’d let me. If there were any
repercussions, I’d deal with them later.
“I’m not interested in playing 20 questions.” I informed her.
“Neither am I. So, is there going to be trouble?”
“Probably not.”
“Mind if I watch?”
“Suit yourself.”
This was interesting. In all of my 47 years, I’d never known an attractive woman to pick up a guy in a
bar, unless she was a pro. So what was this woman’s game? I don’t like to show my hand too early,
so I let her make the next move. I continued to monitor D’Arcy but watched the girl out of the corner
of my eye. Having only two eyes, I was forced to abandon the observation and attendant consumption
of my half eaten hamburger. The woman had an excellent body. Her breasts were high, full and
round. She was wearing a fuzzy pink sweater. It was a cardigan with large buttons running down the
front. Each button was screaming for release from its imprisoning hole. The sweater made her look
fuzzy all over, like a pornographic picture taken with a vaseline covered lens. Her pants were black
and fit her like a second skin. I wondered what she smelt like.
“Those sunglasses make you look like a CIA agent. No one can tell what you’re looking at.”
I responded with silence.
“How can you see anything in the dark?”
“I can’t” I replied.
More silence. Two more pitchers of beer arrived at D’Arcy’s table. I decided that the girl wasn’t a
hooker. She was probably an excitement junkie looking for a rush and a story to tell the other girls
around the water cooler tomorrow morning.
“My name’s Felicity. Felicity Katz.”
I didn’t recall asking for an introduction. “You Jewish?” I asked.
“Wrong cats” was her cryptic reply. I liked this girl’s style.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Mac.”
“Mac, is that your first or last name?”
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“You a cop?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then just plain Mac should be good enough for now.”
It was time to give Felicity a little of what she had been waiting for. I took off my glasses.
“Watch but don’t be stupid. Don’t say anything and don’t get involved.”
I walked over to D’Arcy’s table. No one noticed my approach. “Well if it isn’t my old friend D’Arcy.
I’m surprised to see you here. Doesn’t beer cost money?”
D’Arcy let a pained groan escape from deep within his body.
“Who’s this arsehole, D’Arcy?” the greaser asked.
“He’s just some faggot who thinks he’s tough. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you
think you can come into my bar and try to scare me? Well you just made the biggest mistake of your
life. As soon as we finish our beer, me and my friends are going to take you out back and beat the
living shit out of you.”
“Don’t gimme that. These guys aren’t your friends. Low life, cheap bastards like you don’t have any
friends.”
“D’Arcy, who is this guy?”
“I’m a collection agent. D’Arcy here ran up over $27,000 in credit card debt.”
The table erupted in a chorus of cheers and catcalls.
“$27 grand!”
“Way to go.”
“D’Arcy, my man. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“That’s sticking it to them.”
I let the yahoos settle down a little before I continued. “You’re right, that’s very impressive. But what
I’m wondering is where exactly did D’Arcy spend all that money? Any of you guys ever see D’Arcy
pick up a tab? Did he ever offer to buy you a drink? Anybody ever see the inside of his wallet? Or
does he scurry off to the toilet, like a rat, every time the bill shows up?” The table has quieted down.
“Yeah, I thought so. So D’Arcy, where’re you working these days?”
“Drop dead, you miserable prick.”
“Any of you guys know where our boy is working?”
“Nobody tell him. If he finds out, he’ll garnishee my paycheque.”
“I’ll tell you what.” I said and pulled up a stool from the bar to make myself more comfortable.
“We’ll have a little contest called ‘who does D’Arcy owe the most money to’. The winner gets to tell
me where the little prick works. Of course I’ll eliminate myself since I don’t think anyone else was
stupid enough to lend him $27 thou. O.K. who wants to go first? How about you buddy?” I indicated
the fat guy sitting on my left.
“I’m not telling you jack shit.”
“How about you then?” I pointed to the next guy down the line. “What’s he into you for? Fifty
bucks? A hundred? Don’t be shy, we’re all friends here.”

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“You’re a wise guy and I don’t like wise guys. So why don’t you shaddup before I go over there and
shut you up myself.”
