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 Post subject: The Startling Adventures of the Heirloom Cat
PostPosted: Fri Jul 22, 2011 11:04 am 
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A series of short stories, as related to me by Antonius Leafton.


With Catlike Tread

Feat. The Heirloom Cat

It all started on another normal mid-morning at 32 Numpting Place in the quaint little Village of Marmalade-Upon-Tweed. But before we begin, it might interest you to learn how this beloved locale received it’s unusual title.

The said village is of course named for a well-known mealtime accident which occurred in the year 1749, when the Duke of Blottinghamshire was visiting the Earl of Fiverston to commemorate the building of the Notable Bridge. Afternoon tea was served, and due to an allergic reaction to a certain cat, the Duke sneezed whilst spreading marmalade upon his toast. As you may guess, the sudden reaction resulted in His Grace besmearing His Grace’s condiment upon His Grace’s raiment. The Earl, who was cogitating upon a new name for the town (which was called by “Bristleton” at this time) immediately seized on this event as inspiration a much more exciting name (The Earl was known for his low standards), and thus dubbed it “Marmalade-Upon-Tweed”, which has stuck to this day, much like the stain on His Grace’s coat.

Picking up our narrative where we left off, Sir Angus McDodd was just finishing his elevenses when there was heard a knock at the door.

"Do go and see who's at the door Leafton," quoth Sir Angus between mouthfuls of biscuit.

"Of course, sir," I replied (as was my custom).

One might expect that should've been rather alarmed to find that our caller was, in fact, the “highly skilled” (personal experience has taught me otherwise) Constable Wooley O’Lannery of Scotland Yard. But I have become so accustomed to such visitors that I scarcely twitched at the sight of him.

"Do come in sir," I greeted him with a minute bow.

"Es Sir Ahngus ah'toohme?" our guest inquired, accepting my invitation.

"Ah-yes sir, quite at home. Right this way please,” I said as I directed him into the dining room.

O’Lannery removed his hat upon sighting my master and said rather loudly, “Sir Ahngus! ‘Ow are yew thes faine moorneng?”

“To be frank, I have been better. However, since my name is not Frank, I will simply say ‘quite well’ and change the subject.” This seemed to take the constable off guard, who stood there in the dining room blinking until Sir Angus continued.


“Och, yes. Weel sir. Ther’s been a gree’ bloomin’ trahgedeh. Pegs, sir, all oover the coun’reh! Been disappearen’ the’ ‘ave!”

“Pegs? Wooden nails you mean?”

“Noo sir! Pegs! ‘Ogs! Bloomin’ swine!”

“No need to be vulgar old boy. Just get to the point.”

After collecting his thoughts, O’Lannery went on, “Well sir, yew an’ ye’re cat sir.”


“Well yew ‘elp us sir?”

Sir Angus glanced over his shoulder to the Cat’s gilded case. It was empty.

“It is my great honour and pleasure to inform you that the Cat has been deployed. Tell Her Majesty to remain calm, and keep the prince away from carriages.”

“Wha’ sir?”

“You’ll understand in a few years.”

After showing the constable to the door, we made ready for our imminent departure. After all was prepared, we proceeded upon Sir Angus’ command to the Notable Pig Farm of Drossleshire, so termed for it’s great size, not the quality of it’s hogs. However notable it may be, we found no clues on the premisesis and continued on up the road to the suspiciously named “Fresh Air Pig Farm”.

“Guillermo Del Chiccarones, Proprietor,” read the sign, which was strange since it had no eyes or mouth.

Sir Angus applied himself bodily to the earth, as he is wont to do when searching for low-lying clues. Myself, I stayed upright and kept a keen watch on a shady-looking chestnut tree.

For those of you reading without eyes, the narrative now switches from first to third person.

As the butler kept watch, Sir Angus McDodd, horizontal detective, continued his quest for the Trail of the Cat. This proved no easy task, since cats walk about with catlike tread (obviously) and leave precious little evidence of their passing.

“Aha!” cried Sir Angus, “I’ve picked up his track, to me my dear butler, and let us attack!”

“Do try and keep your poetry out of this, sir,” he replied stepping carefully after his prostrate master.

