Part XLIV: Weirder Science (The Cat, The Origin)

Harry Guakomoli was busy robbing his own grave. While our hero did that his former sidekick, Oslo The World's Smartest Cat, was rescued from a murderous band of gangbangers only to be abducted by his savior. Now Oslo stood in shock as this pimpled dork of a girl just dropped a bombshell  on the four-legged fury.

"Not that I have your attention," began Veronika Krieger. "Perhaps we can start our rational conversation, Bailey. Or is it Oslo?"

"'Oslo' is preferred," replied The World's Smartest Cat.

"Very good, Oslo. Would you care for a wine cooler? It's A Very Berry Explosion. Maybe another dose of catnip?"

"No, I'm good," answered Oslo. He very much did want a drink, even if it was of a kind reserved for girls and limpwrists, but he thought just this once he should stay sober.

"As you wish," said Veronika. "May I tell you a story? It is long, but it is biographical and pertinent to our discussion."

"I'm listenin.'"

"I was the younger of two children," she said after taking another drink. "My father was a brilliant scientist. Robotics was his area of expertise, but he dabbled in many disciplines. He was quite wealthy due to a family fortune. A fortune that was considerable, but it was not until the late 1930's that their wealth skyrocketed. My mother was much younger than my father; twenty-three years younger to be precise. She was beautiful and a model when they first met. After they were married, however, she decided 'trophy bride' and 'lazy housewife' were careers better suited for her skill set. My brother Max was ten years my senior. He looked liked my father, but mentally it was obvious he was his mother's son. Max was lazy and was prone to excess and vice. He was also considerably stupid. I was, am, the opposite; I share my mother's features but possess a genius intellect."

Adolescence must have been a bitch if her mother was a model, thought Oslo. Sexy and skinny this girl ain't.

"We lived in The City," Veronika continued. "In an ancestral home of my father's family. His father, Wilhelm Maximillian Krieger, had the stone mansion dismantled in Munich and then reassembled here stone-by-stone. Father spent much of his time working on his inventions while my mother spent the majority of hers shopping or drinking booze or fucking the help. When I was not in class at the prestigious Rickland Academy I was at home with my babysitter the television."

"I loved cartoons and watched them at every opportunity. My favorite was Lucky The Unlucky. It was the story of an anthropomorphic cat and his misadventures, of which there were many. Five months after my ninth birthday Father decided to impart to me some wisdom. He did that every so often. It was his way to fool himself into thinking he was not a negligent parent. This particular lesson concerned the importance of goals. Long term ones that require hours, months, years of preparation."

"'Now that our lesson is concluded,' Father told me as I sat on his lap. 'What would you like for your birthday? Seven months is not so far away that you cannot think about these things.'"

"Without hesitation I told Father I wanted a real-life Lucky The Unlucky. Even today I remember the puzzled look on his face. I told him all about Lucky and his exploits. He was disgusted to learn that I spent so much time rotting my brain in front of the television. He forbade me from watching cartoons. I cried all night and into the next day. Father called me hysterical and ordered me to to assist him every day after school in his laboratory. It was those times helping Father that I developed a love for science and robotics and how things worked. You witnessed the labor of my love in the other room with my cleaning 'droids."

"Your robots are lame," Oslo remarked. "Just like your story."

"Indulge me a bit longer," replied a visibly annoyed Veronika Krieger. "Four months before my tenth birthday Father left. He said he was giving to the frozen hinterlands of Scandinavia. He returned three months later. and refused to divulge what he was doing in Europe. No matter how much I begged him to tell me he would not budge. Every day for the next fortnight Father had a man spend time with the two of us. Every day it was a different man. There was no common trait in these men. Every size and shape and color was represented. Different ethnicities and social standings. After those two weeks Father asked which of the fourteen men I  found most interesting and amusing and wanted to be around. If I was a few years older I would have found the question highly creepy. Instead I instantly chose the last man. He cussed a lot and kept calling Father 'Boss.' He called himself Bailey; I assume it was his surname, and I am fairly certain he was intoxicated. Father asked if I was positive about my choice, and I told him I was sure. He did not look impressed but said nothing else regarding the matter."

The woman shifted in her easy chair as she took a long pull off the wine cooler. The World's Smartest Cat observed that the Latina watching him appeared as equally as bored as he.

"A week before I turned another year older," said Veronika, determined to finish her tale. "Father announced we were taking a family vacation to Norway for my birthday. My mind immediately began to speculate. Is that why Father took his trip? Something to do with my birthday? Mother and Max did not like this idea; Norway in December sounded horrible to the both of them. Father dismissed their complaints, and the four of us departed for Scandinavia three days later."

"Upon setting foot in Norway, Father led us hundreds of miles away from civilization to an estate with a large six-bedroom house. The compound also had a garage big enough to house a half dozen automobiles and a gigantic warehouse. Our host was a Jewish geneticist named Raphael Goldstein. He was so handsome with his bald head, chiseled jaw, and skin the color of milk chocolate. He was so warm and welcoming. Father and Dr. Goldstein spent the entire next day in the warehouse. In the evening Father said he had something for me and presented me with the most adorable little brown kitten. It was soooo cute! Father asked me to name the little guy. I thought long and hard about that. I wanted something that commemorated our trip. I thought about 'Winter' and 'Darkness' and 'Loki' and a slew of other names before finally settling on 'Oslo.'"

The World's Smartest Cat, who was on the verge of falling asleep, suddenly perked up his ears in renewed curiosity.

"I thought that would grab your attention," the nerdette commented with a smirk. "The night before my birthday, I left the bedroom to use the toilet. I heard bizarre grunts coming from Dr. Goldstein's chambers. Curious, I opened the door. Light from the hallway spilled into the room, and I saw our host having relations with someone. The light must have spooked the doctor because he jumped up out of the bed, allowing me to see who was lying below him: Mother."

"'Honey,' she told me. 'Raphael and I were just keeping warm.'"

"Then I felt a presence behind me. I turned around to see Father. He was tearing up."

"'Klaus,' my whore mother started to say, but Father left without saying a word. I can only imagine what was running through his head. Slaving away in the warehouse all night to discover his wife fucking someone else. I ran into my room and held Oslo, you...sort of, and cried for quite a while."

"I woke up the next day with my cat nowhere to be found. I walked out of the room to see Father and Max in the hallway with their luggage. Father told me he was taking my brother and leaving Mother. I begged and begged and begged some more for Father to take me with him. I had nothing in common with the woman who birthed me. I never cared for her and after the night before I detested her. Tears trickled down Father's cheeks as he ran a hand through my hair. 'I can't, Veronika. You remind me too much of your mother.' And he walked away with my brother without saying another word. The was the last time I ever saw them."

"I searched for Oslo and could not find him. I looked all over the house and never came across him. Nor did I run into Mother or Dr. Goldstein. I bundled up and traveled to the warehouse where I found Mother and the doctor. I was about to yell at her for what she did when she turned around to see me there.

"'Darling,' she said. 'I was just about to fetch you. You...by now you know your father and brother are gone. I am sorry this happened on your birthday. Your father can be so insensitive. But he made Dr. Goldstein promise to finish your birthday present, and he has. Come.'"

"Begrudgingly I joined them. Laying in a hospital bed was a man lying comatose. Sheets covered him up to his lower jaw and the top of his head was heavily bandaged. Beside the bed on a blanket was Oslo, also unconscious with a bandaged head and throat. His front paws and throat were also bandaged."

"'What did you do to my kitty?!' yelled."

"'Your Father and Raphael granted you your birthday wish,' Mother relied. 'They've made a real-life version of that cat you like, Plucky The Truck or whatever its name is.'"

"Dr. Goldstein hushed us and said the cat was coming to. Oslo opened his eyes and looked around. He seemed confused. And there was something in his eyes. They appeared to be more...aware. The kitty opened and closed his mouth several times."

"'What the fuck is this shit?' a voice, a human voice!, emanated from Oslo's mouth! 'Who the fuck are you people?!'"

"Dr. Goldstein went on to explain that for months Father and him came up with a machine that could transfer the consciousness of mammals with higher intelligence into the bodies of lesser animals. The minds of humans and other primates, and he also believed dolphins, pigs, and elephants, could be installed into other animals. Less intelligent mammals worked best, but he was not sure if it would work on other vertebrates because their anatomies and bodily functions might be too alien to adapt. On my birthday Dr. Goldstein, using the machine he invented with my father, transferred the mind of Bailey, the man I picked out just a few weeks ago!, into my new pet, Oslo. He also transplanted the vocal cords and performed surgery on Oslo so that his front paws possessed opposable thumbs. The doctor also told me he added a memory inhibitor so that Bailey, now Oslo, would never have any recollection of his life as a human. It was all surreal, but it worked. The process worked."

"Wow! That's how I came to be?" Oslo asked. "I was once a dude but your fuckwit father and some other asshole decided to play God to give Daddy's little girl a birthday present. I'm all fuckin' done listen -- "

"My story's not done yet!" Veronika screamed as she stood up out of the chair. "You are not done listening. I will not be the only one enjoying our reunion."

To guarantee Oslo's compliance Veronika tapped the red button on the device in her hand once more. The three nozzles stretched out of the cat's collar and gassed him with more catnip. Veronika smoothed her dress before sitting back down in the chair.

"Mother decided that her and I, and you of course, would stay with Dr. Goldstein," she calmly resumed her tale. "Father returned to the manse in The City, rendering us homeless. I did not like this idea. Watching Mother with a man who was not my father. I kept remembering the tears she caused him. Only by spending time with Oslo, who was great fun, was my existence bearable. Our stay with the doctor lasted about a year when he was arrested by Interpol. Dr. Goldstein was wanted for a number of crimes against humanity. His experiments, you were not the first, were conducted by a man whose ethics could be described as questionable at best and felonious at worst."

"Once again Mother and I were homeless. We returned to The City and moved into a small apartment that allowed cats. My mother was forced to find employment for the first time in over twenty years. She got a job as a waitress in a diner. I received considerable joy in watching her lower herself to do that. Public school was not any easier for me either. And every day, as I exited the Adlai Stevenson Elementary School, I looked to the west and saw my father's ancestral home. Knowing that Father and Max were up there, and I was down here...with her, it would make me cry."

"You cried a lot back then didn't ya?" Oslo asked in defiance while his mind still in a cloud of catnip and marijuana-induced euphoria.

"You really are a spiteful creature," Veronika remarked. "For my twelfth birthday Mother insisted that she throw me a party. She invited a dozen boys and girls from my school, none of which were my friends."