“You know what I don’t like? I don’t like guys that don’t pull their weight. I pay my taxes. I pay my
bills, just like you. I don’t ask anyone to pick up a tab for me. You guys are just working stiffs. After
the government takes their share, do you really have enough left over to support D’Arcy? Hey,
D’Arcy scams a credit card company, what do I care? They got more money than god. They write it
off and pass on the cost to you guys. Well D’Arcy didn’t let them rip him off with 21% interest. He
turned the tables and ripped them off instead. But why does he have to rip-off his friends too? You
know why? Because he is the lowest piece of human bloodsucking parasite on the planet.”
D’Arcy’s had enough. He stood up, red faced and yelled. “That’s enough you fat fuck. Let’s go
outside. I’m going to teach you how to suck blood through broken teeth.” We stared at each other, eye
to eye, waiting to see who’d make the next move.
“He works with me at Cochrane Dunlop.” One of the guys broke rank.
D’Arcy’s anger was instantly redirected. ”Doug! What the hell are you doing? Are you some kind of
asshole?”
“No, you’re the asshole, D’Arcy. You should have paid me back my $350 when you said you would.”
“Well you’ll never get your money after this guy garnishes my pay.”
Doug stood up, put on his jacket and headed for the door. “According to this guy, you were never
going to pay me back anyways. I gotta go guys. D’Arcy’s going to pay my share of the bill from what
he owes me.”
I turned and walked back to the bar. Felicity greeted me with applause. I put on my sunglasses and sat
down at her table. “Knock it off. ” I hissed. “You trying to get us killed?”
“Excellent performance.”
“Thank-you.” I motioned to the bartender to bring me another drink and the bill.
“How did you know that one of the guys would squeal?”
“It’s my business to know.”
“What would you have done if they ganged up on you and tried to beat you up?”
My drink arrived and I swallowed it in one shot. “We’ll talk in the car. Let’s go.” I dropped some
money on the bar and walked quietly to the car. Felicity got into the passenger seat without speaking.
We pulled out of the parking lot and headed downtown toward my apartment.
I began to speak as I shifted into third gear. “Never say anything until you’re 200 yards away from
your client.”
“Why?”
“Too dangerous.”
“So how did you know that they wouldn’t beat you up?”
“You never know, but if someone is really going to beat you up, he doesn’t talk about it, he just goes
ahead and does it.”
We drove without speaking. Felicity seemed to be deep in thought. Whether she was thinking about
debt collection or our upcoming sexual encounter was uncertain and immaterial to me. This was
shaping up to be my easiest lay. The girl seemed to know what she wanted and didn’t want or need
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any small or sweet talk. I inhaled slowly, surreptitiously trying to catch a whiff of her scent.
Something was in the air but it didn’t smell like any woman I had ever come across. She had an over
sized handbag parked between her knees. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something crawl out of
the bag and onto her lap. A quick glance confirmed that it was a cat. More like a kitten. She patted it
absentmindedly as it conformed to the contours of her inner thighs. The cat purred with pleasure.
“What’s with the cat?”
“It’s my little pussy.” She replied in a high squeaky voice.
Oh jeeze, the Little Girl act. I can’t stand the Little Girl act. “Don’t you think it’s a little juvenile to
make pussy puns?”
Felicity cranked up Little Girl voice another notch, “If you want me, you’ll have to take my pussy.”
And with a slightly menacing undertone, added, “It’s a package deal”.
I replied without skipping a beat. “And what a nice pussy it is. I’ve been admiring it from afar. May I
pet it?” Hey, you do what it takes to score.
Felicity giggled. “Go ahead, if you’re brave enough. I have to warn you though, my pussy scratches.”
I hoped I could make it through the evening without puking. “Maybe I’ll wait till we get out of the
car.”
My misgivings vanished as we walked into my apartment. Before I had a chance to turn on the lights,
Felicity grabbed the front of my shirt and slammed me against the wall, cracking my head against a
framed picture and presumably cracking the picture too. She kissed me hard on the mouth. I struggled
to maintain consciousness. Her lips were warm and soft; I relaxed and let a wave of pleasure flow
down my body. I ran my hands over Felicity’s fuzzy sweater and was rewarded with a soft purr from
the back of her throat. Her body was hard and firm without a trace of excess fat. She began to grind
her crotch against mine. I brought my hands down and grabbed her round bottom in an effort to
control her wild gyrations. We stood at the doorway, simulating sex through our clothing while our
tongues explored each other’s mouths. I was drawn back to her warm, fuzzy cardigan. I placed my
hands on the twin curved spheres of her breasts. The sweater seemed to swallow my hands turning
them into extensions of her bosom. I gently squeezed her nipples between my thumb and forefinger.