It was then that the pigs came.

A storming, swirling mass of squealing animals engulfed McDodd, and his butler thought that, for a moment, he glimpsed a bright spot of tan fur amid the huffing hogs.

“I say,” coughed Sir Angus, straightening his monocle, “that was somewhat unsettling. But let us off, and follow those pigs, for they’re sure to lead us to our quarry.”

“Planning to do a bit of mining sir?”

“Later this afternoon, yes.”

The butler nodded as they headed off toward the stone house at the end of the drive. It was then that Sir Angus noticed a dark figure in a long coat following them.

“You there! Stop! Who are you?” he cried.

“Why, I am the Third Person Narrator,” said I.

“Ha! Made you slip out of person!”

“Blimey,” sighed the Third Person Narrator as they went on.

It was then that they saw a large trolley car parked by the house, into which a round foreign man was loading the swine which had so recently trampled our protagonist.

“That must be the proprietor, Guillermo del Chiccarones, of which the sign told,” Sir Angus observed, “let us question him, and see what he knows.

“Hullo there! Large fellow! Yes you, with the pigs!”
“Me señor?” the round man replied, apparently shocked that he had company.

For those of you listening at home, the narrative now switches from third to fourth person since there are three speakers.

“I take it from your dress and speech that you hail from the proud nation of Hisporqugal,” Sir Angus intoned.

“Sí señor,” was his reply, as he doffed his large hat.

“I can’t help but notice that you are ushering these pigs into a trolley car. Tell me, why?”

“I do eet señor”, he began, “to keep them from harm. Sí, if I deed not they would perish,” he went on with a sigh. “My seester throws birds, and my pigs despise eet. Thees makes the birds angry, and for thees they are famous.”

“How very odd,” breathed Sir Angus. “But tell me, why do the pigs bear the stamp of another? This mark, ‘WW’, surely it’s not from your farm?”

“You are very observant, señor,” Guillermo returned, a drop of sweat dripping from the end of his nose. “They are not mine, I make them to sell, the markings come with the luxury package.”

“Wait a bit!” a new voice cried, as we switch to fifth person form.

“Whipmote Willerton’s my name, and that--” he pointed dramatically at one of the milling hogs, “--is my pig-mark!”

Guillermo shrieked, and dropped his cigar.

“Eet is true, I took them, the birds are a lie!”

“Send for the constable!” Sir Angus commanded, “And Narrator, move out one person more!”

Now Leafton, skeptical as he is, wondered from whence this Willerton fellow had sprung. He looked ‘round, but all that he saw, sitting there, quietly, staring at space--

-- was the Cat.

Moral: Three is company, six is a crowd.

"Life is what you make of it; so beautiful or so what." - Paul Simon

 Post subject: Re: With Catlike Tread feat. The Heirloom Cat
PostPosted: Sat Jul 23, 2011 10:00 pm 
Smelt Sire
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Win. Keep it up broseph.


 Post subject: Re: The Startling Adventures of the Heirloom Cat
PostPosted: Tue Aug 02, 2011 11:17 am 
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Joined: Thu Aug 28, 2008 1:02 pm
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Location: Isn't here just there without the 't'?
Here's the next installment, which I just received from the butler Leafton in the mail today:

Rheum Service

Feat. The Heirloom Cat

“Good evening beloved readers,” I began the next chapter of my volume.

“That’s no way to begin story!” interjected our dexterous neighbor Whipmote Willerton, who had, as usual, dropped in uninvited.

“Why-ever not?” I sighed, rubbing my eyes.

“Because!” he began, in a tone which suggested he was exasperated by my dullness. “One might just as soon read it in the morning or afternoon!”

“Well it’s evening now.”

“Or at night!”

“Yes, thank you for reading over my shoulder.”

“Or between times-of-day!”

I wasn’t about to try and conjure up a meaning for that last bit from our guest.

“Didn’t you come here to speak with Sir Angus?”

“Ooh, yes, wonderful idea. Where is the old blighter?”

“In the drawing room.”

“Ooh, what is he drawing?”

“Things beginning with the letter ‘m’.”