"Because you had no friends?" asked The World's Smartest Cat.

"Because I had no friends," I answered. "There was one boy there that I had a crush on though. Of course he didn't know I existed. He certainly remembered me after the party, because he started tormenting you so you clawed his eyes out. Do you remember Billy Oliver?"

"Wait," said Oslo in disbelief. "You're Roni, the cute little blonde girl?"

"Are you seriously just figuring out that I'm Veronika 'Roni' Krieger?"

"I figured Roni would have grown up to be hotter," the cat answered with a shrug.

"You are a clueless ass, Oslo. May I also assume that you have yet to figure out that my father was Dr. Klaus Maschinemensch? A man you killed six months by driving a limousine into him."

Oh, shit, Oslo thought. You've got to be fuckin' kiddin' me. This nerd bitch wants me dead, and I can't do shit 'cause she's got me all doped up on weed and 'nip. And la cucaracha is watching me and has every reason to help her. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
"I see fear and desperation in your eyes suddenly, Oslo," observed Veronika with a giggle. "Sadly, you have no reason to feel these things. Father walked the edge of genius and insanity after finding Mother with Dr. Goldstein. He began to embrace his family's Teutonic heritage and appropriated racist and anti-semitic idealogies. A mind set that enabled his family, my family, to become disgustingly rich once Adolf Hitler came to power in 1933. He completely fell off the deep end a few years ago when Max, who was very much his mother's son, died a few years ago in Tijuana. My father needed to die...for the sake of the world."
Veronika Krieger stepped out of the chair and approached Oslo, who eyed her nervously.

"I have not had you transported here so that I can exact revenge. If anything the monster unknowingly killed his own Dr. Frankenstein. No, where this discussion goes depends entirely on your answer to my next question..."

"Are you opposed to any further...modifications?"

Part XLIII: The Cat's Out Of The Bag

Harry Guakomoli had left Oslo to his own devices, and that did not go well for The World's Smartest Cat. Yes, Oslo did escape the attempt on his life by La Diabla's goons, yet he was hoodwinked and scooped into a sack by the lovely, and lethal, Latina, Yo-Yo Ramirez. Oslo did his damndest to claw his way out of his prison, but the canvas proved to be too thick for the nails of the feline fury.

Yo-Yo tied the bag shut with a leather strap while Oslo screeched and screamed and called his captor every colorful epithet he, and you, could imagine (which were many!).

The lady ass-kicker ignored the foul-mouthed feline. In the last six months she had grown accustomed to his filthy mouth. There was very little, if anything, Oslo could say to Yo-Yo that would phase her. She stashed him in the backpack and strapped it to her.curvaceous body.

Oslo was feeling a bit nauseous; stench of cat piss and puke was strong, stifling, in his canvas prison. His eyes stung due to the noxious vapors. He felt his captor begin to move, first horizontally then vertically. They were on the roof. Though the backpack's contents muffled much of the.surrounding sounds, it did not completely obstruct Oslo's hearing (him being a.fucking cat and all). He heard something in the distance, and as the sound became louder and louder The World's Smartest Cat deduced it was the whirring of a helicopter.

A fucking helicopter?! thought Oslo. La cucaracha said she knew people but a fucking helicopter? Who is this bitch?

Yo-Yo boarded the chopper. She said something to a man, presumably the pilot, and he yelled something back, but the former sidekick couldn't make out what was said over the roar of the aircraft's blades. The chopper departed and flew through the air for what Oslo guessed was about ten minutes before setting down at some unknown locale.

Yo-Yo was on foot and on the move again traveling through what seemed like a labyrinth. Then the movement stopped, and The World's Smartest Cat felt the backpack that kept him trapped slip off the back of the Latina and set down on the ground.

"The cat's inside a sack," said Yo-Yo. "I'm going to take a shower while you prep him for the doctor."

"I'm going to miss watching you in hot pants on the surveillance cameras," a gruff voice replied.

"Be careful releasing him," the Latina said coldly. "Or he may bite off another finger."

"Bitch."

The World's Smartest Cat heard the unzipping of a backpack before the sack, with him in it, was lifted out of it. More traveling accompanied by heavy footsteps on concrete. The thud, the creak, of a heavy metal door. Oslo was placed on the ground, and his canvas prison felt looser.

Oslo determined that the strap that was keeping the sack closed had been untied enough so that with some effort the feline was able to free himself. He inhaled deeply, ecstatic that he no longer had to breathe in the noxious fumes of his own bodily fluids. The former sidekick scanned the room as he did so. It.was roughly twenty feet long and just as wide and nearly a dozen feet tall. The floor was cement, and two of the walls were made of cinder blocks. The other two were comprised of metal panels as was the ceiling. One of the cinder walls contained a metal door as did the opposing metal one. In the center of the floor was a large grate covering a hole leading to who knows where.

A half dozen metal constructs flew around Oslo. They resembled birds, each with an egg-shaped body about the size of a large human head. Their "wings" were series of tubes clamped together (Oslo could not determine how the robots, for lack of a better term, were able to fly). Instead of legs the.constructs had two thick metal.stems and in lieu of talons each stem ended in three nozzles. Their "heads" were the same size.and shape as softballs. An antenna sat atop each one. There was no beak, but instead each robobird was equipped with a camera lens.

"What the fuck is this shit?!" Oslo demanded to know.

The birds answered with thirty-six blasts of water, one from each talon nozzle, aimed directly at The World's Smartest Cat. The water was hot, nearly scalding, and the pressure was so high Oslo was unable to move. All he could do was hiss and curse (and you can bet your ass there were excessive amounts of each!). The water quickly changed to jets of blue liquid dish soap, slicking the four-legged fury in a goopy, yet relatively nice-smelling, mess. The nozzles returned to spraying Oslo with water, rendering the feline fully lathered. Eventually the water washed away the soapy bubbles. The water ceased and was replaced with hot air. After a few minutes The World's Smartest Cat was dry and squeaky clean.

"I'm gonna kill all you muthafuckas!" Oslo shrieked as he attempted to jump and swat at the cleaning robobirds, but each of the flying constructs hovered just out of his paws' reaches. They retaliated by shooting plumes of a mysterious mustard-colored gas. Then Oslo became woozy. He stopped pouncing and rolled onto his back. The World's Smartest Cat was euphoric as he inhaled his most favorite thing in the world. More than Nutter Butters. More than malt liquor.

"Fuuuuuuck," Oslo purred as laid splayed out on the cement floor.

The World's Smartest Cat noticed a hulking brute enter the room through the door in the cinder wall. The man was dressed in dark combat fatigues and a gas mask. He clutched something crimson in his right hand. Oslo didn't give a shit why the man was there even as he lumbered toward the feline.

"You clean me up and get me high?" asked the former sidekick. "This is one fucked up abduction, man."

The man said nothing and instead affixed a crimson collar around the neck of The World's Smartest Cat. It had three small metal ovals in the front. The intoxicated Oslo did nothing to resist. The man walked back toward the door.

"You don't wanna stay and party, man?" the feline asked in disbelief. "This shit is the bomb."

The man evidently was not interested in partying because he took his leave without uttering a word, closing the door as he exited. The robobirds stopped emitting their gaseous bliss, and the ceiling vents roared to life and began to take the intoxicating fumes out of the room. Soon every last puff was goneand Oslo laid spread eagle in the middle of the room as he drooled.

"Oh my fuckness," he moaned with half-shut eyes.

A loud click emanated through the room, and the metal wall's door swung open seemingly on its own.

I'm just high and stupid enough to walk through the door without even thinking about it, thought The World's Smartest Cat.

And Oslo did just that, stepping through the door without a care in the world. He entered a room of roughly the same size as the last. The walls were of metal panels save for the cinder one it shared with the first. In the back center of the room was a square red rug, and on the rug was a brown leather easy chair.
Sitting in the chair sat a woman with Coke bottle glasses with her legs crossed. She was young; Oslo guessed her age was in the late teens or early twenties. Her long straight hair was blonde, nearly white, except for the fuchsia streak that covered the left half of her face. The lady was of fair complexion, the rash of acne on either cheek not withstanding. She wasn't chubby per se, but it was clear she never got rid of her baby fat. The girl was clad in a rose-colored baby doll dress, white knee high stockings, and black maryjanes. A pristine white lab coat hung loosely on her frame. The lady's left hand, her short finger nails a glossy black, gripped a metal dowel with a small red button affixed to the top. The other hand held a wine cooler. For those interested parties the flavor was "a very berry explosion."

To the seated woman's right was a round end table. A lamp and coaster rested atop it. The lamp produced enough light to render Oslo's night vision useless. To the left stood the woman Oslo knew as Yo-Yo Ramirez. Any remaining traces of makeup had vanished and her long dark hair was straightened and pulled back into a tight ponytail. A sensible long-sleeved black t-shirt left much to the imagination, as did the loose-fitting blue jeans. Oslo thought they looked rather comfortable as far as clothes go. She was, however, wearing the same black sneakers from her lady ninja ensemble.

"So we meet again, la cucaracha," The World's Smartest Cat hissed as he bared his fangs. "Bonzai!"

There is a saying you can't teach an old dog new tricks. It seems the same can be said about loud-mouthed alcoholic cats. Otherwise Oslo may have realized earlier in the night with his brief scuffle with The Guak that announcing an attack before commencing said attack was unwise. He took two leaps toward the Latina before the girl in the chair pressed the button on the dowel. The three metal ovals on his collar popped open, kept on the restraint with hinges. A small nozzle emerged from each hole made visible with the shifted ovals. Gas, the same kind the robobirds sprayed on him in the first room, blasted the former sidekick squarely in the face. The World's Smartest Cat instantly found himself once again on cloud nine. He stopped in his tracks and began rolling around the cement floor in ecstasy.

"What the fuck?" asked Oslo as he became incredibly light-headed,

"It's nepeta cataria," the seated girl replied with a smirk.

"Bullshit," The World's Smartest Cat retorted. "It's fuckin' catnip."

"Indeed it is, Bailey," she said as she giggled. "Spliced with Tetrahydrocannabinol and a few other goodies. Now let us see if we can have a calm rational discussion."

The lady removed her thumb from the red button. The nozzles stopped blasting and withdrew back into the red collar strapped around Oslo's neck. The metal ovals slid back into place.

"This is all kinds of fucked up," Oslo remarked. "Tell me what you want, nerdette."

"It's been such a long time," replied the nerdette before taking a sip from the bottled wine cooler. "I thought it would be nice if we could catch up on what we have both been up to these past ten years, Bailey."

"Who the fuck are you? And who the fuck's Bailey?"