Felicity responded by coiling her body around mine and biting viciously down on my lower lip. The
pain instantly brought tears to my eyes. I tried to pull my head away but she just clamped down harder
and reached down to grab my penis through my pants. The contrary sensations of pleasure and pain
both negated and enhanced each other. She released my lip and I used my newfound freedom to gently
kiss her neck. She arched her head back and I slowly lowered down myself to nuzzle her exposed
throat. I inhaled deeply. Her aroma was subtle, elusive, indescribable and unforgettable. My mouth
followed a trail of my own blood flowing from my lip down to her breasts. Her sweater caressed my
cheeks as I unfastened the front of her bra. I placed my head between her bosoms as I took a breast in
each hand and squeezed gently. Each breast was a study in perfect circularity. Her scent was stronger
here but remained maddeningly elusive. I slid to my knees and took her nipple in my mouth. Felicity
groaned with pleasure and gripped my hair savagely with both her hands. I increased the intensity of
my attack on her nipple. Felicity increased the savagery of her assault of my scalp. When I could no
longer tolerate the pain, I released her nipple.
“Felicity, please,” I begged, desperate for the release of my hair.
She loosened her grip, slightly. “You’ve got a tiger by the tail, Mac. What are you going to do about
it?” Her eyes looked less than human.
“Let’s move into the bedroom.” I grabbed a bottle of bourbon on route, deducing that I would need
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something to dull the pain.
That night, Felicity took me on a dark, erotic journey lubricated by blood, sweat and semen. Pain and
fear were my constant traveling companions. Sometime during the evening, I had the best several
orgasms of my life. Whether through good or bad fortune, Felicity came at the same time, leaving me
with a deep wound that would take several weeks to heal.
In the morning, a hot wind blew over my face and I was awakened by the sound of a small outboard
motor. I opened my eyes to see the cat purring an inch from my face. I brushed it aside and was
rewarded with a scratch. I sat up in bed cursing. Felicity was still asleep beside me. She was curled
up contentedly, hugging her pillow. Her body looked even more beautiful in the morning light. But as
I sat admiring her, I noticed her body was covered with small flaws and blemishes. Closer inspection
revealed that the blemishes were scars, none of which were fresh. I decided that I’d better check out
my own body and made my way to the bathroom. I was frightened by my reflection in the mirror. My
lower lip was blue and swollen to twice its normal size. The side of my face was covered in blood
from a scratch that ran from my cheekbone to my chin. Something on my back burned like all the fires
of hell. I turned to see a vicious set of claw marks. My penis looked like it came through the ordeal in
one piece although I noticed an ugly bite mark on the inside of my thigh. No one ever needed a
shower, or a tetanus shot, more.
I emerged from the shower to find Felicity awake, dressed and foraging for food in my kitchen.
“How are you this morning, Tiger?” she asked.
“I thought you were the tiger.”
“No, I’m the pussy cat.” Felicity giggled.
“Lady, you’re lethal.”
“But you liked it, Mac, didn’t you?”
“MacAree’s my last name” I figured she had earned the right to know my name.
“Did you like it MacAree?”
“Yeah, I liked.” I conceded with good grace and a grin.
“Well, I have to go, but I’ll make you a deal.” Felicity slipped into the dreaded Little Girl voice. “If
you take care of my little pussy, I’ll come back and let you play with my big pussy again.”
“You can’t leave your cat here.”
“Don’t you want to take care of my pussy?”
“No.”
“Well, I have to leave her here anyway.”
“If you walk out without your cat, I’m going to drop it down the garbage disposal.”
“Don’t be a silly.” She reached up to peck my cheek. “Remember, be good to my pussy and my pussy
will be good to you” And with that she walked out of the apartment. It would take me several weeks
to realize how much she took with her as she walked out that door. At the time, though, I only
marveled at the unpredictability of Space Cadets.