Willerton seemed to approve of this, and he nodded his small empty head vigorously as he waddled off to the drawing room. I sighed and returned to my writing.

It was a cold winter’s evening at 32 Numpting Place. Snow had begun to fall, giving the ground an appearance like a roll at the hands of a flour-happy baker. I had just served Sir Angus and the Cat their suppers when there came a knock at the door.

There were two people I knew of who would venture out to our abode in this weather: Wooley O’Lannery, the local constable, and Whipmote Willerton, our well-intentioned but rather annoying neighbor. I answered the door.

“Hellooooooo, dear butler of Sir Angus McDodd!”

It was Willerton, obviously.

“Might I enter and partake of your warm hospitality which is ever extended in my general direction?”

Not sure how to refuse such a plea, I let him in. I announced him to my master, but Willerton seemed to have wandered off. After searching around for him a while with no result, I assumed he’d departed on a whim (whimsical as he is) and returned to my writing.

“That’s no way to begin story!” interjected our dexterous and uncanny neighbor, who was now looking over my shoulder.

I sighed, rubbed my eyes, and after a brief discourse sent him into the drawing room. A little while later I arose to go and put out the cat, who had recently developed a strange habit of catching fire every evening at about eight o’ the clock. As I entered said drawing room it became apparent by the Cat’s wetted appearance that Sir Angus had taken a moment from their now heated discussion on the merits of tennis balls to extinguish the animal with water from the fishbowl.

No sooner had I sat down again at my desk than the doorbell rang for the second time that evening. It was, naturally, Constable Wooley O’Lannery whom I escorted into the now very oft-mentioned drawing room. Greetings were exchanged among involved parties, after which O’Lannery seated himself in a vacant armchair and began his tale of woe.

“I’all begahn,” he said, “weth tha disappearance o’ one Krillip Jones, ah nootable marine psycologist.”

“Ooh, yes, that is one who studies the behavior and mental processes of aquatic wildlife!” interrupted Willerton, ever eager to display the scattered bits of advanced learning he possessed.

“Booht thah’s nae a’!” cried the constable, “Ah greet noohmbar o’ people ‘ave been a’ disappearin’ a’over thah plaece!”

“Hm,” murmured Sir Angus, as his first sound in this episode. He steepled his fingers in an astute manner.

“Ooh, this is most exciting!” blurted Willerton, leaning forward from his seat on the sofa.

“Tha’ uncanneh theng abooh’ ih’ es, sahr,” O’Lannery continued, “es tha’ noone o’ thah vehctems wair soohfren’ fra’ rhroomatism!”

Sir Angus sat a while, puffing on his pipe in uffish thought.

“Did you find any clues of note at the scene?” he queried.

“Naow thah yoo maintion ih’,” the constable hesitated, “thar were a good maneh cane mairks ahn tha praimises.”

“Then we may presume that the perpetrator of the crimes is a Rheumatic.”

Constable O’Lannery shook his head in wonder.

“We may also presume,” continued Sir Angus, “that the Cat has taken the case.”

The rest of us let out a collective gasp as observed that the front door was wide open and the cat nowhere to be seen. I, of course, hastily shut the door then returned to my seat.

“The game is afoot,” my master addressed me, “and a pained one at that.”

“But where are we going, sir? How could you have deduced the identity of the culprit already?”

“Kindergarten, my dear Leafton. He is obviously a man of about sixty-three, who is arthritic and uses a cane when he walks. I have also deduced that he collects carriage wheels and takes good care of his teeth.”

“Really, sir, you never cease to amaze me.”

“Let us away then!” shrieked Willerton as he sprang from the couch.

“Oh dear,” sighed I.

“Ah, faithful Whipmote. Would that I had a hundred men so faithful as you,” quoth Sir Angus with language rare, “for this, our mission shall be fraught with peril and much danger.”

Willerton swallowed hard, but my master went on.

“We shall likely be in need of such stout fists and stouter hearts before the end!”

“End?” squeaked our guest.

“Of this story.”

“Ooh. Alright. When do we go?”

“Now!” cried Sir Angus and charged out of the room. I followed with his hat, scarf, and coat, as I dipped my pen in the inkwell.