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed in delight. "I can't believe after all these years the memory suppressor chip still works!"

The young woman chugged the rest of the wine cooler and set the empty bottle on the coaster. She wiped the bright pink remnants of her alcoholic beverage from her lips and chin before reaching into one of the coat's pockets and pulling out an unopened bottle of Fifi Brothers' A Very Berry Explosion.

"Could you please open this, Rosalita?" she asked Yo-Yo as she extended the bottle toward the her.

The Latina grabbed the bottle and while keeping her attention Oslo, twisted the cap off of the wine cooler and handed it back to the young lady in the easy chair.

"Thank you," said the seated girl.

Yo-Yo, Rosalita, whoever, played with the bottle cap with her right hand. Oslo figured that even that tiny piece of metal would be deadly in the lady ninja's possession.

"To answer your questions," said the girl in the lab coat after sipping from her new beverage. "You are Bailey, and I am Veronika Krieger."

"I was a witness to your creation."

Part XLII: Escape From The Barrio!

Harry Guakomoli had decided to spare the life of The World's Smartest Cat, and Yo-Yo had saved it a mere two hours later. But Oslo did not recognize the comely Miss Ramirez due to her over-sized hooded sweatshirt and bandana that masked the bottom half of her face. Yo-Yo's yoga pants were form-fitting enough that the former sidekick may have been able to identify the Latina by the shape of her bottom (Oslo never forgets an ass), yet alas her shapely posterior was covered by the baggy sweatshirt. No, all Oslo knew of his mysterious savior was a vaguely familiar voice and her ability to kill gangbangers with little effort.

Oslo and Yo-Yo escaped the building by exiting the apartment through an open window and scurrying up to the roof. The feline saw Yo-Yo sprint then leap about a dozen feet to the neighboring building. She turned toward Oslo and motioned for him to follow suit.

"Uh, no," Oslo told his heroine while shaking his head. "I don't fuckin' think so."

"Don't be such a fraidey cat," Yo-Yo said, her voice muffled due to the face covering.

"Real fuckin' funny," responded The World's Smartest Cat.

"Look," said an annoyed Yo-Yo. "Your building is surrounded by a lot of those Los Fuegos Pollos guys, and they're about to set it on fire. Stop being a pussy and be a cat."

"I soooo fuckin' hate you right now. And I'm turned on."

Yo-Yo grunted in disgust, and that made Oslo smile. He mentally declared himself the winner of that round. He charged toward the building's edge and pounced to Yo-Yo. The cat soared through the air. His front paws grabbed the side of the building, and found himself slipping. Yes, Oslo was The World's Smartest Cat, but by no stretch of the imagination was he the most graceful. Months of inebriated grief and laziness had caused the foul-mouthed four-legged fury to forget much of his instinctive agility. Oslo lost his grip, but luckily for him Yo-Yo grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him to safety.

"I did it!" Oslo exclaimed. "Well, I almost fuckin' did."

"Fantastic. Now there are only about ten more of these to go."

"Oh, fuck no," said Oslo.

"Oh, fuck yes," Yo-Yo retorted. "It will get easier over time. Come."

Yo-Yo took off running to build momentum for the next jump. Oslo sighed and followed the shadowy figure. The pair hopped from building to building for the next fifteen minutes, and the Latin beauty was right; each jump caused The World's Smartest Cat to lose more and more of the rust. But damn was it taking its toll!
Oslo stopped after the two leaped to the eighth building. The cat was out of breath.

"Wait! Wait!" the feline called to Yo-Yo between gasps.

Yo-Yo stopped and turned around.

"We don't have a minute," she said. "We have to leave the barrio immediately."

"I don't HAVE to do anything," snapped the former sidekick. "Thanks for savin' me, but you're not my boss. I'm safe now and a fuckin' cat. I can go anywhere."
 
"You're not the least bit interested in who saved you and why?"

"Sure I am, but there's an old saying about cats and curiosity. And I don't wanna find out if that shit's true."
"It's true that I can't force you to do anything," agreed Yo-Yo. "But I know people. People that know where The Guak is, and what he's up to. Your friend has abandoned the barrio. There's nothing left for you here either."

"You're not playing fair," Oslo replied with a hint of sadness. "But you're right. And you're a bitch."

"I know," the woman said flatly. "Grab a hold of the back of my sweatshirt, and I'll get us out of here. Be careful not to scratch me."

Without comment Oslo jumped onto the shoulders  of Yo-Yo and did his best to stick the sweatshirt with his claws while not embedding them into her mocha-hued flesh. As he did he felt something hard under the dark hoodie.

"We have one quick stop to make first," Yo-Yo said as she started to sprint. She jump, bounded, and flipped her way over three more buildings before dropping down to a fire escape landing. Yo-Yo peered into the window of the dark living room of her barrio apartment. Though for the past six months she had been living with The World's Smartest Cat, a few times a week, when Oslo was too shit-faced to remain conscious, the lovely Latina would slip away to check up on things and...make reports. Yo-Yo did not observe any movement so she opened the window and quietly stepped inside. The woman blindly made her way to a corner with a lamp.

"Oh, shit!" Oslo yelled as Yo-Yo turned on the lamp. "We're not alone!"

Yo-Yo was grabbed from behind. A pair of hands gripped her sweatshirt.

"You picked the wrong place to rob, puta," a member of Los Fuegos Polos said as he pulled Yo-Yo toward him and pinning Oslo between them.

"Motherfucker!" The World's Smartest Cat uttered as he was smothered.
 
Yo-Yo had neither the leverage nor the angle to strike the gangbanger so she wiggled out of the sweatshirt, revealing the black t-shirt and Kevlar vest she wore underneath. Her long black hair was tied back into a ponytail. Yo-Yo delivered a spin kick to her attacker's chest. He was set flying and hit a wooden coffee table. The table split and splintered.

The man groaned as Yo-Yo slowly walked to him. She bent over and grabbed a leg of the table that had broken off from the body. It had splintered as well and ended at a sharp point. The lady straddled the gangbanger, raised the stake above her head, and drove it into his throat.

Oslo watched the fight go down. And as he stared at the mystery woman's shapely bottom jiggle and shake in her tight pants The World's Smartest Cat finally figured out his savior's identity.
 
"Oh my fuckness!" yelled Oslo. "La cucaracha?!"

"Call me 'cockroach' again," Yo-Yo warned. "And I will crush you like one."

"Okay," Oslo replied after an audible gulp.

Yo-Yo stood and faced The World's Smartest Cat. Her face, chest, torso, and right lower armor were covered in the blood of the vato she had just killed.

"I need to wash myself and pack some things before we go," said Yo-Yo. "There's some tequila on the kitchen counter. Help yourself."

Oslo's nerves were shot. He was stressed out and becoming hung over. Hair of the dog sounded exactly what the cat needed. He trotted off to drown his sorrows.

Yo-Yo walked over to a short wooden case with rows of compact discs. She pushed it aside revealing a safe in the wall. Yo-Yo quickly executed the combination and opened the door. She pulled out a sleek black rectangular device. She pressed a small button on the side and a screen lit up with a touch pad. Yo-Yo entered a password, accessed the contacts menu, and selected Delta. She then pressed call on the screen and held the device to her ear and mouth.

"This is Paragon 9696," Yo-Yo uttered. "Felix and I are at Ramirez. Hostiles in the vicinity but not an immediate threat. Extraction requested."

Yo-Yo stood silently for about a minute.

"Fifteen minutes? Understood," she stated into the phone before ending the call.

Yo-Yo withdrew a backpack from the safe and then stacks of twenty dollar bills. She stuffed the money into the bag with the phone, a semi-automatic pistol, a few nasty-looking knives in sheaths, and a leather sleeve that contained more throwing stars.

Yo-Yo walked to the bathroom, flipped on the light switch, and stared into the mirror. She examined the blood on her face and body and a slight sadistic smirk emerged. The woman was excited to see action again. It had been far too long. She wished she had time to take a shower, but the lady didn't even have time to change into clean clothes. Yo-Yo wetted a wash cloth and quickly wiped off as much of the blood as she could.

Enough of the sticky viscous fluid was removed to satisfy Yo-Yo so she walked back into the living room.

"¡Ariba ariba andele andele!" Oslo could be heard yelling from the kitchen as he chugged the tequila. A loud thundrous belch followed.

That cat is a pig, Yo-Yo thought to herself. She looked around the room and was happy that her role as a hood rat was finally coming to an end.

Yo-Yo reached into the safe and pulled out a clean black hoodie and a canvas sack. She put on the sweatshirt and zipped up. It was barely big enough to fit over the Kevlar vest. With sack in tow she strolled into the kitchen. In ten minutes The World's Smartest Cat had gone from stone cold sober to super soused. The bottle of Cuervo that had been full was empty and Oslo was laying in his own piss and puke.

"Sorry I didn't respect you, chica," Oslo mumbled to the Latina. "But even in those clothes you're muy caliente."

"Gracias, Senor Gato," Yo-Yo purred as she slipped into her Hispanic accent and approached the feline.

Oslo didn't see it coming. Maybe it was because he was piss drunk. Or that Yo-Yo had once again resumed her hood rat persona. Probably it was both. Regardless, The World's Smartest Cat was caught off-guard when Yo-Yo scooped him up into the canvas sack.

Part XLI: Honey's And Edna's Attempts At Seduction

Harry Guakomoli had just been handed a briefcase with a shitload of cash. The case also contained government-issued identification for both himself and a fabricated individual, Elijah Tenenbaum. Our hero walked away from Dinah and her busted Monte Carlo gripping the case's handle with his right hand while the pine box that contained his life's mementos was awkwardly pressed between the left arm and side of his torso. The Guak needed a better container for his shit. And a new place to live. And some clothes. But the loud rumbling in his gut told him that getting some sustenance is his system needed to be his top priority. Our hero was fucking starving!

As if on cue a black woman in her late forties ran out of Honey's Sweet Eatin's. She headed toward him, her plain powder blue linen dress clung to her body which skirted the line between curvy and fat. A stained greasy apron that was once white was tied loosely tied around her waist and flapped as she ran. Her thick curly hair was held in place with a hair net.

"White boy! White boy, hold up!" the woman called out to our hero as he walked away.

"Huh?" muttered The Guak as he spun around.

"I don't know what your beef was with the bald one," she answered. "But you just made Honey's fuckin' day. Year even."

"Oh, yeah?" asked The Guak. "Is that sarcasm? 'Cause I'm sorry about your restaurant."