I needed to pull myself together after my death defying sexual experience. I decided to get back into
bed and do nothing for a couple of hours. It’s one of the few perks of working for yourself, and I take
frequent advantage if it. I relaxed and cleared my mind, waiting to get back into that old familiar
feeling. But nothing was a little slow in coming that morning. Quite understandable, under the
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circumstances. As I waited patiently, trying to coax nothing into making a needed appearance, I felt a
searing pain as something slashed my right hand. I looked down and saw a thin red line appear on the
back of my hand. The cat had scratched me. I picked it up by the scruff of its neck. It was no more
than a kitten but it struggled against my grip like a cougar. “You just bought the farm, pal.” I
informed it as I opened the door to my apartment and pitched it down the hall.
I sat back on the bed and tried to do nothing. Although I was covered in cuts and bruises from the
evening’s activities, it was my most recent scratch that distracted me the most. I watched blood cling
to hair on the back of my hand forming an intricate red lattice. I poked at my various wounds,
remembering how I acquired each one. Much to my disgust, I found myself savouring each memory
and encouraging the deeper wounds to resume their hemorrhaging. She was only a Space Cadet, I
reminded myself. Not worth mooning over. Since nothing wasn’t happening, I decided to go to work.
I stopped by the office to pick up the day’s files. The first one was an old friend, Lucy Rankin. She’d
been paying her debts down for over a year but still owed over $5,000. Lucy was pure trash. She
lived in a run down Cabbagetown tenement and did what she had to, to keep a roof over her head.
Driving to her apartment, I glanced at my reflection in the rear view mirror. I was a mess. I put on my
sunglasses in an attempt to hide, or at least provide a visual distraction for my more obvious lesions.
The glasses only made me look more sinister so I took them off and hid my wounds in plain sight.
As if in homage to the neighbourhood, Lucy’s hallway stank of stale cabbage. Daytime TV blared
from virtually every apartment. I pounded on Lucy’s door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s MacAree.”
The door opened with a sigh. “Come on in Mac,” she said, resigned to yet another round of monetary
negotiation. “Holy shit, what happened to your face?”
“Nothing you need to know about.”
“Well, sit down. You look like you could use some coffee.”
“Yeah, that would be great.”
Lucy continued to talk as she went about making our coffee. “Listen, I know I’m behind on my
payments but I lost my job and I’m waiting for my pogie to start.”
The coffee arrived. “Are you looking for a new job?” My lower lip was sensitive to the heat. I tried
to drink my coffee from the side of my mouth.
“Not right away. Thought I’d rest up for a while. Boy, that looks tender. You should probably ice it.”
“O.K., let’s cut you back to $25 a week for the next 14 weeks. We’ll go back to a hundred when you
get another job. I’ll expect your first $25 cheque on my desk next Monday. Don’t make me come
down here to collect.”
“MacAree, are you O.K.?”
“I’m fine.”
Lucy got off her chair and positioned herself behind me. She gently massaged the back of my neck.
“This job is going to kill you one day.”
“No different than any other job. Unemployment will kill you just the same. You can’t avoid death by
avoiding work.”
Lucy bent over and softly kissed my neck. “You have plenty of customers. Why don’t you just kinda
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lose my file?” She paused and whispered softly into my ear, “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Lady, you must have a pretty high opinion of yourself if you think that a roll in the hay with you is
worth $5,000. If you want to give me a blow job, I won’t object but I still want your $25 in my hand
next Monday.”
Instantly, Lucy’s mood turned sour, “You’re a real prick, you know that? Tell whoever beat on your
face that they can come over here for a free blow job, any time.”
“I’ll let her know” I replied and walked out of her apartment.
I found comfort in the familiar routine of my workday. The usual assortment of deadbeats tried to
fuck with me. There are a surprising small number of tactics that these people use. Mr. Belligerent
went on the attack and accused me of slander, libel, perjury and the Kennedy assassination. Mr.
Evasive came up with a string of unconvincing and contradictory excuses as to why he couldn’t or
wouldn’t pay his bills. None of it required any strenuous effort on my part. And although it turned
into one of those days where I walked away with a pocket full of promises instead of cheques, I knew
that I had done the necessary prep work to shake out a stream of cheques in the coming weeks. Still I
missed the thrill that comes with a successful collection. After four hours, I decided to call it a day and
headed back to my apartment. If truth be known, my concentration was down. Not only did my body
ache, but my mind was haunted by the pleasantly disturbing image of a fuzzy pink cardigan.
