The Pussy Always Purrs Twice

A fourth rate blogger's earnest attempt to salvage James Wolcott's not-quite-great American novel Catsitters (hat tip: Ace of Spades)

Chapter One

THE STENCH OF FEAR stung my nostrils as the elevator door stuttered open, like the litterbox of a satanic tabby with a speech impediment. I heard a muffled cry from the end of the hallway when I realized the sound was coming from inside my apartment, growing louder and more plaintive the closer I crept toward it, in a manner reminiscent of some sort of animal that is very good at creeping.

That's when he jumped me.

It was Ace of Spades, the third rate blog thug who freelanced for the Lileks organization. I didn't have time to unholster my mace before the ugly fucker smashed me on the base of the skull with some sort of multi-sided die. I was dazed, coughing up blood on the carpet that had somehow faded under my stolen welcome mat (Johnny Downs #3: Case of the Missing Mat). My ears were still ringing with the sadist's cackling when I swung around and impaled him with the only weapon I had -- a rolled up issue of Cat Fancier. He stumbled backwards and smashed through the window. I lit a cigarette and did some tai chi as I watched the bastard plunge 52 stories into a car roof.

"Merry fucking Christmas," I mumbled, wiping the blood from my chins.

When I unlocked the door, I recoiled from the assault of ammonia. I saw that Ace had tied Slinky up to her own scratching post. Her green eyes glowed in the shaded darkness, and her little furry chest was heaving, her eight erect nipples glistened through the ropes. Even as I began untying she started to show her appreciation, rubbing her taut little extended rear on my Dockers, moaning a little moan that told me - the heat was on.

"Easy dollface, daddy's got a lump on his head the size of a squeak toy," I grunted. She shot me that seductive little glare of hers, half pout, half invitation, then hacked up a furball on my new issue of Vanity Fair.  That's a New York cat for you - one minute caterwauling for a good hard stroke, the next dropping a wet hairy loogie on an Annie Liebowitz portrait of Anderson Cooper.  No matter how long I work as an acerbic Gotham cultural gumshoe, I'll never figure 'em out. But hey, vive le difference.

"You look hungry," I said, pouring some fish shaped crunchy bits into her bowl. She also looked like she needed to forget. I poured a triple shot of Bushmills in it, and it moistened into it own delicious 100-proof tuna flavored gravy. In a few minutes Slinky was in a Whiskas-and-whiskey fog, and retreated to the window edge where she began licking herself furiously. I began my investigation.

Let's just say the apartment wasn't pretty. Several pairs of my good argyles laid strewn about the floor, tattered. The bottom edge of the sofa had been torn to shreds. Someone had taken a small acrid dump on my answering machine, which had a light on it that blinked when there was a message for me, and did not blink when there wasn't, and which was approximately 6 inches square and sort of dark grayish in color, and was puchased from Duane Reed for $39.95 plus tax.

Something smelled bad, and it wasn't just the urine. I began sweating like a busboy who was vigorously busing tables during a heatwave in a brownout while wearing unusually heavy clothing for some reason, and also he has some sort of physical disorder which causes profuse sweating. I decided to call HQ.

"Nicole Price, Village Voice metaphor department," said the voice.

"Johnny Downs, Critic-at-Large," I said. "Get me the Lileks files."