"Oh, hell no!" Honey exclaimed. "This shit hole's been a curse! Nothin' but misery! But now the insurance company's gonna cut me a fat check. Maybe your ICE friends will too. Hallelujah!"

"Anything to help the working folks," The Guak responded.

"I owe you so much, baby," Honey purred as she stepped closer to our hero. "Maybe Honey can take you back to the pantry and properly show you her appreciation?"

Instead The Guak accepted a bunch of soul food on the house: ham hocks with black-eyed peas, hush puppies, chitlins, and cornbread. And a bottle of cherry Coke to wash it all down. Our hero sat down on a sidewalk bench and scarfed down his meal. While he ate a kit of pigeons surrounded him attempting to grab scraps of food that hit the pavement or, better yet, steal the grub from his hands. The Guak growled as they landed. Pigeons are stupid things, but even they trembled at the low menacing rumble that emanated from our hero's throat. The winged rats knew The Guak was not to be fucked with.

After our hero was fully sated he embarked on a journey to find lodging. Sure he had only been awake for twelve hours after a months-long slumber, but fucking shit up was tiring work. He wanted somewhere close.
During the mission to find a residence The Guak came across a military surplus store and beside that a thrift shop operated by nuns. Our hero purchased a drab green duffel bag and tossed the pine box. He then procured some clothes: mostly t-shirts, socks, underpants, jeans, and pullover hooded sweatshirts. Old habits die hard. Even for thousandaires.

The Guak was getting sleepy. Ass-kicking and a tummy full of soul food will do that. He saw a hotel advertising daily and weekly rates. It was named The Resplendent Auberge, though there was nothing resplendent about it, and the establishment was more of a glorified flophouse. This was proven by the half dozen or so scantily clad women selling their flesh in front of the building in the early afternoon. One of the ladies directed a sales pitch toward The Guak as he approached but stopped herself; the combination of bandages affixed to his face and neck and the menacing glower upon his countenance forced her to wisely reconsider.

The Guak entered The Resplendent Auberge and one look at the lobby one could determine that the hotel had seen better days and probably had not seen a good one in quite some time. The wallpaper was stained from constant exposure to tobacco smoke; the shag carpeting was frayed and stained from God-knows-what. Hanging from the walls were framed autographed photos of some of the hotel's more "famous" guests: star of the stage Uta Hagen; Family Ties' Marc Price; Nightranger singer/bassist Jack Blades; gay masseur-turned-porn star Bobby "Bobby Cummings" Dunning; James Watt (United States Secretary of the Interior 1981-83); the guy who played Oliver in The Brady Bunch; the second yellow Mighty Morphin' Power Ranger; and Sammy Davis, Jr.

Seated behind a counter protected by a bullet-proof was a frail white woman in her late sixties. She inhaled deeply from a long slim cigarette, her fingertips orange from the nicotine.

"I want a room," our hero stated to the desk clerk.

"For the week, night, or hour?" she asked in a bored tone.

"Fuck it. Let's make it a week"

The woman opened a manila folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. She grabbed a cheap plastic pen that was nestled behind her ear.

"Name?" she asked.

"Umm..." our hero thought aloud, not wishing to use neither his real name or new alias.  "John Smith?"

"Ain't that somethin'?" the clerk replied. "There's twenty other residents here with that exact same name. You assholes should start a club."

"I could go with John Doe," said The Guak with a shrug.

"Don't do me any fuckin' favors."

The woman filled in some blanks on the form.

"Rent is $150 a week," she began with a robotic regularity that comes from the saying the same thing a thousand times. "Plus $150 security deposit. The room comes with a double-sized bed, two pillows, sheets, a blanket, towels, an easy chair, a small table with a plastic chair, a small fridge, and a microwave. The TV is color and comes with a remote. You get seven channels and an option for pay-per-view skin flicks, but for you to order those a credit card must be provided. If you're expectin' the internets you can forget it. None of that fancy shit here. Cash or charge, honey?"

"Cash."

"I need $300 and your signature."

The clerk placed the form and pen in a small metal drawer that was also accessible to The Guak. Our hero signed the form "John Smith" and returned the paper and pen to the drawer along with $300 in cash.

"Welcome to The Resplendent Auberge," said the clerk as she slid our hero a key into the drawer. "Room 214. If you're gonna stay with us after the first week rent is due every Sunday by noon. No exceptions. Save your fuckin' sob stories for your priest and bartender. I'm not interested in bullshit excuses. Though if you ever find yourself short some week I think we can work somethin' out."

The woman smiled a toothless grin. She slowly, seductively, drew her tongue along her gums and cracked lips.

"I just threw up in my mouth. A lot."

"The offer's always on the table, big boy. You take care of Edna, and Edna will take care of you."

The Guak decided it was best to consider the conversation over and walked away duffel bag and briefcase in tow. He made his way to the second floor. The hallway was heavy with a bouquet of tobacco, narcotics, and cheap perfume. The sound of hip hop was damn near deafening, and our felt its bass pulsate through his feet and legs. He found 214 and let himself in. Not surprisingly the room was in shambles. The carpeting and walls were of similar condition as those in the lobby.

The sheets were stained with various bodily fluids, and The Guak attempted to mentally rank what fluid he would rather sleep in, but they all sounded horrible. Our hero could not decide. He did his best to put it out of mind as he stripped down to his underpants and crawled into bed. The siren call of slumber grew louder and louder in his head until The Guak fell into a deep sleep.

Part XL: Phoenix And Mockingbird

Harry Guakomoli saw yet another search for answers abruptly end. Again due to the recipient of his questioning spontaneously convulsing and frothing at the mouth. This had happened twice in the last hour, and that was seriously pissing off this story's protagonist.

Dinah stopped the Monte Carlo, the car the worse for wear, about a dozen feet from where The Guak stood over the bald follower of The Death Matriarch. She got out of the car, a pistol in one hand and a phone identical to The Guak's in the other.

"HQ, this is Mockingbird 90210," the raven-haired lass stated into the phone. "Assault on Phoenix. Multiple casualties. I need containment and forensic teams at 101st and Frederick Douglass Avenue. Right, Dilly Heights. No, he seems okay...relatively speaking. Oh, and I need a change of clothes for Phoenix."

Dinah stood quietly with the phone to her ear for about half a minute.

"Aye, aye, el capitan," she said before ending the call.

Dinah slipped the phone into a pocket of her rubber jacket. She engaged the safety of the Walther PPK before slipping it into the other pocket. Dinah opened the trunk of the Monte Carlo and removed her jacket, revealing the black t-shirt she wore underneath. The Guak gazed at the strip of milky white flesh that separated the tee and the lady's crimson pants and then the gun as it was tucked into the back of the crushed velvet trousers.

"'Mockingbird' are you?" asked The Guak with a smirk.

"You know," replied Dinah. "Because I mock...and stuff. You look horrible. Are you okay?"

"Chicks dig scars, right?"

"Sure," answered Dinah. "But gaping neck wounds? Not so much."

Dinah reached into a pocket of the nylon jacket and pulled out a plastic ID card and a badge, both attached to cords. She placed both around her neck. The card had a photo of her face and identified her as Mitzi Schwartz, special agent for United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Dinah liberated her hair from the ponytails they were confined to, allowing her long straight ebony locks to fall far past her shoulders and nearly to her waist. She took off her sunglasses and stashed them and the hair ties into a pocket. Our hero observed she was once again wearing too much eyeliner.

"What are you doing?" The Guak asked.

"The popos will take me more seriously now," Dinah replied.

"That is some serious lipstick," commented our hero, referring to the gun metal black shade the lady had opted to paint her lips.

Dinah put out a fist and extended her middle finger.

"Don't forget the nail polish," she said.

"How can I with a reminder like that?"

"Did he tell you anything?" the lady asked before looking down at the smooth-headed corpse, its head in a pool of blood and slobber. "Ew. That's fucking gross."

The Guak said nothing as a half dozen police cars surrounded the pair.

"We'll talk about this later...I hope," said Dinah. "Just don't say anything to them."

"I'm not telling them shit."

"Good boy."

Six police officers exited the six police cruisers and, positioning themselves behind the open doors, drew their firearms and pointed them at The Guak and Dinah. After a brief, but tense, showdown, the officers knew they answered to Dinah in the guise of Mitzi Schwartz. The five policemen did not appreciate the verbal emasculation they received from the much smaller federal agent, but Dinah wasn't interested in their appreciation. Officer Joan Post, on the other hand, rather enjoyed the figurative castration her knuckle-dragging cohorts had been dealt. It took all of her willpower to hold down the snickering that yearned to be vocalized.

Local law enforcement taped off the four blocks that comprised the site of the chase and subsequent confrontation that had occurred. The City's boys (and girls) in blue were none too happy to be relegated to crowd control, but the displeasure was not audible lest they incur another tongue-lashing from Dinah. Three large black vans, unmarked yet still totally conspicuous, arrived transporting a slew of folks with ICE credentials. Over a dozen men and women in dark suits and sunglasses exited the vehicles and took to the crime scene.

The Guak acquiesced to Dinah's wishes of allowing an EMT to patch him up, particularly the deep bites on his neck. Our hero knew his injuries would heal on their own significantly faster than those of an average human, but he was unsure of his body's ability to stave off infection. Plus The Guak was rarely one to pass up a chance to please a pretty lady.

The EMT was just finishing sewing and bandaging up our hero, now dressed in a gray hoodless sweatshirt and another pair of outdated blue jeans, when an officer approached Dinah. She was smoking a vanilla-scented cigarette and standing beside The Guak to ward off investigators, both the cops and her own agents.

"Agent Schwartz", the officer said. "My guys are just standing around with their dicks in their hands. Maybe we could interview the restaurant owner and her patrons? It would at least give us something to do."

"God," Dinah replied with an exaggerated sigh of disgust." All I need from your guys' dicks is to keep you and everyone else out of my fucking crime scene. Can you do that, Officer Doughnut?"

"Now see here, princess --"

"I'm sorry," interjected Dinah. "I forgot it's Sergeant Doughnut. Look, I really don't care if you're too old for this shit, or if you're more like Riggs, and you're an unhinged maverick whose unorthodox methodology prevents you from obeying authority figures. Though I bet you're more of a Murtaugh. All I want is for you to keep quiet and stay out of my way. Can you do that and hold your dick?'

The sergeant mumbled something uncomplimentary under his breath before storming off. The EMT finished up tending to The Guak and climbed back into the ambulance.

"Now that we're alone..." said our hero.

"Yes, The Guak?" Dinah asked as she looked into his green eyes and batted her lashes.

"Now can you tell me what the fuck makes me so special? And who do you work for? I know it's not ICE."