Rationally I knew that Felicity would be unlikely to return until after dark, but I couldn’t shake the
irrational hope that she was on my doorstep waiting for me.
There was someone waiting at my door, or rather, something. It was Felicity’s cat. Evidently, it had
been waiting for me all day, the evidence being the scratch marks on the door and the smell of urine in
hall. I tried to boot the cat down the hallway but it was too fast for me. My apartment was quiet. No
phone messages, no notes slipped under the door. I stepped into the bathroom and looked at my
reflection in the mirror. It was no worse than I remembered. The scratch across my face wasn’t very
deep but it was angry. My lower lip had turned a deeper shade of blue and hurt like hell. My scared
face, combined with my large bulk, made me looked like I stepped out of a Boris Karloff movie. No
wonder I couldn’t collect any money that day. I stripped off my clothes to re-examine the rest of the
damage. Mainly scratches and bite marks. Nothing to get excited about but those bites might get
infected. The bitch might have rabies. I smeared some antibiotic cream over the open wounds.
Being naked, I decided I might as well lie down in bed and try to relax. Nothing was clearly
impossible. I was too agitated. It occurred to me that I got off lucky. I might have needed a plastic
sturgeon as easily as I had needed the antibiotic cream. Who knew what other infection I might yet
pick up? I decide that I got what I deserved for bringing home a stray Space Cadet. I was well rid of
her. Still, I had expected her to call. She would want her precious pussy back. She had my last name
and address. It wouldn’t be too hard for her to look up my number. She would do well to come back
before her cat wandered off for good.
Her aroma was still on my bed. I put my pillow over my face and inhaled deeply. The scent was as
elusive as ever. It had an earthy quality, maybe a little like humus? With the pillow still over my face,
I remembered how it had acquired the scent. Sometime during the evening I had mounted her from
behind. It was the only way to avoid her teeth and claws. She had tried to stay on her hands and knees,
but I had put all my weight on the wings of her shoulder blades. She eventually buckled under my
weight and her face had been forced down against the pillow. With her butt high in the air, I had
pumped away at a ferocious rate. She must have found it difficult to breathe but her vagina had been
so wet that the juices had soaked me down to my knees.
I reached down and took my penis in my hand. I imagined Felicity in a black leather hood. No holes

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for the eyes, a zipper over the mouth. The image of what had not happened seemed more real than the
images of what did happen. Maybe it was an image of what might yet happen. I sighed and released
my now erect penis. I took the pillow off of my face, put on my pants and went out into the hall. The
cat was waiting patiently just outside my door. I brought it inside hoping that Felicity would show up
before I had to buy all of the prerequisite cat paraphernalia.
It was not to be. By the next morning the cat had eaten all the leaves off of my only plant and shit in
the flowerpot. The smell sent me on a shopping expedition. I bought $200 of cat food, a litter box, a
bag of litter and a scratching board.
Three days later, Felicity had still not returned. The cat was a terror. Like a spoiled child that refused
to play with its toys, the cat scratched everything in the apartment except the scratching board. The
couch, the bedposts, the stereo speakers, the wallpaper and my ankles all showed evidence of the cat’s
nasty disposition. The only thing that would appease its relentless sharpening of its claws was my
constant and undivided attention. I had to be in physical contact with the cat at all times. If I was
reading the paper or working at my desk, the cat would wonder over and sit down on my reading
material. If I tossed it aside, the cat would find something else to ruin. I refused to call it Pussy and
began to think of it as Felicity’s cat or just plain Felicity for short. I was keenly aware of the irony of
its new name.
Felicities preferred to lie in my lap if I was sitting up and sit on my chest if I was lying down. I
quickly learned to take Felicity with me whenever I left the apartment. It was the only way to prevent
it from trashing the place while I was gone. Unfortunately, it also guaranteed that I would be
continuously scratched during the course of my workday.
I hated the sight of that cat. Instead of doing nothing, I would spend hours staring into Felicity’s eyes.
I would lie on the couch with Felicity perched on my chest, inches from my chin in a Sphinx-like pose.
Who knew what evil thoughts went through its tiny head as it stared at me with those inscrutably
inhuman eyes? Who knew if it had thoughts at all? It had desires, that much was certain. It suffered
loneliness. But if the cat had thoughts, it did not communicate them to me through its eyes.
