The Cat Hunter's Dilemma

Please, gather round, my jury, my judges, my lawyers, and, especially, my bloodthirsty press. Listen to the words that will spout out of my deliciously round mouth, as I try to prove the innocence of a man who's only guilty of loving too much too fast. A man with a dilemma, or, if you prefer, a mission. A man who knew not what you know now today, this gravest day, my interrogators. But enough poetry: I will now lapse back into the plain-spoken dialect that us Cat Hunter's must use to stalk our prey.

Meow. Scratch. Rarararow. Scat.

Ah, I see that I have aroused the furrowing of brows with my speech. Allow me to translate, my friends--if you allow me to call you friends in a touch of pathos to make a tenuous connections that hopefully my story will solidify or fossilize into something more permanent; I'm dropping this anchor of friendship now and hope that the chain is deep enough to plunge into your sea floor, marrying me to your habitat and thereby proving my innocence!

I will say it again:

Meow. Scratch. Rarararow. Scat.

This is my story, but here is the translation in flowery and borderline pedantic prose. No, you say? You instead you want me to tell it plain-spoken without the incessant hissing? Your wish shall be granted by yours truly: me. That's still a little foppy for you? Foppy is too foppy for you? Well, then I won't tell my story. Hang me from that tree over there. No. That one; not that one. That one. Meow.

Us Flies

Ah, what loving scene do us flies on such sticky walls have the joy of seeing on this hot, firewood-burning night in December. Hot it is, but only due to the aforementioned firewood, you see we are in Alaska, but it is ever-so comfortable and we are presently watching George Larkin read his two young ones, Sara and Jake, A Christmas Carol, while they sip on hot chocolate and snuggle in a bear-skin blanket...a bear that George killed himself that very day with a hatchet; after which he skinned the bear, sowed a blanket, fried its innards for dinner stew, and also clubbed its orphaned kids to death for the pure sadistic joy of it all. Ah, but perhaps I shouldn't have said 'orphaned' so fast, for what do we, us flies on sticky wall, see through the window, but mangy bear, a late bear, coming back to his lair, his den, expecting a dinner of antelope stew (similar to bear stew, but without the cannibalism, or cannibearism in this sordid case). Instead, he finds his two bear children clubbed like measly seal (which ironically is what Bear was bringing back to his den...perhaps for tomorrow brekkies), he saw a menstrual blood (bearstrual?) trail leading to the comfortable cabin of the Larkins. Do bears howl at the moon in anger after their life is torn from them? All us flies on sticky walls know is this: 1. Bear howls at moon 2. Bear is howling at moon 3. Bear is howling at Larkins. We watch through glass window from sticky walls as Bear prowls to door. Will Bear be polite, we think amongst ourselves giddily...will Bear knock on the door? Bear on hind-legs: knocks on door: knock knock.

Dead as a doornail. Wait, Father. A screaming from the door. That is a knock, Sara, not a screaming. It is both, Father. It is both.

Ah, my sticky brethren, now is the time to swarm the warm cider, the juicy crumbs of pudding pie, the stuffed goose, for soon Bear will howl, disembowel George (but not kill him, oh no, just tear out his intestines so he can watch Bear take his wife Brenda to wall, to our sticky wall, and eviscerate the skin, to wear her skin until it pops, for wife will not fit over Bear, is she on her period, will it be tit-for-tat? will she have any tits or tats after Bear is through?) the kids will run screaming, hot chocolate overflowing, Tiny Timmy was a lucky SOB, as the Bear preys on these seals, these demonic eskimo children, George pushes in his lower intestine to no avail, but struggles to get up, oh how he struggles, a shotgun in the next room, as us flies on our sticky walls watch, while we engorge ourselves on fallen entrails of George, and soon the rest of the family, flies and bears unite soon! but first open the door, George.

George getting so close to the door, Bear on hind-legs. George pauses. Why? What's in his hand? Flyswatter! Fly, my brethren, fly into the cold night, fly until you see light, fly until you...SWAT! And all is dark on this wall, our wall, our sticky wall...