Dinah looked around.

"It's not safe to talk out in the open," she answered.

"Why?" asked The Guak. "You think someone's bugged the outside?"

"Have you ever seen The Conversation?" Dinah replied. "We can never be too sure, The Guak. Let's go talk in Troy's car. It's got some doohickey that produces some low high frequency sonic thingamajig that prevents audio surveillance."

The pair walked back to the Monte Carlo and returned to the seats they were in before the van full of The Death Matriarch's followers so rudely interrupted them.

"To answer your second question," Dinah began. "Who I work for is classified and you don't have the clearance. But you're right; it's not ICE, nor is it it the FBI, ATF, DEA, FEMA, NASA, or any other government agency I have identification for in the trunk. Only a handful of people outside the organization even exist, including you. The only way you'll ever know who we are is by joining us."

"You're telling me the only way I get to know the answer," replied The Guak."Is by becoming the answer?"
"Well put. And you're right."

"That's fucking lame."
 
"I know," said Dinah. "And I'm willing to bet you'll find my answer to your first question just as fucking lame, The Guak."
"You can't tell me that either," our hero predicted.

"Yeah," Dinah confirmed The Guak's theory. "But only because Dr. Triangle ordered it. I've been assigned the task of convincing you to at least come in and listen to what he has to say. This gal's been given a lot of wiggle room in how to make that happen, but I'm not to tell you what, and who, we think you are."

"You're right," The Guak said. "That is fucking lame."

"Sorry," she replied. Her apology sounded genuine. "But I'll throw you a bone. We originally believed what makes you you was strictly your patrilineal heritage, but we now suspect your mother's lineage may play a part as well."

"Jesus. Could you be any more cryptic?"

"I certainly could, but I won't," responded Dinah. "And I know this going to come across as bullshit, but did that bald fuck give you dirt?"

"Wow," said our hero. "That is some bullshit."

"I know, I know," said Dinah. "But I have resources that you don't. I promise to share anything I dig up."

The Guak was torn. The lady probably did have a better chance of discovering something. But should he give her and that twat, Triangle, the only information he had that they didn't?

Dinah leaned toward him and stared up into his eyes.

"Please, The Guak. Let me help you."

Our hero lost himself in her big brown eyes and knew resistance was futile. He told her everything: the rescue attempt, the infernal spawn, The Prophecy, The Death Matriarch, and The Death Matriarch's teats.

"I've never heard of her," said Dinah about The Death Matriarch. "But I will look into it."

"Thanks."

"Thanks for trusting me," replied Dinah. "I have something for you. There's a briefcase under your seat. Take it."

The Guak felt under the passenger seat of Troy's car and pulled out an old battered brown leather briefcase.

"Open it," Dinah said excitedly.

Our hero did just that and clicked the case unlocked and opened it up. Inside was a large manila envelope and under that were several stacks of fifty and twenty dollar bills.

"What's this?" our hero asked, confused.

"Let's call it an enticement," the lady answered. "I know you lost a lot after Neuneuschwanstein and not just your life. You have nothing except for a box of knickknacks. And knowing what you did to your old apartment last night something tells me you won't be returning."

"Not any time soon," stated The Guak flatly.

"So consider it a gift," said Dinah. "And hopefully a signing bonus. It's a reminder that you're not alone. We'll take care of you. I'll take care of you."

"What's in the envelope?" our hero asked.
 
"A driver's license, a social security card, and a birth certificate for Harry Guakomoli," Dinah replied. "And documents establishing a cover identity should you wish to remain incognito, though you've been conscious for less than twelve hours and you've already killed nearly a dozen people, stolen a cab, staged a home invasion, and robbed your own grave. Laying low might be tricky."

The Guak opened the envelope and examined the legal documents inside.

"'Elijah Tenenbaum'?" he asked as he read his cover identity's birth certificate.

"Son of Hershel Tenenbaum and Patricia Wilson," said Dinah."' A dashing Jewish performer and his blushing Gentile bride. He was a clown in a traveling circus. The show made a stop in Beckley, West Virginia. That was where Hershel first laid upon the fetching Patti, a coal miner's daughter. Her father was an anti-Semite of the highest order, but after falling for Hershel the fair maiden was Daddy's little girl no longer. They eloped the next day and Hershel took her on the road, saving Patti from small town depression and black lung. Patti soon after became an entertainer herself as a renowned trapeze artist."

Dinah cut herself off when she looked over at The Guak and noticed his face's expression was a mix of amusement and bewilderment.

"But you should figure out the back story for yourself," the lady remarked with embarrassment.

"Thanks, Dinah."

"You're welcome, The Guak."

"I'll call you about the whole Death Matriarch thing," said our hero.

"I'll let you know if I find anything," replied Dinah.

"Could you wait for me to get a hold of you?" The Guak requested. "I need some time to myself and to think about some things."

"Okay," replied Dinah. "But you don't strike me as much of a thinker. No offense."

"I'm not so none taken. But there's some serious shit going down. Shit I should probably think about."

Our hero stepped out of Troy's car. He reached in and grabbed the briefcase and his pine box of worldly possessions.

"What's next on your agenda, The Guak?" Dinah asked.

"Probably buy some clothes and find a place to live. But first I'm going to get some food; I'm fucking starving."

"I hope to hear from you soon," said Dinah.

"Thanks for the ride."

Part XXXIX: An Interrogation Interrupted

Harry Guakomoli had forced the van into the front window of Honey's Sweet Eatin's. The vehicle had struck the building with such force several bricks became dislodged and the window shattered. The Guak had killed the the gunman mere seconds before he grabbed the steering wheel. Our hero needed information from the driver. He was moaning so The Guak knew he was still among the living. But first our hero had to collect himself.

"Fuck, that hurt," The Guak mumbled. His head had banged against the steering wheel when the vehicle collided into Honey's.

"Are you okay?" our hero asked the driver. The Guak's head was on the man's lap, nestled between the steering wheel and his belly.

"Do you care?' responded the recipient of our hero's inquiry.

"I don't," The Guak answered. "Making sure you're with it enough to sing like a canary."

The Guak kicked the passenger's door open with his boot. He then shoved the gunman's corpse out of the van with his foot. Our hero unbuckled the driver's seatbelt and grabbed him by the collar of his dark  heavy coat. The Guak exited the van while dragging the bald man behind him.

Honey's Sweet Eatin's had fallen on hard times. Like many businesses in The City's Dilly Heights neighborhood, the eatery had been severely hurt by the sluggish economy. Honey's was once THE SPOT for Sunday brunch, but that ended two years prior. Perhaps that was for the best because if business had been booming the van, the front half of which was in Honey's dining room, would have killed a handful of folks. Instead the only brunchers were three elderly black women in the back corner wearing their nicest God-fearing Sunday dresses. The trio stared at our hero, bloodied and dragging another dumb white boy behind him, in shock and disgust.

"Sorry for the intrusion, ladies," The Guak said. "You all look lovely today."

And our hero meant it. Not wishing to further disrupt their meals he decided to conduct the interrogation outside. The Guak dragged the driver behind him out Honey's front door. The smooth-headed man struggled, but even if he was at his physical peak there would be no way he could break The Guak's vise-like grip. Our hero dumped the driver into the street.

The Guak, back hunched, hovered over the driver. He grabbed a hold of the man's coat collar and pulled him closer until the faces of the men were nearly touching.

"Start talking, shitheel," our hero growled.

The man groaned in response.

"Hey, princess," The Guak said before slapping the man's forehead a few times. "Time to be a Chatty Cathy."
"What do you want?" asked the barely conscious man.

"What do you want?" our hero asked, turning, the question back on the man.

"To save you...to save you from the temptation. The lure of the infernal spawn. I was sent to retrieve you. To escort you to your rightful place: the safety of The Death Matriarch's bosom. You are destined for great things and have earned the privilege of suckling from her awesome teats."

"Wait, what?" The Guak said. "I'm tired of you fucking whackjobs. What am I destined for? What's this about titty sucking?"

"I do not know," answered the man. "I have not yet been deemed worthy to know the details of The Prophesy. By saving you from the clutches of evil I was hoping to earn The Death Matriarch's favor."

"You'll forgive me if I doubt someone called 'The Death Matriarch' has my best interests in mind, our hero sneered. Who is this Death Matriarch?"

"She is beautiful and sagacious. She is --"

The target of The Guak's questioning was cut short by an insane amount of froth that suddenly formed in his mouth. Within seconds the driver was suffocating.

"For fuck's sake," our hero said in disgust. "Not this shit again."

The Guak rolled the man onto his stomach.

"Cough it up, bitch. We're not done yet."

Contrary to what our hero thought the interrogation was over. Putting the man face down in the asphalt did prevent him from choking on his foamy slobber, but it did nothing to stop the body-racking convulsions that soon followed. Restraining the man did nothing to cease the bizarre violent seizure. Blood began to flow from the man's head orifices: first from the mouth and nose, then the ears, and finally the eyes.
The man stopped moving. It was obvious to The Guak, and to any other layman, that he was dead. Our hero sighed in frustration and stood up as Dinah, driving Imaginary Troy's car, approached.

Part XXXVIII: The Guak And Dinah Vs. A Bunch Of Jerks

Harry Guakomoli and Dinah were conversing when the Monte Carlo's rear window was blown out. Both driver and passenger instinctively ducked.

"What the fuck was that?!" Dinah yelled.

"Maybe Troy's pissed you bought his car for ironic reasons," our hero replied.

"Not. Funny."

The Guak thought it was. He looked behind his left shoulder and noticed a black van rocketing toward them. A bald man leaned out the passenger's window wielding some kind of gun in both hands. Our hero couldn't tell for certain, but the driver appeared to be white and bald as well. The van was rapidly closing the gap between it and the Monte Carlo.

"Looks like skinheads. Sound familiar?" The Guak asked.

Dinah shook her head while slamming her foot down on the accelerator.

"They're probably for me then," our hero said. "You can probably outrun them, but we should take the fight to them. Do you have guns in here?"

"There's a .32 in the glove box," she answered. "And there's...other stuff in the trunk."

The Guak's curiosity was piqued, but circumstances called for him not to press the matter.

"Do you know how to use it?" our hero asked.

"It's not my forte," Dinah replied. "But, yes, I know how to point and shoot."

"What is your forte exactly?"

"Can we not do this now?" the driver asked. "Mr. Clean's fucktard brothers are trying to kill us. Why don't you use the gun?"

"Guns aren't my style."

"Not your style?! Isn't the whole point of you is your lack of style?"

"You're using the fucking gun," The Guak ordered.