After a week I had had enough. I was furious at Felicity: the woman, not the cat. How dare she
unload this devil in cat’s clothing on me? Just because she threw me a cheap fuck did not give her the
right to abuse my hospitality. I figured that she owed me $200 for cat supplies, a replacement for my
destroyed plant, a new couch, a new set of speakers, a pair of slippers and at least one more lay for the
mental aggravation. Being a professional skip tracer, I felt exceptionally qualified to track Felicity
down.
The cat sat on my lap as I searched my databases for a Felicity Katz, Kats, Kat, Kates, Katy, Katie, and
then all over again with the letter “C” but to no avail. I search the Yellow Pages for Katchutis,
Kactcha, Katsoris, Katrova. Any name beginning with Kat or Cat. I found no credit rating, no police
record and no address for Felicity. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Felicity had used an alias.
This was a tough problem. I had no other hard information. It was time to go shopping. For the sake
of my furniture and any article of clothing that was foolishly dangling within claw’s reach, I put
Felicity in a gym bag and headed for the mall.
I stopped at every department store and women’s clothing shop in that mall and then hit the street.
Everywhere I went, I heard the same story; fuzzy pink cardigans were out of style. Some of the
discount stores carried some cheap looking knock-offs, apparently the slutty look was still in style with
K-Mart shoppers. But the knock-offs lacked the feel of Felicity’s sweater. I finally hit pay dirt at a
vintage clothing store. I picked up Felicity’s sweater and walked to the cash register.
“Do you sell many of these sweaters?” I asked.

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“Yeah, when we get them in. That one’s used.”
“Do you remember a woman buying one of these? Attractive, tall, slim. Lots of dark hair. Sharp
nose. Big breasts, tight ass.”
“Mister, except for the nose, you just described half the women who come in here. The other half are
blond.”
“Maybe she used a credit card. Do you mind if I look through your old receipts?” I produced my
credentials. “I investigate credit card fraud.”
“Do you know her name?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Then I’m not showing you any receipts. If you were investigating a fraud, you would know her
name. For all I know you’re stalking the poor girl. So either buy the sweater or get the hell out of my
store.”
I looked down at the sweater. “How much?”
“$75 plus tax.”
I pulled $90 out my wallet. I collected my change and put the sweater in the gym bag with the cat.
That night I lay naked on my bed holding the sweater. As usual, Felicity sat on my chest. I brought
the sweater up to my face. The cat took a swipe at the pink sleeve as it swung past. I rubbed the
sweater against my face. The texture was right but the smell was wrong. Time was working its usual
nasty tricks and it was getting harder for me to conjure up memories of that night. I brushed the cat off
my chest and sat up a little straighter. I rubbed the sweater against my neck and chest and began to
masturbate. I took the sweater in my right hand and wrapped it around my penis. Paradoxically, the
sweater was both soft and provided extra friction.
I should have been paying more attention to the cat. Felicity was crouched down in a classic hunting
pose watching the sweater bob up and down in my fist. Oblivious to the cat, I felt myself ready to
climax and picked up the pace. Felicity chose that moment to pounce. I shot cum into the air as the
cat took a two inch gash out of my hand, narrowly missing the head of my penis. Once again my
blood and semen ran together. A large blob of cum had landed between the cat’s eyes and I watched
with fascination and horror as Felicity used its paw to lick my semen off its head.
This was getting desperate. I needed a woman. A human woman. I quickly got dressed, put the cat
and the sweater into the gym bag, and headed out the door. 20 minutes later I was knocking on Lucy’s
door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s MacAree.”
The door opened. “You got your cheque didn’t you?” Lucy leaned against the doorpost in a slovenly
manner. She had on a cheap housecoat and it looked as if it had been a few days since she had last
bathed. Unemployment did not seem to agree with her.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“So what do you want?”
Lucy always got right down to business. I liked that. “I’ll lose your file for three months.”
She let me into her apartment. “You’ll lose my file permanently.”

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“That’s not going to happen.”
Lucy paused for a moment. “We’re talking about a blow job here. Right?”
“That’s right.”
“With or without a condom?”
“Without.”
“We lose the file permanently, take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.” What the hell, there were cheaper whores, but Lucy was a friend. I opened the gym bag.