* * * *

We came to the next morning in a cold, damp cellar, the walls of which were stone inlaid with sundry carriage wheels. It soon became apparent that we were each bound hand and foot to a wooden chair.

“I told you to mind the man with the cricket bat,” remarked Sir Angus to Willerton.

“Well I didn’t believe him when he said he wasn’t afraid to use it.”

“Let that be a lesson to you, then.”

My fellow captives’ rapport was cut short by the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Soon, a dark figure became evident. As he entered the dim light, so did his black robes, cane, shaved head and dramatic handlebar mustache.

“I was right, you see,” said Sir Angus triumphantly in my direction.

“Ah, but what about the teeth, sir?” I replied.

“Would you mind smiling, my good mustachioed fellow?”

“Uh, uh, well, I guess not. Just this once,” spake the man from the staircase. He grinned wide, exposing a marvelous set of perfect white teeth.

“Thank you, that will be all.”

The man cleared his throat and tried to look menacing, but was clearly thrown off balance by my masters dazzling intellect and impeccable composure.
“SO,” he began in a loud voice, “WHO DARES ENTER MY DOMAIN?”

“If you think back a few hours, you will recall that it is you who have imprisoned us here,” said Sir Angus.


He fidgeted with his cane and looked down at his feet.

“I think you’d better tell us why you’ve brought us here,” ventured my master.

“We are Rheumatists,” he began, gaining confidence as he continued, “and thus we are going to convert you.”

“But I thought Rheumatism was a disease?” piped Willerton, who looked rather diseased himself, probably because he was tied in his chair so tightly.

“NO!” cried our captor, “We are the followers of the prophet Rheuman!”

“Never heard of him,” said Sir Angus in reply.

“You mean you’ve never heard of the method of finding peace through chronic joint pain?”

“I can’t say it sounds very appealing.”

“So say many infidels. Therefore we have taken it upon ourselves to thrust peace upon the populace by forced Rheuminating.”

“And that is...?”

“What you’re doing now,” spake the man, with an evil cackle.

Sir Angus had been staring at him rather intently.

“I say, aren’t you Sir Stanley Dench, proprietor of Dench’s Home for the Flexibility Challenged?”

“I was once. What do you thi--I mean, NOW I am the Great Rheumi!”

“Oh, joy.”

“Do not mock my rheumatic pow--ack!”

Sir Stanley had been flailing his arms about wildly but now seemed to have injured himself.

It was then I noticed that our bonds had been loosed during this interchange, and I thought, for a moment, that I saw the glint of two green eyes in the shadows. But before I could act...

“Desist, fiend!” a voice cried from the doorway.

“Why, Krillip Jones!” spouted Sir Angus, his voice tinged with surprise for once.

“The one who studies the behavior and mental processes of aquatic wildlife!” added Willerton, his voice tinged with the obvious once again.

“Have at you!” shouted the marine psychologist, swordfish in hand, waving on the other freed captives who now crouched in the doorway behind him.

We watched the ensuing combat-of-arms in a politely interested manner. The Great Rheumi and his stiff-necked henchmen were soon overpowered by their one time prisoners. During the course of the battle, Jones picked up the Rheumi bodily and threw him ‘gainst one of the stone walls. This proved an imprudent move as the shock jarred loose many of the carefully hung carriage wheels, which then proceeded to run down many of the combatants willy-nilly. Recognizing the danger and feeling that our work here was done, we discreetly excused ourselves from the premises.

No sooner had we set foot out the front door then what to my wondering eyes should appear, but there, sitting on the snow-powdered lawn...

...the Cat.

I soon recovered from this new incarnation of an old wonder, wrote out the moral thus:

“Exercise daily.”

And shut my book.

"Life is what you make of it; so beautiful or so what." - Paul Simon

 Post subject: Re: The Startling Adventures of the Heirloom Cat
PostPosted: Sun Aug 14, 2011 3:39 pm 
Crucible King
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Mega win, broseph. ;) This is fantastic. Keep up writing; you're terrific!

LEGO Builder, Writer, Video-Gamer, Greaser, History Professor, Swordsman, and Military Collector. I am the Most Interesting Man in the World. :p

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