Our hero opened the glove box. The compartment was stuffed with a variety of papers and envelopes. Atop the stack was a pistol and what is best vaguely described as a marital aid. The Guak smiled. He disliked guns but immediately recognized the pistol as a Walther PPK; the same gun used by James Bond.

"Here," said The Guak as he handed the gun to the driver. "Now shoot any motherfucker that gets close enough."

"Fine, fine," Dinah said as she cocked the hammer.

"Slow down a little. Let them catch up to us," our hero instructed as he rolled down the window. "Hmm. Not much room for me to climb out."

Dinah decelerated slightly, allowing the dark van to draw closer. The van approached from the flank of the passenger's side. Its driver attempted to place it side-by-side with the Monte Carlo.

"Hit the brakes!" The Guak yelled.

Dinah slammed on the brake pedal as directed. As she did The Guak quickly opened the door. The speeding van struck the open door, ripping it off its hinges and sending it flying.

"Troy's going to be pissed!" Dinah said as she giggled.

"Fuck Troy."

"Maybe Later."

The Guak leaned out of the new opening. He bent his knees as he readied himself to pounce.

"Now drive up beside them. The van has sliding doors on either side. That's how I'm going in."

"You got it, The Guak," Dinah said with a huge grin. "This is fucking exciting."

The Monte Carlo accelerated once again positioning itself parallel to the van. Our hero gripped the the side door's handle. He pulled on it and tried to slide the door open. But as he did Dinah hit a pot hole which knocked The Guak off-balance. While still gripping the handle he fell out of the car. His legs and feet were about to hit pavement. This would have hurt our hero a whole fucking lot, but a pair of hands grabbed a hold of his sweatshirt and pulled him into the van.

The Guak was on his knees inside the van. He quickly scanned his new surroundings. The back seats were removed leaving the interior empty. Four individuals, three men and a woman, stood over him hunched over. They were all bald and clean-shaven, clad in dark heavy jackets, black jeans, and combat boots. He saw, the backs of the driver's and front passenger's hairless heads.

"We've rescued the scion!" one of the men exclaimed. "We will earn The Death Matriarch's favor!"

The Guak grabbed the man and threw him out the open side door. He the asphalt. As he did he bounced, then rolled, leaving red smears in his wake.

"I only need one of you fuckheads alive for questioning," The Guak said. "So do me a favor and attack me so we can hurry this up."

"Attack you?" one of the other bald men in the back responded. "We're here to save --"

"Too late," interrupted The Guak as he wrapped his meaty hands around the man's neck. He squeezed tightly right before tossing him out the door.

"Next?"

"God damn it," the man sitting in the passenger's seat said as he turned his head to see what the hubbub was about. "Just subdue him. The Death Matriarch will understand."

The remaining rescuers in the back, a man and a woman, lunged at The Guak simultaneously. Our hero, still on his knees, was at a bit of a disadvantage, allowing the man to pummel The Guak repeatedly in the face. Our hero regarded the attacks as more of a nuisance than an actual threat and countered with a punch to the man's gut. The head punches stopped immediately, and he doubled over. But before The Guak could finish him off the woman pounced on his back and bit into his neck.

The Guak howled in equal parts rage and pain. He reached behind himself to grab a handful of hair, but all he got was the smoothness of her head.

"I don't like fucking up women," The Guak warned. "But I will."

"Your chauvinism masquerades as chivalry!" she shrieked before biting the other side of the neck.

Our hero howled again and stood up suddenly, slamming his attacker into the van's ceiling. Then again. And again.

"Help her, brother!" The driver ordered the man beside him. The Guak continued slamming the woman against the ceiling, but she refused to break her hold. The passenger shifted out of his seat to aid the woman when the driver stopped him.

"Wait," the wheel man said. "The secondary target is driving up beside us."

The passenger turned toward his open window as a gunshot rang through the air. The back of the man's head exploded, sending blood, brains, and bone fragments flying. The windshield and driver were sprayed with viscous sanguinary fluid. The driver slammed on the brakes. Our hero, the lady biter still on his back, fell backwards. He hit the van's double doors causing them to fly open. The Guak and his attacker tumbled out.

Our hero managed to grab the top of one of the doors with his hands with the bald woman's arms wrapped around his neck. The van accelerated once again before taking a sharp left turn. The door swung wildly, hitting the side of the van hard with The Guak's fingers between them.  He winced. The impact was finally too much for the woman to maintain her grip. She released her hold but managed to wrap her arms around our hero's waist.


The Guak was exerting most of his energy to hang on to the door. Then its top hinge separated.

"Fuck," he cussed aloud. The woman hanging on to him started to scream. He looked down to her feet dragging along the pavement.  Her combat boots were already beginning to wear out. It wouldn't be long until she really felt pain.

From the corner of our hero's eye he noticed the Monte Carlo hurtling toward them. He felt the door's bottom hinge start to give.

"Let go!" The Guak ordered the bald woman.

"Please save me!" she begged. "We're here to help you! You're in danger!"

"What?!"

"These people! They want to --"

The woman's response was stopped short by a .32 caliber bullet hitting the door mere inches from The Guak's lower back. Our hero saw the Monte Carlo a few feet from the rear bumper. Dinah's hand right hand gripped the steering wheel while her left aimed the PPK at the bald woman. A lit cigarette was nestled between her gun metal black lips. The Guak swore she was smiling.

The raven-maned cutie fired again. This time the bullet hit the woman's left leg right below where it met the cheek of her ass. The woman screamed. She let go of The Guak and dropped to the pavement. Our hero heard a loud sickening squishing sound as the Monte Carlo ran over her going close to 80 mph. The car briefly tugged to the right before Dinah corrected its direction and approached the van's left flank.

The bottom hinge could no longer take the stress and came apart. Our hero fell and hoped to survive the impact of hitting asphalt. He was pleasantly surprised to land on the hood of the car instead. His feeling of relief came to abrupt end when he realized he was sliding off. He managed to grab the windshield wiper. It snapped off almost immediately, but it slowed The Guak down for him to control the momentum just enough to clumsily plop back down into the passenger's seat.


"This is fucking exciting!" Dinah squealed with delight.

"Are you fucking nuts?!" asked The Guak.

"Sanity is subjective," she answered. "Don't be such a baby."

"Says the girl with the gun in the relative safety of Troy's car."


The van's driver slammed on the brakes once again, putting substantial distance between the vehicles.


"You ready to murderize the rest of these clowns?" Dinah gleefully asked.

"I need one alive for questioning. Slow down."

Sirens could be heard in the distance as the van's front passenger door opened, and the corpse of Dinah's first victim was pushed out of the van. The man whom The Guak had socked in the solar plexus earlier eased into the passenger seat. The inside of the windshield was covered in blood and brains save for two spots where the bald men sloppily attempted to clean. The van's driver put the pedal to the metal, rubber burning and leaving patches on the road.


"What's the plan?" asked an eager Dinah.


"Hmm," The Guak thought aloud. "I guess just let them catch up to us."


"You're the boss, applesauce."


As the van raced toward the Monte Carlo The Guak made sure his right hand was was completely covered in the sleeve of his sweatshirt before clearing out the remaining glass of the shattered rear window. Then he began to climb out of it and onto the trunk.


"Have you forgotten these guys have guns?" Dinah questioned The Guak.


"They won't shoot at me," our hero responded.


The Guak, now completely out of the car and on the trunk, looked at the rapidly approaching van. His fingers smarted like a motherfucker. As did his bleeding neck.


This is going to fucking hurt, The Guak thought to himself as he jumped off the Monte Carlo. He flew about ten feet in the air before crashing through the windshield of the van. Our hero kicked the passenger in the side of the face with enough force to spin the head around and break his neck, instantly killing him. The Guak grabbed the steering wheel and violently turned it to the right. The van careened out of control and into the large window of soul food eatery Honey's Sweet Eatin's.

Part XXXVII: Dinah And Imaginary Troy's Car

Harry Guakomoli left Miss Yvonne's Psychic Readings to find Dinah waiting for him. She was leaning against the passenger's side of a gun metal black '85 Chevy Monte Carlo with her ankles crossed. She wore the same black boots and rubber jacket as the night before. The skirt and nylons were replaced with a pair of crimson crushed velvet pants. Her long black hair, which previously was loose and hid much of her pale face, was tied into a pair of braids. Large white cat eye with dark, nearly opaque, sunglasses covered her eyes.

"Howdy, stranger," Dinah said before taking a drag off her vanilla-flavored cigarette. It was then our hero noticed the lady's lips and nails were painted the same shade as the car.

"I thought you were going to wait for me to come to you."

"I couldn't resist your manliness" she replied. "You make me sooo hard."

The Guak grunted.

"Do you need a ride somewhere?" the lady asked.

"How did you find me?" our hero replied with a question of his own.

"We're everywhere, The Guak," Dinah responded. "There's no hiding from us."

"You're tracking my phone."

Dinah smiled and shrugged.

"Which reminds me," The Guak continued. "What the fuck's up with that number?"
 
"What? We thought you would like it."

"The '666' area code is mighty cool," our hero admitted. "But I'm told that Yvonne chick would freak out if she sees the Sign of The Beast."

"We use '666' because it's no longer in use and never will be again," Dinah explained. "And the last seven digits? Do you like them?"

"I can't even remember them," said The Guak. "8-4-something."
 
"8-4-3-4-8-2-5. It spells 'The Guak.'"

"Okay, '666-TheGuak' is really fucking cool."

"I know," said Dinah after taking another drag off her smoke. “Now get in. I want to talk to you but not out here. The sun is a meanie to my skin."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Call me 'ma'am' again, and I'll make you a eunuch."

"Understood."

Dinah pushed herself off the side of the car and walked around to the driver's door. The Guak sat in the passenger's seat and rested his box of possessions on the floorboard between his legs. A pair of fuzzy red dice hung from the rear view mirror. A plastic hula girl stuck to the top of the dash. Dinah inserted the key into the ignition and turned the it. The car roared to life. And it was loud. Really fucking loud.

"This isn't what I expected you to drive," The Guak said.

"Isn't it AMAZING?“ said the raven-haired cutie. “I imagine the previous owner was some good ol' boy from the South. Jacksonville or something real redneck-y like that. His name's Troy and has a dirty blond mullet and moustache. Troy's addicted to meth and Mountain Dew and lives in a trailer park with his very large invalid mother and white trash stripper girlfriend."

"You've put a lot of thought into this," our hero observed.

"I have a lot of free time and bore easily."
 
Dinah threw the car in drive and sped away.