Felicity scratched me as I took out the sweater. “Here, put this on.”
“Ooh, thanks lover.” she said and got down to business. She took off her housecoat to reveal two
rather dingy breasts. Her panties might once have been white. She put on the sweater but it failed to
transform her. She and her body remained low rent. After a few loveless kisses and some obligatory
groping, Lucy dropped to her knees.
“Looks like you’ve been a busy boy,” she said as she unzipped my fly and pulled out my stiffening
penis. “I don’t think I’m the first one down here tonight.”
If nothing else, Lucy was a professional. She worked it hard for about 15 minutes.
“OK, I’ve had enough.”
“But you haven’t finished.”
“That’s OK, you’ve earned your freedom.”
“Well if you ever want to finish, I still owe you,” she said as she got off her knees.
“Can I have the sweater back?” I asked rather sheepishly.
“Sure thing, sugar.”
I put the sweater back in the bag and left Lucy’s apartment.
Driving back to my apartment, I saw that a tape in the ready position in the tape deck. I pushed it in
and was rewarded with Country music. It occurred to me that there was one more place that I could
look for Felicity. I turned the car around and headed for Stinky McGee’s.
The place looked crowded. A constant stream of cars was pulling in and out of the parking lot. With
the gym bag under my arm, I put my sunglasses on as I walked into the bar. I followed the peanut
shells to an empty spot at the bar.
“Well if it isn’t the Collector. Jack Daniels, neat, and hold the peanuts?” Evidently the bartender
remembered me.
“That’ll be great. Thanks.”
The bartender poured the drink and set it in front of me. “Anything to eat tonight?”
“No thanks, I try not to make the same mistake twice.” I finished the drink in one gulp. “Did you
happen to see the woman I left with last time I was here?”
“How could I miss her?”
“Has she been back since?”
“Nope.”

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“Has she ever been here before?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“I guess you don’t know her name.”
“You guessed right. Is she the one that gave you the fat lip?”
“In a way.”
“How many ways are there?”
“Just bring me another drink.”
“You’re the boss.” The bartender put another drink in front of me and walked away.
I sat at the bar, nursing my drink and watching the door. There was a steady stream of people walking
in and out of the place. I unzipped the gym bag to give Felicity a little air. I put my hand in the bag to
pet her. Out of force of habit, the cat scratched my hand. I had become accustomed to the constant
scratches and barely noticed this fresh one. What would have brought Felicity to this bar that night?
Did she come in a cab? Did she drive? Did she live close enough to walk? How did she get home
from my place? If she dropped by the bar once, chances are she’ll come back again.
Because I was focused my thoughts, I had no warning of trouble until the beer bottle came smashing
down on the back of my head. I fell to the floor, banging my head against the bar on the way down.
The force of my face hitting the bar caused one lens to pop out of my sunglasses and bent the frame
into a state of trash.
I lay on the floor trying to regain control of my senses. My eyes were closed and I imagined that I
could smell Felicity. Her distinct scent filled my nostrils. I opened my eyes to see that I was lying
face down in a pile of peanut shells. The bartender was at my side helping me back to my seat.
“What happened?” I asked the bartender as I rubbed the back of my head.
“I think you know a guy named D’Arcy? He hit you in the head with an empty beer bottle. He also
told me to give you a message. Stop fucking with him.” The bartender paused to watch my reaction
which consisted of me rubbing the back of my head. “You O.K.?” he asked as he brushed the peanut
shells from my face.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You’ll want to go get yourself checked out. You’re going to have quite a shiner to go with that fat
lip.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Listen, I hate to do this but if you’re OK, I’m going to have to ask you to leave and not come back.
Every time you come in here, there’s trouble. Not only that, but you brought a cat in here.” Again the
bartender paused. “I’ll pick up your bar tab.,” he added as a conciliatory gesture.
“Where’s the cat?”
“When your bag hit the floor, it ran through the open front door like a bat out of hell.”
I picked up the bag and walked out of the bar. I looked around the parking lot for Felicity. She lay on
the ground, not 50 feet from the front door. A car had run her down, crushing her spine and back legs.
She was a mess of blood and fur on the pavement. I threw the gym bag, sweater and all, into the
nearest trashcan and drove home. I had to accept the fact that I was on the messy end of a one night
stand.

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The next day I bought another cat.

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