"Did you discover anything useful?" she asked The Guak.

 

"Not much. Yvonne told me she bought me from some woman when I was a baby, and then she freaked out when I mentioned my mother. Really freaked out. Crazy Linda Blair Exorcist shit."

"Interesting. We believe she's the one who dumped you at St. Hedwig's all those years ago and has a connection to your mother."

"What's her deal?" The Guak asked.

"Yvonne's a clairvoyant and a former voodoo mamba," answered Dinah.

"Bullshit," said our hero. "I've been told, and exposed to, a lot of fucked up shit lately, but if you expect me to believe she was once a snake you're shit out of luck."

"No, no," corrected Dinah with a giggle. "A mamba is a voodoo priestess. We think that's how she knows your mother."

"And Yvette?"

"Well, there's a theory the two aren't even related. But I don't know much about her other than she's a hottie and a charlatan."

"You're at least right about one of those things," commented our hero.

"I know of your weakness for non-white flesh."

The Guak said nothing.

"You're no fun, The Guak," said Dinah.

Dinah continued to drive. The lady flicked her cigarette butt out the window before immediately reaching into her jacket pocket and pulling out a tin-plated cigarette case. She removed another vanilla-flavored butt and placed it between her gun metal black lips.

"Those things will kill you," lectured our hero.

"That's okay. I've died four times already."

Before The Guak was given a chance to ask Dinah to elaborate gunfire shot out the back window of the Monte Carlo.

Part XXXVI: To Skin A Cat

Harry Guakomoli was away delving into the secrets of his past when La Diabla commanded her men to kill The World's Smartest Cat. Oslo looked around the room. Four of Las Pollos Pocos remained, all with murderous intent. He scanned his surroundings for an exit strategy. The bedroom door was still open, and the apartment didn't even have a fucking front door. Not anymore. It was the obvious escape route, but also the one that made the most sense.

Oslo made a mad dash for the living room. His dash didn't last long; one of the vatos managed to grab a hold of his tail.

"Guess again, fucko!" The World's Smartest Cat yelled before he bit into the man's hand.

The gangbanger screamed and released his grip. But his action provided two of his cohorts the opportunity to wrap their hands around Oslo. He was pinned down on the bed, and no matter how much he struggled, Oslo lacked sufficient leverage to defend himself.

The fourth thug reached behind his back under his black and white flannel shirt and withdrew the knife that was fastened securely in its sheath. Its blade was long and thick and looked freshly polished. It glistened when struck by the early morning sun.

"Little fucker," the vato said as a malicious grin grew upon his countenance. "I'm gonna have fun skinnin' you alive. I might even make a hat outta your hide. A pussy skin cap."

"I dunno, man," said one of the gangbangers holding Oslo down. "Let's just shoot 'im and move on."

"Si," agreed the other thug on the bed. "We've got a puta caliente to play with. And skinnin' a gato alive is fucked up, ese."

The sound of one of the bedroom windows breaking ended the debate. Oslo arched his neck to find the source, but one of his captors blocked his view. That was until the gangbanger suddenly let go of The World's Smartest Cat and fell down face first on the bed, a pair of throwing stars embedded in the back of his neck. A short figure, no more than 5' 4", perched upon the window sill. The stranger's attire was all black: baggy hooded sweatshirt, fingerless gloves, sneakers, and...yoga pants? The hood, coupled with a bandana tied around the head like one worn by a Wild West bank robber, obscured the visitor's face save for a pair of big brown eyes.

The man whom Oslo had assaulted just a moment before charged toward the buttinski. Said buttinski hopped off the sill into the room. The gangbanger lunged at the stranger, who, at the last second, performed a split and followed up with a punch to the junk. He doubled over, and as he did the figure grabbed his hair and executed a monkey flip. The man was sent through the broken window, and he landed hard on the metal landing of the fire escape.

The stranger in black was back on his, her?, feet only to be met by the man with the knife. He attempted to slash the interloper, but Oslo's mystery savior sidestepped the attack and countered with a quick chop to the base of his neck. Pain shot throughout the man's body causing him to drop the blade. In one fluid motion the stranger, small in stature yet big in badass-ness, caught the weapon in mid-fall by its handle and sliced the man's neck with it. Blood immediately sprayed from the gash. The vato fell to see his knees. The enigmatic warrior threw the knife at the gangbanger holding down The World"s Smartest Cat. The blade landed between the man's eyes burying itself to the hilt.

"Oh my fuckness!" a relieved and confused Oslo exclaimed. "How did you do that shit?"

"No time to talk," a woman's voice, muffled and sounding vaguely familiar to The World's Smartest Cat, answered from behind the black bandana. "We need to leave."

Oslo squinted at the dark figure covered in gangbanger blood caused by arterial spray. Those chocolate eyes. Why couldn't he place those eyes? Or that voice?

"I know you. Why can't I place it?"

"Because you're an idiot," she replied. "We need to leave. Now."

“Okay,“ replied Oslo with a shrug before hopping off the bed and walking toward the empty space once occupied by the apartment door.

“Not that way. The building is surrounded by La Diabla's goons. We go up and travel by rooftop.“
“Um...“ The World's Smartest Cat's voice trailed off.

“Don't worry,“ said Oslo's unknown-but-shouldn't-be savior. I will help your misogynistic ass. Again.“
Oslo's eyes widen.

“Behind you!“

The lady of mystery spun around. The last surviving gangbanger was crawling back in through the window. He reached for the pistol held close to his abdomen by the waistband of his jeans. She beat him to the gun and snatched it from his pants. Yo-Yo (as if you needed any help figuring that one out) cocked back the hammer, pointed the firearm at the vato's head, and squeezed the trigger. The faceless corpse slumped to the ground.

“Let's go,“ Oslo's heroine ordered.

Yo-Yo grabbed The World's Smartest Cat by the scruff of his neck and stepped out onto the fire escape. With cat-like agility and grace she scaled a drainage pipe to the building's roof in an attempt to find safety.

Part XXXV: Oslo's Univited Guests

Harry Guakomoli was alive and a number of questions ran through Oslo's head. Did The Guak fake his death? Or is he back from the dead? Are we still friends?

The first thing The World's Smartest Cat did after The Guak left the apartment was tell Yo-Yo to take a hike. La cucharacha was no longer welcome in his apartment. In his building.

Yo-Yo begged Oslo to let her stay. She had nowhere to go. She had no money. All of her mierda was there. Oslo told her she could collect all of her shit the next day, but she needed to get the fuck out until then. So the lovely Latina, with just her purse and the clothes on her back, left with tears in her eyes.

That's the last time a bitch comes between me and the boss, Oslo thought to himself as he watched Yo-Yo step over the door our hero had knocked off its hinges less than an hour earlier. He was already missing her sweet sweet can.

The World's Smartest Cat was exhausted, but his brain was flooded with thoughts. About The Guak's return. About if things will ever be the same between hero and (former?) sidekick. About an uncertain future. Oslo needed sleep, but he wasn't going to get it naturally. So he popped sleeping pills. He had scored a bunch of them from one of those gangbanger bitches that guarded the building around the clock. Oslo bought them in case the dark thoughts in his head became too much for him to bear. Swallowing a bottle of them with an Ice 101 chaser would see that the thoughts came to an end.

Sleep finally came to Oslo. Better living through chemistry. But something stirred him. Someone coming up the stairs. Lots of someones. Oslo was groggy. He was finally able to open an eye, and he realized he wasn't alone in the bedroom. A half dozen of those Los Pollos Pocos fucks surrounded him. Guns drawn.

"What do you want?" a half-conscious Oslo mumbled.

"It's not what I want, cat," a woman's voice called out. "It's who I want."

The World's Smartest Cat looked toward the voice. Standing in the doorway between bedroom and living room was La Diabla, leader of Los Pollos Pocos. Her straight scarlet hair falling way past the shoulders of her black leather biker jacket and ending nearly at her waist. The jacket was unzipped and a tight black t-shirt revealed a hint of the toned abdomen underneath. Her torn faded jeans were tucked into a pair of dirty jackboots. Although only five and a half feet tall La Diabla seemed much taller. And she most definitely looked like she was not to be fucked with.

Oslo's mind briefly wandered to imagining La Diabla and Yo-Yo going at it, engaging in some sweaty steamy Sapphic sex, before coming to the conclusion that the time for such a fantasy was less than appropriate.

"Fuck," Oslo uttered as he stared at the most powerful and ruthless person in the barrio. And her killer rack.

"'Fuck' is right, cat," La Diabla stated coldly. "I was at home breaking in a new boy when I was interrupted with news that someone's been spotted. Someone long thought dead. And while Miguel can learn a valuable lesson by being naked and hogtied to a sawhorse in my basement for an hour or two, I was rather enjoying myself. I'm eager to get back to work. So, as you can guess, cat, I have little patience. Tell me where he is."

The return of The Guak had instilled in Oslo a sense of hope. To not live every day in a drunken pathetic stupor of depression. The World's Smartest Cat was no longer interested in dreaming of his own death. But he found himself in a real pickle; La Diabla and her crew could cause him serious harm, or worse, if she didn't like his answer. Yet Oslo refused to sell out his best and only friend. There was no fucking way he was going to rat him out to these dinks.

"Where who is, chief?" Oslo asked the woman.

La Diabla sighed.

"You claim to be the world's smartest cat, but I know you're not all that smart, cat. But even you're not this stupid. Your little slice of heaven in MY domain will become a living hell if you don't tell me where I can find The Guak."

"But, chief," said The World's Smartest Cat. "The Guak's been dead for six months."

La Diabla showed no emotion as she stared at the feline.

"I see you have decided to force my hand, cat" stated an expressionless La Diabla. "What's the name of the puta that's been living here?"

"Yo-Yo Ramirez," replied one of her gangbanger goons.

"Bring me Yo-Yo," said La Diabla. "It's been ages since I had my way with a woman. But feel free to have some fun first, boys. I don't mind damaged goods. And burn this building down. This is a sanctuary no more."

La Diabla turned around and with cool confidence to the apartment's exit.

"And kill the cat."

Part XXXIV: A Reunion

Harry Guakomoli set the box down and locked the door separating the shop from the outside world. He then proceeded over to Yvette.

"Is it safe there? I got an autographed photo of Charo in that box."

Yvette said nothing and instead walked through the beads. Our hero followed, keeping his eyes on her posterior. From out of his peripheral The Guak noticed they were in a hallway with cheap wood paneling. The chocolate-colored honey entered a room on the right. A pair of shriveled bird's feet...a chicken's?...wrapped in black ribbon hung from the upper part of the door jamb. The Guak entered the room behind her.

Against the back corner of the room was a hospital bed. In the bed sat a large black woman. Late fifties, maybe early sixties, by the looks of her. She was bald save for a few clumps of nappy gray hair. The woman was in a lavender cotton night gown that was in serious need of washing. A chubby hand gripped a remote control. Several violet candles situated around the room on shelves were lit. A white lace cross, with another cross made of green felt inside of it, hung on one of the walls.

The corpulent invalid hit one of the buttons on the remote, and it was then our hero noticed a flat-screen TV on a small metal table to his left.

"I never thought I would see you again," she said to The Guak.

"Yvonne?" our hero asked as he took a step closer to her.

"That's close enough!" she snapped. Her tone froze The Guak in his tracks. "I don't know how you found out about me, but I'm not happy to see you, boy."

"Say the word, Momma, and he's gone," Yvette said as she put herself between the bed-ridden woman and our hero.

"No. Let's just get this over with," Yvonne replied.

"You said you've seen me before, but I don't remember you," stated The Guak.

"That's because you were just a baby," she responded. "A baby I bought from a woman for $2100 thirty-three years ago."

"Wait, what?! You bought me? From what woman? Not from my mother; she's dead."

"Your...your mother?" Yvonne asked as a look of horror spread across her countenance.

The fortuneteller's eyes rolled up into her head showing only their whites. She began to convulse. Her uncontrollable shaking caused her bed to shake as well. The flames from the candles flickered as a cold breeze from an unknown source blew through the room chilling The Guak to the bone.

"Momma? MOMMA!" Yvette screamed.

"Three-four-three! Three-four-three! Three-four-three!" Yvonne's voice was loud and piercing as she repeatedly shrieked the numbered sequence.

"Um...does this happen often?" asked our hero.

"Three-four-three! Three-four-three!"

"What?!" Yvette asked, a look of panic on her face. "What the fuck do you think?"

Yvonne's seizure intensified. Each spasm seemed to propel her corpulent body into the air. Her daughter rushed to her side.

"Shh, Momma. Shh." Yvette said soothingly in an attempt to calm her mother.

Yet the elder woman did not calm herself down. She started frothing at the mouth, white watery foam oozing out of the orifice. Yvette turned her attention to The Guak.

"Go wait in the lounge," she sternly ordered our hero.

"Maybe I should help you roll her onto her stomach so she doesn't choke on --"

"GO WAIT IN THE MUTHAFUCKIN' LOUNGE!" the younger of the two women screamed.

"Fine."

The Guak left Yvonne's room and returned to the lounge as commanded. Hip hop continued to blast from the sound system. The vocalist was the same woman as before, but then it was a ballad about missing her "boo." Who the fuck's Boo? our hero thought to himself. Boo Radley? Who's Boo Radley? He plopped down on the couch and pulled out his phone. Our hero stared at it. The bells and whistles bothered him. There was so much going on.

Another track started. A loop of a watered down hard rock guitar lick provided backing music as the lady rapper boasted of being the "queen of all dem bitches." The Guak did his best to tune it all out.

It was not until Yvette sat down beside The Guak on the couch did he realize the honey was back in the room.

"How's your mom?" The Guak turned to her and asked.

"She's fine for now," Yvette replied. "She stopped with the frothing as soon as you left."

Our hero nodded.

"Who are you?" she asked with the voice of an interrogation. "And who's your mother?"

"I'm The Guak. And I have no idea about my mom. I came to Yvonne to ask about her. About where I came from."

"As you can see she's out of her fucking mind," Yvette said. "It all started six months ago."

"What happened six months ago?"

"The fuck if I know," she answered. "Momma began to chant something. What was it? 'Twenty-one were bred now twenty are dead.' Over and over again for, like, a day. Then it's 'All twenty-one are all undone.' Just once and fell asleep. For almost a whole fucking week. Nothing I did would wake her. After that it was all quiet. Really quiet. She looked uneasy but wouldn't say a word. Not just about that, but she was completely fucking silent. Three months ago she sat up and screamed. Then she...she...what do you call it when you breathe really fast? Like when you're scared or anxious?"

"Hyperventilate?" The Guak answered.

"Yeah, that's the word. She was mad hyperventilating and then she grew quiet again. After that she was back to normal. But she refused to see any clients. The entire time Momma didn't give a single reading. I tried, but I don't have the gift. Not like she does. Mine's good for hustling. For grifting marks but not for repeat bidness. For years the only way you could see Miss Yvonne was by appointment. Walk in off the street? Too fucking bad. Now, it's gone. All fucking gone.

"But you. You're the key. Or your dead momma is. Or both. That's why I'm gonna make sure she talks to you, and we're all gonna set this shit straight. She can't live this like no more. Me neither. What did you say your name was again?"

"I'm The Guak," replied The Guak.

"Heh. 'The Guak,'" Yvette said and shook her head. "Even white boys gotta act all street and make up code names."

Our hero merely shrugged.

"Give me your digits, and when she's ready to talk, really ready, we'll call you."

"I can't," said The Guak sounding dangerously close to apologetic. "I just got this phone."

Yvette was less than impressed and sighed.

"Fine, Guak. Call my number, and we'll get it off my phone."

Making calls on his new phone was one of the few things he had figured out how to do. Yvette gave our hero her number, and he dialed it. A cellphone on the table lit up with blue lights and vibrated. No ring tone. The mocha-hued beauty picked up the phone and checked out the display screen.

"What game you playing?" asked Yvette still staring at the screen.

"What?"

"6-6-6-8-4-3-4-8-2-5," she read the incoming number aloud.

"I...I don't know," replied our hero. "It was a gift."

"I won't let Momma do the calling then. She would flip the fuck out."

Yvette stood up and straightened her skirt. Our hero looked up and couldn't help but stare at her perfect breasts for a few seconds before standing up himself.

"I would say it's been a pleasure meeting you, 'The Guak,' but I'm not sure it was. You have my number, but you are not to call me. I make the contact. You dig?"

"I dig," our hero replied with a nod. "Do I get a kiss good-bye?"

"You wish."

The Guak did wish, but that particular wish did not come true. Our hero unlocked the door, grabbed his box of worldly possessions, and exited Miss Yvonne's Psychic Readings.Par

Part XXXIII: Miss Yvonne's Psychic Readings

Harry Guakomoli stood across the street from the address Dinah had given him the night before. The lady with the black hair and vanilla-scented cigarettes told him someone named "Yvonne" could shed some light on his past, and she should be in this building. It seemed likely; an inactive pink neon sign in the window read "Miss Yvonne's Psychic Readings."

"Really?" The Guak said to no one. "Crystal balls and tea leaves are Dinah's idea of figuring out my past?"

Our hero looked to his right to see his cab driving away down the street. He figured since he was there, and now stranded, he should at least check this lead out. With his pine box of material possessions in tow he crossed the street. The Guak would have preferred to look inside the window first, but thick midnight blue curtains blocked his view. He opened the door and entered.

The room was dark, and it took a moment for The Guak's eyes to adjust. But our hero immediately recognized the aroma of marijuana and sandalwood incense, two scents the man disliked. Some over-produced hip hop song with a woman vocalist rapping that if someone wanted her "chocolate ass" that person better be prepared  to pay. The lady rhymesmith accepted cheddar, ice, furs, and Gucci. And lots of them.

Once The Guak's eyes adjusted he was finally able to discern the layout of the room. It was dimly lit by a pair of table lamps with red shades, giving the space a rosy glow. Two couches and an easy chair, all of which had seen better days, surrounded an oval table in the room's center. The walls were decorated with presumably arcane glyphs and symbols such as eyes, the palms of hands, stars, and crescent moons. Off to the side was a cheap wooden counter; its face adorned with a yellow banner with the words "CASH MONEY ONLY." An archway in the wall behind it, and another at the opposite wall, were decorated with several beaded cords that ended just shy of the floor.

A dark shape surrounded by a cloud of smoke sat on one of the couches. The Guak gave the shape a closer look. She was an attractive black woman. He guessed she was in her mid-twenties. A tight low-cut turquoise tank top revealed a copious amount of cleavage, her mocha-hued bosom drawing even more attention from a long amethyst-colored crystal, attached to a sliver chain around her neck, situated between her breasts.The Guak thought her legs were crossed, but it was hard to tell by the low flowing floral print skirt. Her dark brown, nearly black, hair was long and straightened. It reminded our hero of the way Ebonia wore hers when she was still answering to "Maxine."

"Shut the door, man," the woman said. "I'm smoking herb up in here."

"Oh," replied The Guak before doing what was requested of him. "Are you Yvonne?"

"You a cop?"

"No, but you already knew that."

"I did?"

"I'm assuming if you thought I was the fuzz you wouldn't still be smoking that joint."

She looked down at the roach clip in her hand. It gripped the tiniest nub of a joint. She took a long hit off the pot, revealing a large silver skull attached to a ring on her index finger.

"I like how you call pigs "the fuzz"...officer."

"I'm not a cop."

"Then what the fuck do you want?" the woman demanded to know. "White boys don't come here on a Sunday morning wanting their palms read."

"I'm here to speak to Yvonne," our hero asserted. "Are you her?"

"No, I'm her daughter, Yvette. Yvonne no longer entertains guests, professionally or otherwise. But if you leave a message I'll see she gets it."

As if on cue a loud shriek sounded from somewhere beyond the archway behind the counter. Yvette rolled her eyes and rested the joint in an ashtray on the table. She stood up and looked to our hero.

"Don't move. I'll be back," said the beauty. "Okay? Stay put."

"Got it."

The Guak watched Yvette as she headed toward the scream. He couldn't help but wish she was wearing something tighter and shorter than that skirt. He wondered if her bottom half was as nice to look at as the top. He wagered it was.

Our hero tried to overhear what was happening between Yvette and the mystery screecher, but the ungodly awful hip hop drowned out most of the sound save for some incoherent mumbling.

"WE'VE LOST ALL OUR BIDNESS, BUT HIM YOU'LL SEE?!" Yvette's yell finally provided enough volume for The Guak to make out what was going down.

"I TOLD YOU TO SHOW THE MAN IN!" another woman screamed in return. "DON'T BACK SASS ME, GIRL!"

A few seconds later Yvette stepped back back into the room and stopped behind the counter.

"I don't know what makes you so fucking special," she said to our hero through clenched teeth. "But she wants to see you."

"Yvonne?"

"Yeah," she replied. "Now lock the door and get in there."

"Can I leave this out here?" The Guak asked as he held up his box.

"Sure. Whatever."